So Now What?

THE BIG ISSUES

2012-01-29T19:16:00.007+10:00

Today I’m going to tackle some big issues. Some massive ones actually. And you will have a definite opinion and be vehemently for or against each one for your own very distinct reasons.

Right then, forget Australia Day, Julia, Tony and THAT shoe, let’s discuss the big stuff:

Number 1

Are you a Folder or Folder or a Scruncher?

You know, toilet paper? When you wipe your, yeah, you know..

Now, according to Annie at Living Life as me

"If someone is process driven and is always on time, they will be a FOLDER"

"If someone is creative, can multi task, can handle interruptions, is outgoing and a people person they will be a SCRUNCHER"

Right, so I’m a scruncher. Always have been, figure I always will be. I put this down to being a FANTASTIC and creative multi-tasker. Or it could be that I'm perhaps, a wee bit lazy. Yeah. The latter.

I knew even before I asked my husband whether he was a folder or a scruncher, what his answer would be. He is exceptionally clean and routine driven, hence, he is a Folder.

Personally, I think this should be the first question you ask a potential mate. At least then you know what you’re getting yourself into. Unless of course they fold then pinch. Then Jesus, you’re on your own.

Art imitates Life

Number 2

Should the toilet paper go over or under?

Over. No. Doubt. About. It. This really requires no further conversation but in the spirit of democracy, I’ll allow comment. But just so we’re clear, under is incorrect.

I mean, why would you make life difficult for yourself by trying to find the end to the toileting holy grail under the spool? This can surely only end in stabbed finger marks into the toilet paper on your quest to locate the last square used?

Let’s not forget how appealing it looks when it’s just kind of hanging there, easily accessible, putting your mind at ease and thus letting you relax knowing that when you’re ready, it will be too.

I’ve been known to go on a one woman crusade and change it to the ‘correct’ position at a friend’s house, safe in the knowledge that once she's experienced the awesome, she’ll never look back.

Thankfully my husband and I appear to be on the same page when it comes to this although there has never been an actual discussion. I’d like to think though, in any living situation, whoever changes the roll - WINS! That right there is INCENTIVE!

Okay, fair to say, I’ve thought this over a *little* too hard. But I’m right. I await your rebuttal.

No! Jesus God NO!

Number 3

Does the Vegemite/Promite/The Aldi Ripoff live in the fridge or in the cupboard?

I know. This is a contentious issue. Seriously, this has been known to be a total dealbreaker. I have witnessed seemingly normal people become ridiculously passionate and frankly, out of control, when trying to make me see the error of my Vegemite positioning ways. Here’s where I’d like to make a pre-emptive strike and say that I believe that this is very much a nurture over nature thing. As in, what you are brought up with is what you will continue to do. My mother always kept the vegemite in the fridge. Hence, so do I. Go your hardest to change my mind.

I'm guessing Susie doesn't give much of a shit where it's been kept.

So there you go. Everything you need to know about someone can pretty much be summed up by their response to the above three burning issues. Now. Tell me what YOU think.

BETTER WHEN WE'RE TOGETHER

2012-01-16T22:20:00.003+10:00

Once upon a time, I had quite the prolific social life.

Once Upon a Time.

Rewind the years and you may or may not have seen me unofficially onstage helping myself to Skunkhour's Bongo drums. You also may have seen me dressed like a complete piece of crumpet, handing out trophies to a V8 Racecar driver, Charlie someone or other at one of the Gold Coast Indy events. Look even harder and you would have seen me snogging a random guy at a Hunters and Collectors concert at the Old Pacific Hotel. And, if you attended a Big Day Out concert circa 1994, you definitely would have seen me up the front, almost being crushed to death in the Soundgarden moshpit.

Now, well, now I have a different social diary to maintain. And it appears I am just the gatekeeper.

It would seem that the baton got passed at a particular point in my life, and my own social life became somewhat of a slack second. This was fine of course, I was too far up my own arse discussing training pants and boy germs to notice. But now that the dust is starting to settle, I am beginning to realise I am missing out on some fairly momentous events.

Everywhere I turn, people are talking about seeing Florence and the Machine,Big Day Out, The Blues Festival; you name it, it’s all been happening. Imagine if John Farnham had retired and done a final concert! Imagine if I missed that!

This weekend we have had a full on weekend. It involved Jack’s 4th Birthday celebrations where he started the party like this:

Midway was still going hard and looking like this

And ending up like this:

It's just not a good party if you don't end up nude in the middle of your loungeroom

Completely knackered and naked. Today he had a 5yo girl(friends) bowling party that went for 3 freaking hours. The longest three hours of my life. Yes, the baton certainly has changed hands.

The last completely massive night we had out involved Jack Johnson, a squirrel and a bathtub. Not nearly as kinky as it sounds, let me explain.

Maddie and Sam were safely tucked away at Grandmas.   It was the Easter long weekend and my best friend and her husband had miraculously secured us a double hotel room at the Marriott at 70% off. Yes, so far, it just felt far too full of win to be true. It was a Friday and we made our way to Bonnie & Jeremy’s house to pick them up and get on the road. Problem number one. Man down. Well, man missing. Jeremy turned up 2 hours inexplicably, late.   Once we had him sorted, we got going. Nothing stopping us now.

We managed to check in, throw our bags down and flag down a cab to take us to the Botanic Gardens. Keeping in mind, this was now around 7:30pm. We hadn’t eaten and my husband and Jeremy had been drinking since roughly 3pm.    We got to the gates and Bonnie didn’t have her ID with her. Now I’m sorry, there is no miracle of aging going that could hide the fact that were indeed, over the age of 18. It didn’t matter, those security guys weren’t having a bar of us and our geriatric mole hairs. Problem Number 2. Smuggle in the 28 year old.

So in an effort to a) curb our insane hunger and b) smuggle our clearly overage friend into the 18 plus area, we spent a lot of time NOT seeing the bands we were meant to see.

We did get down to see Jack Johnson. About 30 minutes before he finished. By this time, Phil & Jeremy were righteously smashed. I wasn’t far behind and Bonnie was moderately hammered having only been able to drink for a quarter of the time. Before we knew it, people were hotfooting it out the gates. This is where the Squirrel comes in. Problem number 3 – Phil gets deserted due to squirrel sighting.

Phil decided he needed to use the amenities. Or the back of a large tree, either or. So we said we’d wait right there for him. But then Bonnie spotted a squirrel, even though as far as I know, we don’t have squirrels in Australia.   So we decided we needed to do a little squirrel hunting.

I am unsure here, how long it was between us three and Phil reuniting at the gates of the Brisbane Botanic gardens, but it was enough for him to be pissed, and more than a little dubious of our squirrel story.

We pushed on, towards home. Unfortunately towards home included walking past a lot of bars. One such establishment sold posh beer and salt and pepper squid.   More beer was consumed, a glass was smashed (not by me, oh no) and someone skidded through a vomit patch on the dance floor as part of a very classy exit out of the establishment. Again, I doubt this would have been me.

Then we got home. This is where the bathtub becomes part of the story. See it was about here that Phil was starting to feel a little off and so, as a precautionary measure, spent the night (at his own request) sleeping in the bathtub. You know, just in case. I don’t think his back has ever been the same since.

Three out of four of us made it to the all inclusive buffet breakfast the next morning. Phil wasn’t one of them.
The fluorescent green bile he vomited up for the next two days was a constant reminder of Jack Johnson and inexplicably, Squirrels.

So that was probably our last event. Our last major organised, let’s go hard or go home event.

What did you do when you had kids? Stop going out? Meet in the middle or make them work around you.

Or, if you don’t have kids, what’s the biggest event you’ve been to of late. Go on, make me completely jealous.

So this is a repost as my trusty Toshiba has finally shat itself. Hope to be up and running in my new digs soon(ish). Luckily on the 7th day he/she created interest free finance.

MIXTAPE

2012-01-10T07:36:00.011+10:00

I remember the first mix tape I ever received. It was circa 1988 and I found it shoved inside my school bag. To this day, I still don’t know who put it in there. It was definitely meant for me. How do I know it wasn't accidentally placed in the wrong school bag you ask? Well you know, one can never be 100% sure about these things, but the dead giveaway for me was the cardboard insert on the front that had ‘ Mixtape for Bernadette’ scrawled across it in the messiest handwriting I’d ever seen. Chances are he went on to be a doctor.

But back to this sweet, sweet mix tape that was, from memory, a bonanza of the Top 40 at the time. Including but not limited to:

Simply Irresistible – Robert Palmer

She’s Like the Wind – Patrick Swayze (I shit you not)

Perfect – Fairground Attraction

Get outta My Dreams – Get into My Car – Billy Ocean (WTF? I assume being 12 he couldn't exactly drive yet. Wait was car a metaphor for something else. You'll have to excuse me, I can be slow to catch on.

And to round it out......

You really got me – The Kinks. Which was the reason the first CD I ever purchased on my own coin was ‘The Best of the Kinks’. So ambiguous, perhaps doctor type, thanks. I owe you one.

There were other songs, but I think the theme here was fairly obvious. Whoever made this tape was totally into me. Possibly psychotically so. And even though stalker wasn’t a term back in 1988 I’m pretty sure it could have applied here. And let’s not sugar coat it. I wasn’t exactly 'the Swan' in year 8. No. I was more the lanky white child with an unexpected afro and an over abundance of freckles. Whoever dug me was clearly wearing coke bottles and had low self esteem. Whatever. This did not stop me from listening to that tape OVER and OVER and OVER again. I read into every lyric. For instance check out these lyrics from Patrick Swayze:

a) She's like the wind through my tree (yeah, huh?)

b) She rides the night next to me (rides the night? The night’s pretty long. Was this a suggestion I was riding, no wait. I was 12)

So ANYWAY

But seriously, how sweet and/or romantic is a dedicated Mix Tape? Something that has been carefully thought about and laboured over with only you in mind. And there is something that makes you love a song more when someone you like is into it. I went through a massive phase of Fleetwood Mac and Creedance Clear Water Revival for this very reason once.

And sure, my mixtape from 1988 had a decidedly uncool array of pop, but someone, somewhere, sat down and wanted me to know they were thinking about me. Through song. Or as @mrgrumpystephen on Twitter so eloquently put it, ‘if the answer to "why" (they’d make someone a mixed tape) isn't "to get into somebody's pants" then they are lying.

And how's this, a friend recently alerted me to this freaking amazing event/night/thingo

Description

On Saturday 7 January, The Northcote Social Club hosts “The Mix CD Social” – an evening of assorted aural delights, in celebration of the humble mix CD.

Did you ever make a Mix CD for a secret crush? Or a road trip? Perhaps when YOU were putting together your musical list of your “all time favourite songs” de jour, you were dubbing to tape.

Regardless of which format you were on, the making and sharing of ‘mixes’ has no doubt played a key role in your discovery of some totally bangin’ tracks.

At “The Mix CD Social”, bring along your own compilation to receive discounted gig entry. At the end of the night, the discs will be swapped in a blind lucky dip… And everyone goes home with a mystery disc of new music!

Live entertainment will be supplied by indie-pop dynamo Georgia Fields, Duke Batavia, and The Barebones. Special guest DJs include Dan Kelly, Angie Hart and Sean M Whelan.

The soiree kicks off at 8:30pm, and tickets are $15 on the door, or only $12 if you bring a Mix CD to contribute to the lucky dip.

Happy burning…!

This had my name written all over it.

I think we’ve lost the art of mixtaping. And no, I don’t mean playlists on your phone/device of choice. I mean, heart and soul, message through music, put it in a lovesong, burn onto something that said person can take away and listen to privately kinda thing.

It doesn’t necessarily have to be for a lover. I made one for one of my best friends for her 30^th because she lived far away and I thought this was the best way she could feel my love for her. I’m not ashamed to say it had the one song we both loved the most as kids, one that featured heavily on the original Karate Kid. One we may or may not have had specific dance moves to.

That’s the thing, the song may be complete shit, but if it means something to either you or them, it means enough to go on a mixtape.

So get mixtaping people. Show someone what they mean to you.

And now, for your aural pleasure, Here is Peter Cetera and the Glory of Love. This one’s for you Bron.

And check this out

MODERN FAMILY. OR SOME VARIATION THEREOF

2012-01-04T10:03:00.000+10:00

Sadly this will not be a post about the bastardisation of the English language by lazy Gen WTF. But that is a great idea.

No, this one's about wanting one, just ONE outing with my children that doesn't end in threats of lifetime television bans and me losing my shit*

*shit will be a recurring theme in this post - fair warning.

So..

‘This is the WORST Christmas Day EVA!!!’

That above? Yeah those words? They are the exact words texted to me by my daughter on Christmas day. My 12 year old daughter. From the car she had locked herself in. Not 30 metres from where we were sitting. Ten minutes prior to this, she had been joking, wearing a paper hat from her rubbish Christmas Cracker, repeating the same crap joke and chasing her brothers around the bench with ice. But, as these things tend to do, it all went to hell. All of a sudden the ice down the back of the shirt ‘gave her third degree burns and nobody cared!!!’ Cue swiping her brand new mobile phone from the park bench, storming over to the car and locking herself inside. Cue the text message. Cue Phil and I lying down on the park bench, full to the gills after consuming what felt like an entire Turkey and longing for the days when she would simply just shit directly in the shampoo aisle at Woolworths.

Speaking of which, not twenty minutes prior to this, Jack, the 5 year old, decided he needed to do a poo. Desperately. And it seemed although this magnificent park had a fabulous BBQ and rotunda, the council didn't quite have the foresight to put in an amenities block. So on Christmas day, in an anonymous park in Torquay, should you have driven past, you may have seen a lady with a purple paper Christmas Cracker hat on her head attempting to successfully calm a small child down who was FREAKING THE FUCK out about doing a poo behind a bush ‘like a dog!'

Meantime Sam was running around the park. In circles. On some kind of individual solo marathon race against himself, often commentating on his own performance. ‘And yes spectators, even though it seemed impossible just moments ago, it appears Sam is going to break the world record! Watch this amazing feat people!’

And for the most part, Phil and I simply lay down and looked over at each other under the picnic table and gave each a look that I believe translated to a cross between FFS and WTF? Because we wanted the day to be serene and a little bit perfect.

But maybe this is just the modern family. Or some variation of it. No outing is ever perfect in our world. Christmas day was no exception, but to honest, I like it this way. Perfect would be kinda boring. Although, let's face it, I'd be willing to try on the kind for size. Maybe just once.

When have your outings not gone to plan? Or do they ever?

ARE YOU BEING SERVED?

2011-12-27T15:58:00.002+10:00

So it begins with you finding a car park. “Excuse me? Are you leaving?” you say to the poor harassed looking lady exiting the shopping centre. She nods but she’s clearly a little pissed. She wants to walk back to her car at a leisurely pace and preferably NOT harrassed by the family in the 4x4 that appear to be rampant weirdos.

You, by the way, have been left no choice other than to car park stalk after driving around the 5 stories of concrete megaplex carparking 28 times. To effectively car park stalk one must find their unsuspecting prey emerging from the automatic doors. They are often laughing jovially with their partner, arms full of newly purchased goods, reminiscing about their shopping expedition, laughing at an in-joke.

Meanwhile you and yours are willing to either pay them good money to guarantee they will allow you, and only you, access to their car space when they leave or alternatively, just take them out. Again, to do this, you mush HARRASS THE SHIT OUT OF THEM the minute eye contact is made.

As it turned out, this Boxing Day, 2011, we didn’t have to stalk down anyone. We attempted to, oh we did, but it appeared that almost everyone had already been hunted. We would have been stalking the stalkers. There is no AVO in the land that could handle this level of shit.

So we wandered and we wandered and I was probably, oh, 2 seconds away from saying “Screw this, let’s go home” when outta nowhere, a couple in a ute shot out in front of us and bam, we were in.

And so begins the Boxing Day Challenge.

See, if it had been my choice, I probably would not have

chosen today, the busiest day in the retail world, to go shopping. But I had three children who had both money and gift vouchers burning a hole in the their pockets and I was coerced into it, with the promise of coffee and lemon slice.

First stop – Myer. And this apostrophuck.

Hey Myer, perhaps less cash on Jen Hawkins and more on sub-editors Hmmm??

Anyhoo, because the kids were generously given a fair bit in vouchers, the majority in Myer, this was our first port of call. Wait, no, our first port of call was the toilet. Visit one of one hundred and one. This was a text I sent to my husband during one of the stops. (Apparently we live in different hemispheres, hence the texts)

Me: Maddie in toilet AGAIN

Him: OK.

Me: (5 minutes later) She’s still in there. Doing a shit. FFS

Him: OK

Me: (5 more minutes later) She’s missing

Him: OK

Me: (5 minutes later) Don’t panic, stop looking I found her.

Him: Ok.

See! What a joyous and funfilled occasion for all the family.

I digress.

Soooo, we make it into Myer, kids can find not one thing they want. Maddie, being older, starts to negotiate with the younger two, offering them $30 in cash for $50 in Myer Credit. Boys aren’t buying. Cue full scale war.

It's around then we decide we need lunch first. Add two more hours to the jurnee....

Right. Back to our mission. After consuming a coke spider, Jack is Karate chopping his way through the teeming masses and then Phil remembers, wait, ‘I need some decent pants for the cricket tomorrow’ because he was going into the members or some such thing. And as he went on a culling bender when we left Queensland, he didn’t actually own anything nice any more. So he lined up for FORTY-FIVE minutes to try on two pairs of pants that DID NOT FIT.

Meantime I am making threats through gritted teeth at Jack who insists on sniffing ladies as they sit next to him in the shoe department and telling them they “Smell awfully nice”.

So, no pants. No money spent. It’s roughly 3pm. I’m hungry again but more to the point, need recaffeinating. This is probably not a real word. I no longer care, I just need to get away from rude people and over perky sales assistants who are using their passive aggressive nice-nice approach to guilt me out of stealing their stuff. Which is tempting seeing as the line-up to purchase anything is about 25 deep.

We make our way to every large department store in the centre. All to no avail. Why is it that when kids have no cash to spend they see 1,000 things they want, but when the place is positively bursting with millions of shopping Zombies and they are cashed up, they can find nothing? Surely there a science behind this?

So we double our way back to our original destination. Myer. We then proceed to spray each other with rank smelling perfumes in a game I like to call, immaturity. It’s been passed down from generation to generation and on a day like this, it fits in nicely. No one is watching and we are BEYOND caring.

Maddison picks out some celebrity perfume package, the boys end up with Lego and a Wii game and we pack into the industrial sized lift to take us back to our car. It’s 5pm. And I think I have just added a new New Years Resolution to the list. Boxing Day Sales are to be avoided. Forever.

Oh. And Phil did eventually find fancy pants. But he didn’t wear them to the cricket today. Let's never discuss this again.

DOES YOURS DO THIS?

2011-12-21T00:12:00.001+10:00

I do wonder what my children missed out on. You know, not being pushed around in a pram that cost more than my first car. I mean, seriously, is the latest in parenting pissing contests or was this always going on and I just didn't realise?

This pram, the one above, is $1599.99. I mean, thank Christ! Imagine if it was $1600.00. Wait.

And the one I saw today in the shop was the last one – floor stock. One that has no doubt been test-driven around the shop a thousand times, rammed into stationary mannequins and probably, more than likely, had a toddler’s filthy fingers smearing it's (now invisible due to petrifaction) snot into the undercarriage.

My question to you though is, do you get more from say, the two thousand dollar pram, than the ones I always seem to purchae that were around the Two hundred dollar mark? Did I roughly receive 10% of the product as a result? I have to know, does this hideously expensive contraption

- Wake up in the middle of the night, flop out a mechanical breast and feed the baby?

- Automatically steer into bunched up teenagers who look suspiciously like they are up to no good?

- Deal with the annoying, yet well meaning advice from every person who has EVER had a baby before you?

- Cure cracked nipples?

- Awkwardly launch itself at people who walk 4 abreast in shopping centres.

- Through direct mind power, Grind 100% pure Arabica beans and produce a world class flat white into your cup holder

- Magically fold and unfold with a remote control?

- Hover into the back of the car and ALWAYS fit. Even if you own a smart car.

- Keep the child endlessly entertained while imprisoned inside it. The details of how are not important, as long as they don’t whinge.

If the Pram could perform even one of the tasks above, I’d buy it. Unnecessary debt be damned. But something tells me the people buying these aren’t exactly worried about cash. Ultimately though, from where I stand, basically a pram gets vomited in, shat on a thousand different ways to Sunday and ends up as a feral vessel of unidentifiable smells. And it would break my heart to know I could have put that money towards something useful. Like their therapy when they realise the root of all their problems stem from the fact that they were pushed around in the pram equivalent of a Hyundai Excel and not an Audi.

But each to their own. I’m probably just jealous. Oh and probably won’t be asked to do a sponsored post on expensivo prams anytime soon either. Foot, meet your gun wielder.

So how about you? Are there features I just don’t understand? Are they just a modern status symbol?

THAT'S WHEN GOOD NEIGHBOURS BECOME GOOD {INSERT APPLICABLE HERE}

2011-12-11T23:14:00.000+10:00

The shoe is not a Christmas Present. Based on behaviour - it's lumps of coal FOR ALL!!

See that picture above? That’s our new Christmas Tree. We don’t own this Christmas tree. That’s not our fake snow on the leaves. No, this belongs to our new neighbours who, upon hearing we didn’t own one, said they had a spare. It’s not ours to keep, just to borrow.

Then, tonight, I got home from work and Phil told me that our other neighbours, the ones that have children of similar ages, were cooking Pizza and asked us to get involved. At first, I’ll admit I was all, ‘Jesus, I’ve just walked in the door, where are my children and do I really have to speak with anybody after 8 hours of non-stop talking’. But then I went outside and into the courtyard. And laughed and saw our other lovely neighbour who gave us the tree. Now either a) we are being Punk’d b) are on the Truman Show or c) we just really have top neighbours.

We had great neighbours in Queensland, still consider them all to be great friends, but we were a lot slower to move into each other’s lives up there. This may have been due to the fact that initially, I may have come across as a little bit of a lunatic. Maybe.

The house we bought was old. Nearly 50 years old in fact. I’ve written about renovating the Money Pit Here and Here. When we first moved in, Jack, now 5, was around 6 months old. We had just finished a 7 week stint of living with my in-laws between settlements. To put it mildly, for the first time in my life, I was an emotional fucking wreck. New baby, two solid months of passive aggressive, yet ultimately well meaning remarks, moving away from my friends and the realisation that we had taken on a renovation job much bigger than we could probably actually handle or afford, and I wasn’t at my best. I was actually probably at my worst.

So, two days in, I was cleaning up a little. We had put new floor boards in and I was sweeping them when Jack started to cry. I placed the broom up against the wall, picked him up and went to open the window. That’s when the window started to fall out. And then the broom started to fall onto the new floorboards. There I was, baby in one arm, holding onto a heavy window with the other and with a foot extended, trying to save the broom from hitting the ‘new floorboards’ when Phil walked around the corner and suggested ‘Babe, you really shouldn’t leave the broom on the floor, it will scratch the new floorboards.’ I’m sorry? What. Did. You. Just. Say?

That’s when, very uncharacteristically, I somewhat lost my shit. I yelled and screamed and told him to politely go fuck himself. And all of the past 2-3 months worth of tensions that had been simmering, the fears, the sadness, the anger, everything escaped at full volume, straight out our window that was now sitting on the ground outside out of our house. Right into our new neighbours realm of hearing. I remember looking out the window and seeing them staring back at us. And I waved. And they awkwardly waved back and then they hightailed it up their front stairs.

So it was a long time until they talked to us. I mean, we looked like *that* feral family. I would have avoided me too. But eventually, we were cool. I think it started with them needing plumbing work done. Then it progressed to us being asked to one of their children’s birthday parties where I turned up hideously hungover from the night before. I knew Judgy McJudygy was sitting there silently judging me, but this is where we met our other neighbours who were very impressed with my ability to eat 4 sausages on bread and chase it up with 5 green frog cupcakes. A firm friendship was made from that day.

So here, at the now defunct lunatic Aysylum which I will write about shortly, we have been embraced, sometimes claustrophobically so. They are giving us stuff, inviting us places and feeding our children who seem to be continuously over at their house. And while I struggle to feel at ease with this, perhaps it’s just the way it is here. Maybe it’s the way it should be. Old School. It's me who needs to embrace it.

Are you friends with your neighbours? Did it take a while or was it instantaneous?

SOMETHING'S GOT TO GIVE

2011-12-04T23:36:00.001+10:00

I know it has been discussed to death. There’s even been a movie made about it, after a book was written about it. I’m talking about having it all as a working mother. Is it possible? Is it possible to work, raise children, stay happily married and not completely lose your mind in the process? Short Answer – No. Long answer – No.

But what does ALL mean? Isn't that like defining Normal? By all, do people mean being happy and successful in your chosen field of work, bringing up smart, emotionally stable and healthy children whilst keeping the house clean and husband satisfied? Because if that is having it all then I fail daily – on all levels. Do I still continue to give it a red hot go? Sure.

But often it is to the detriment of some aspect of my life. In short, something has to give.

First to Give:

Sex on tap. When you have an exhausting day at work, the dog has shat on the carpet as a basic fuck you for leaving him alone all day at home and the middle child has roundhouse spewed green bile all over the lounge room rug as you walk in the door, for some reason your ‘come hither’ eyes, have turned into ‘come near me with your penis and I will find a new function for your Swiss Army Knife’ eyes. Often a consequence is that the bedroom action slides a little. Or a lot.

Next to Give:

Parental supervision. Once upon a time, I believed I would NEVER be one of those parents who would give their child a device to keep them quiet in public. No damn it, if we were going out, we would be that family sitting serenely sipping tea and telling funny anecdotes. Yeah, no. Trying to make sure all time is quality time, puts major pressure on not only you but the children as well. Hence the equipment comes out. Portable DVD players. DS, phones etc etc. Whatever keeps them amused and allows us, as a couple, time to actually speak to each other has been embraced. Judge as you see fit.

Not long after:

The general housework and cleaning gets put on the backburner. No seriously. My car hasn’t been cleaned out in a year. Minimum. I found a power Ranger stuck up the Air conditioner vent just yesterday. That and a petrified french-fry. It seriously is the last thing I feel like doing when I get home. Easy solution is to hire a cleaner. But we all know people just clean for the cleaner. So perhaps my answer is just for someone to threaten me with a cleaner..

MOST DISTURBING:

Stuff might slip past you that you’d normally notice. Like producing a child who begins to love Nickelback inappropriately.

OBVIOUS SIGN ALL IS NOT DOABLE

You may start to notice your daily alcohol units start to increase more than is generally acceptable. You get home, you have a wine. You have dinner, you have a wine. You watch telly (while not cleaning or reading your child a bedtime story) and have a wine. You tell yourself you deserve it because you’ve had the kind of day that deserves a wine.

YOU CAN’T BE EVERYWHERE, ALL THE TIME:

This is why I know, as a working Mum, who is there 5 days a week, that when I become more worried about pacifying the boss, I have lost the having it all battle. It generally starts with some kind of concert. One where your child is a potato, or a gnome or something hideously unimportant to anyone other than yourself. And you are desperate to see it. But on occasions, you will fail at making an appearance at these. And your child will file this kind of behaviour under ‘stuff to throw back in my mother’s face at my best opportunity’. Guilt comes hand in hand with being a working parent. It chokes you at times. None more so then when your child is at the front of an assembly, receiving an award, searching the crowd for the familiar face of their parent so they can show off their award. To hear the words “Mum, I looked for you, but I couldn’t find you” breaks your heart into a few million pieces. And also earns you the shittest parent in the world award.

So above a few examples of what gives in my world. What has to give probably. I used to smugly think I was doing it all. That I had it under control. But now I realise, it doesn't matter whether I do or I don't. It matters whether it feels right. For you, for the family unit as a whole and most importantly, the kids. I think I'm operating at about 70%. With room for improvement. Always room for improvement.

What do you think? Can it all be done? Can you have it all? What does having it all even mean?

THE UNWRITTEN RULES

2011-11-24T23:41:00.004+10:00

This has pretty much nothing to do with the post, but it's late. And I really like this.

So waiting in line today at the Self Service Checkout at Woolies with my 3L milk and discounted loaf of bread, I craned my neck from the 7 person deep line to see what in the fuck was taking so long. That’s when I spotted her. The lady who had gone too far with the self servicing. No, wait, she wasn’t doing anything untoward, she was simply scanning and bagging oh, a WHOLE trolley and bagging them around her feet. And then I thought, well wait, it doesn't actually say anywhere that she can’t do this. It doesn't say express. It doesn’t say x amount of items of less. But my question is why? I mean if you want to put yourself under the pump and bag your own shit, why wouldn't you just go to Aldi and spend half the cash?

This got me thinking about the unwritten rules in life. I mean it doesn't say anywhere that these kinds of shenanigans aren't allowed and like someone pointed out to me today, sometimes people do it that way because it’s faster than waiting for the checkout chick. Sure, but not for all the time poor people waiting behind you it’s not. And just because it’s not written doesn't make it so.

UNWRITTEN RULE: Don’t write passive aggressive, vague status updates on Facebook. ‘Oh tomorrow will be so much better than today, you can’t break me!’ Or ‘Some people should really think before they speak!’ Who can’t break you?? What did they say? Then when people enquire after them, they fall silent or respond with an equally vague response. FUCK. OFF. Just simply say –Jason, I hate your guts, you will pay. Yay, we all get that. Cut the shit people.

UNWRITTEN RULE: Never say this to someone with three children or more – ‘You must have your hands full!’ No shit lady. Last time I looked I only had 2 hands . You do the math.

UNWRITTEN RULE: Don’t tell someone they look ‘Tired’

Sure, they probably do look shithouse and possibly look like they could do with a bloody good 4 year sleep. But what do you gain from pointing out the bleeding obvious? What about when someone says that to you and prior to them opening their mouth, you'd been feeling on top of the world, not tired at all. Just like a venereal disease, keep that shit to yourself.

UNWRITTEN RULE: No dicktogs at the kiddie pool. Pretty sure no further explanation is needed here. Just to clarify, guys - no dickstickers allowed at the public pool. In fact, unless you’re an Olympic Athlete, just don't wear them. Unlike the ladies, the more left to the imagination in that department the better. Especially on a on a cold day. We clear?

Unwritten Rule: You don’t walk into other people’s houses UNANNOUNCED

Last night, it was kind of late, Phil and I were sitting up watching a DVD and we heard a rustling at the front door. Luckily we weren’t doing anything. I mean, I know we’ve been together forever but that doesn’t mean from time to time some spontaneous lounge room action doesn’t take place. Wait, yes it does but anyway, that's not the point. In walks, unannounced, no knock, our new neighbour. At 10pm. ‘Hi guys, what’s cracking?’ Oh nothing much. Other than your skull.

UNWRITTEN RULE – Don’t be a Keith. Keith was a guy from our childhood who always outstayed his welcome. Never be a Keith in life.

UNWRITTEN RULE - Don’t bring a six pack and drink a carton. I generalise with this statement but it basically means don’t turn up to someone’s house for a function, BBQ, dinner, lunch, whatever and end up consuming way more than you brought with you and then be known for doing this consistently. When we were growing up we went to this one friend’s house a lot. They had these friends who every. single. weekend, would turn up with a six pack of beer, and drink a carton. It’s not cool. It’s not etiquette. It’s an unwritten rule.

UNWRITTEN RULE: Do not stay on the phone when being served. Common courtesy yes? Then why is it nearly impossible for people to just, oh I don’t know, show the person serving them that they can focus on their transaction and actually use their manners while doing so. It should also be written into the fine print of this unwritten rule that by law, the Smartphone can be unceremoniously slapped from their hands if they fail to comply. If their cheek gets caught in the crossfire, so be it.

Any unwritten rules you’d like to add?

WHEN I GROW UP

2011-11-20T22:53:00.002+10:00

What did you want to be when you grew up? I mean apart from being allowed to stay up past 7:30pm and be tall enough to reach the biscuit jar at the back of the pantry (my personal goals at 8). I mean, what did you want to do? Day in day out. As your day job? Are you doing it right now?

I think I fluctuated a lot, but for the most part of my childhood, I wanted to be a detective. I am naturally inquisitive and love to know the ins and outs of any situation. For instance, I can't tell you how insane it makes me when my husband has spoken to a mutual friend and I’ll ask how they've been. “Yeah good” will be his standard response. Then I have to basically extract the rest of the information from him in such a way that pulling teeth would be both a) less painful and b) quicker.

I digress. I wanted to be a detective. Apparently, well this is what my father used to tell me (and I think it might be half bullshit), that one grandfather was a police detective and the other, a journalist. As I am adopted I seriously don’t know how much information he was privy to but I can’t really see a reason for him to make this up. Except for you know, him basically being a little out of his mind for a great deal of the time.

But it all fits. I’ve always been writing, although I guess I postponed it for a long time. When I met Phil I was attending classes at night studying Creative Writing but then my own life got far too creative and I lost interest. Before I knew it, I turned around and realised 16 years had passed and I was not doing what I loved. Sure I was working with some fantastic people, but my life was passing me by and I was still where I was when I left school. A little lost.

And this is how it happened. Essentially. I left school, went to Byron Bay for schoolies, spent all of my money and returned home with a part time job at Maccas and zero prospects. I wanted to go uni and study Journalism. It was immediately ruled out by my mother. Back then I didn’t know about HECS, she didn't either, I guess and although I did really well at school, it was never addressed. I had no real options other than to get a day job. So, I sat down and applied for all the jobs from the previous weekend's paper I had retrieved from the bin.

I kind of fell into accounting with my first ever boss basically telling me she gave me the job because I was clearly on my way to the beach straight after my interview. She liked that I had other interests. She also liked that I really needed a job. Because they were the stayers. And I stayed. And I got married. And I changed jobs a few times. And I had babies. And then, about 16 years later it was almost like I woke up and wondered where the hell I’d been.

That’s when I started this blog. And started to write something on the side. And now we’ve moved to a completely different State and just quietly, that has been incredibly bloody hard. For numerous and varied reasons, but a very big positive is that I have gotten a job where I am doing something COMPLETELY different to what I have been doing for the last 16 years. Sure it's a bit of a paycut and involves writing stuff to entice people to buy bras and weekends away, but it’s creative. And it’s a start. And it’s all I can really hope for at this stage in my life. I can’t change careers and hope to survive financially. Slow and Steady and all that. But one day, and this might be a total pipe dream, I want to sustain my living from writing and be involved in Social Media.

Because it seems to be what I do not only naturally, but also instinctively love. I know, half of you are rolling your eyes; the other half didn’t make it this far into my post. That's Okay. All I know is that I am not where I want to be yet. Perhaps I want or expect too much. Perhaps this is as good as it gets. Impossible to know, but I do know that I have to give it all red hot go. Or I’ll be forever left wondering.

What about you? Are you doing today what you always wanted? What you fell into? What you were expected to do? Have you changed career midway through your already established life?

MY NORMAL

2011-11-13T20:52:00.000+10:00

Looking back it was probably the dinner plate that was thrown at my Mother's head that was the catalyst. The moment when she thought enough was enough. I’m guessing it was then anyway.

My father wasn’t an aggressive man, well not physically. And not usually. I’ve written about him HERE, but to sum it up, he was an alcoholic. And not even a particularly good one. A man lost to his mad mind long before I was even born if we’re to be honest. But my brother and I weren’t aware that our lives weren’t normal. That to have a father who verbally abused his wife on a constant basis wasn’t normal. That to be in a household where you as a child, were often afraid of what your father would do next, wasn’t normal. Because that was our normal.

That particular night started out fine enough and my brother and I tell this story often. At BBQ’s or dinners and often with an injection of humour. When in reality, we shouldn’t I guess, because domestic violence is anything but funny.

I was about 8, my brother 11. Dad was in the kitchen trying to light his cigarette from the hotplate after returning home from the pub. He was also whipping up some fried rice. As you do. Meanwhile, Mum was dishing out the perfectly fine meal she had just finished cooking behind him on the kitchen bench. My brother and I were in the room we shared more than likely dicking around doing something we shouldn’t have been doing. We heard a commotion and both eagerly ran up the hallway to check it out. I was in front, he, close on my heels.

That’s when we saw the fire. The one that, in his paraletic state trying to light his smoke on the hotplate, my father had managed to start with the assistance of an ill placed tea towel. My brother and I watched on in horror as Mum raced around trying to extinguish it. She started to shout, told him to move. That’s when I saw him walking towards us with such malice that I remember I physically tried to shrink. To become invisible. As he reached us, he turned on his heel, grabbed a dinner plate and frisbee’d it directly at my mother’s head. Somehow she had the 6^th sense to duck and it smashed into a hundred tiny pieces on the wall behind her.

My brother and I audibly gasped and turned to run as fast as our little legs would take us, back to our room. The next thing I remember, Dad was reefing our bedroom door open as I cowered in the corner, my brother standing protectively in front of me. I remember Mum screaming and chasing him up the hallway. He didn’t hurt us, he simply, with a little more force than was necessary, removed us from the room. The next we knew the television was being thrown from the second story window, then the fan, then our toys. We were bundled up and we fled. I can’t even remember where we went.

This wasn’t the first time that heavy shit went down, it was just the one that sticks in my mind the most. When we returned to the house later that night, he was gone. And Mum did what she had to do to make sure he could never return. And believe me, back in the early 80’s removing your husband from the house, supporting yourself as a woman and not losing your mind, was no easy task.

So why am I telling you this today? Well, this is my experience with Domestic Violence. And it is one too many.

My very good friend Kristen Brumm has been recently endorsed as Ambassador for the Domestic Violence awareness campaign, SPEAK OUT. Her story is hers and hers alone to tell, but she reminds me a lot of my Mum. She did what it took, everything she could, to remove her children from the unhealthy situation that they were in.

I urge you, if you need a safe place to discuss your situation, to do so. Don’t let Domestic Violence become your normal. Because it should be anything but.

If you're in Australia, start here with some links: Reach Out

NEW KID IN TOWN

2011-11-09T23:39:00.000+10:00

On Friday afternoon, a mysterious, hyperactive child appeared inside our new home in Melbourne. After much questioning, I found out this child was named Talon (I confirmed this no less than six times with him), he was four years of age and no, he didn’t know where his mother was. He then proceeded to take his massive scabby cat under his arm and head upstairs. And I didn’t stop him. Because this is my new life.

We’ve only technically lived here, in Willsmere, an old asylum for just on a week. And just quietly, it’s leading me down the loose parenting path rather quickly. Seriously, there are a THOUSAND children in this place who appear to roam around the joint unsupervised for an alarming amount of time.

I find this difficult to deal with because while I wouldn’t say I was ever a helicopter parent, I certainly knew where my kid was at any given moment. Which was usually inside our own gates, at our own home. But here, well here it’s a bit of a free for all.

And I should embrace this. I grew up that way. We’d leave in the morning, walk to our friends house (who had a pool) about 15 minutes away, and return at nightfall. And this was with an extremely strict parent. It was great, taught me life (and road skills) and well, made up my childhood. But something feels wrong about giving the green light to a four year old to roam around what is essentially the set of a Hitchcock movie. What if he goes missing? Where do I start looking?

And it started after Jack’s first day here at kindy. He came home and told me with determination that his new best friend was a kid called Harry. I took this on board and then quickly forgot it as a) he lies and b) he changes his best friend like he changes his Batman undies. Turns out, Harry lives 3 doors down from us. And in even better news, his dad owns a WINE SHOP!

So, their 3 children and our 3 children will be spending a fair bit of time together it seems. And their parents are tops. But I’ve always been weary of these kind of situations. My mother always warned me about “living in each other’s pockets” and I’ve always taken that on board. Luckily with all of us working 5 days a week and having a sweet communal pool, I think there will only be so much time allotted where we can actually bug each other.

We’ve also since then, met no less than about 20 people over drinks, BBQ’s, poolside encounters and general car park rage. Seems like our new home is a very social, welcoming and inclusive place.

So back to Talon and his mangy cat. I never did meet his mother but he turns up from time to time. He came over just yesterday afternoon, spewed a whole bunch of sentences at me, none of which I could understand other than the word ‘ukulele’ and bolted off again. I’m not even entirely sure he was speaking English. My bet is he belongs to the guy who is a professional Opera Singer at 210. But at this stage, that is just a hunch.

And look, don’t get wrong, it’s all kinds of wonderful to potentially live amoungst families who, just like us, are a little bit fucked up, a little bit tired and emotional after a full week of work and ready to live and let live as a general rule.

All I know is that if I can cut a balance somewhere between the uptight parent I guess I once was and Talon’s mother, I think we’ll be OK.

How about you? Did you grow up ‘FreeRange’? Do you overprotect your children or let them go for it?

HOW DO YOU WRITE

2011-11-01T07:00:00.001+10:00

We have finally moved into our new place. This is great for a number of reasons, the most obvious being I am no longer being Dutch ovened on a regular basis by three males in a 3 x 3 metre motel room. The other bonus is that I have somewhere to sit down and write.

And I kind of took this for granted, the whole sitting down, being able to concentrate and having my own space thing.
Although to be honest I have mostly always written in front of the TV, laptop resting on my knees with kids and phone calls and conversations whirring around my head. You know that sound a message makes when it is sent on an iPhone? I didn’t either until a couple of days ago, but that sound is exactly what I hear in my head when something gets done. And of late, I haven’t heard it a lot. Mainly because nothing much has been getting done.

But today, I found this waiting for me in our bedroom.

To appreciate this you need to know the layout of our new place. It’s a three story townhouse. Bottom floor living and kitchen. Second level, two bedrooms for the kids and top is a loft style room complete with elevated step that has a massive window on the roof. To look at the stars through or listen to the rain on. Quite simply, if I can’t find inspiration to write up there, I suck.

I also went for a run today for the first time in eons. I found possibly the prettiest part of Kew by accident and this lane which although I will more than likely snap my ankle on, I will make sure I run up every day because it’s a little bit magical.

Plus, this isn’t too shabby to run past either. I miss the water, I do, but this is what we came here for, to experience the exact opposite.

Yes. It is as cold as it looks.

I’ve also started listening to these guys a bit.

So where do you write? How do you write? Where do you get your inspiration from? Does scenery, music or position play a part?

FOUR SEASONS IN ONE DAY

2011-10-21T22:27:00.001+10:00

So. Here is where I discuss the weather for a bit. Now I always assumed discussing the weather was the great go-to topic when you couldn’t think of anything else interesting enough to discuss with another human being. Until I moved to Melbourne that is. Here, it’s not just small talk; it’s a way of life.

And I’ve been here, in Melbourne, St Kilda to be exact, for nearly two weeks and I can honestly say, I do not know what in the fuck is going on. This place fascinates me, scares me silly and makes me wonder if people actually ever sleep. Where ever I look, there is something going on. I have been able to experience it as relatively single lass, a mother, a consumer, a drunkard and an outsider. The best part? There is no right or wrong way to do it.

The thing is, apart from about a thousand trips to Bali in my younger years and various interstate trips; I have never known anything other than the Gold Coast. And I love my home town, it’s part of the reason why I am the way I am today, but to me, right this very minute, it is thrilling to be experiencing something so vibrant.

Having said that, things are different here. Good different, but different all the same.

Example

There is less fuckwittage on the streets. Now, I know, I’ve only been here for a couple of weeks, but I have driven an insane amount of peak hour traffic in that time in both fabulous and horrific weather. And you know what? People are cool. They let you in, they acknowledge you when you let them merge and as a general rule, just calm. the. fuck. down. I have also come to learn that Punt Road is one letter away from being very aptly named.

Example

The service. Second to none. The other day, the waitress brought me a latte instead of a flat white which I was happy to take. I mean, one comes in a glass and has more milk, one doesn’t. Essentially. They gave it to me for free and 20% off my bill because they made “such a shocking error”. Um, no, a shocking error would be leaving a decapitated finger in my scrambled eggs. It’s cool. 1000 other scenarios have ensued since I’ve been here. Well not 1000. Sorry, I like to exaggerate a little, but you get my point, 99% of people in this town want you to walk away satisfied. Hmm. I’m not touching the adult stores in that sentence.

Example

The weather. As I mentioned above, and I know Crowded House wrote a song about it but we all know the minute you can interpret the lyrics to any Crowded House song you have discovered the meaning of life and therefore, your life is over, so this does not help AT ALL. So, I digress, yes, the weather. So far, in two weeks, I have witnessed, without a doubt, winter, summer, spring and autumn. One day, when sitting in the Laundromat, I honestly thought the leaves I could see dropping rapidly outside the window was snow. It got that cold, windy and dark, THAT freaking quickly I started to freak out. Similarly yesterday, it was about 29 degrees. Everywhere you looked people were losing their shit at the unexpected fair weather. There were g-strings on grassy knolls, white legs exposed and dudes who had clearly been waiting an entire year to show off their polished guns, getting about inappropriately in their singlets. We went swimming as the bulk carriers out to sea made their way to Tasmania. It was insane. And lovely.

It isn’t all roses, just yesterday after a tough day, I had my first pang of homesickness and can honestly say I was prepared to pack up, tuck my fluffy tail between my legs and head home. Partly due to the fact that I miss Maddie like I’m missing a limb, partly due to the fact that it’s all just incredibly fucking hard. And I’m not one to complain, I just do, but sometimes, like yesterday, I just wanted to stop doing and go back to the easy.

But tonight, as I sit here and type this in the darkness of my 3 x 3 metre motel room with my family slumbering behind me, adjusting themselves from time to time due to the keyboard noise, I realise this is exactly what we need. What I need. A change. Will it work? Who knows? Is it scary as all hell? Yep. Will we ever regret giving it a go? No.

Aside: Phil and the boys joined me on Sunday. Was incredibly nice to squish each and every one of them after so long. Maddie will be down when she graduates.

Squishing the Shit out of Jack. Clearly he's loving it.

WELL HELLO ALBURY. GOODBYE GPS LADY FROM THE DEPTHS OF HELL.

2011-10-11T00:25:00.001+10:00

When I started this post, I had been driving for two days straight and could safely say, if it weren’t for my newly acquired GPS, I would not have made it to my destination alive. And, even though I’m pretty sure the GPS lady wanted me dead and was often suggesting I turn down dirt tracks Ivan Milat would endorse, I can only thank her for my newly found confidence when driving around the totally foreign city that is Melbourne.

Hey, even when she suggested I had 2.5 hours left until I reached my destination on Wednesday and I could tell from the tone of her voice she was really suggesting I go fuck myself, I still wanted to give her a hug. Sure, I was often found to be arguing with her in the car, completely alone but this did not at all seem unreasonable. Often our conversations went a little something like this:

Her: "Take the next right onto George Street"

Me: (Out aloud) "Um, no. There is no George Street, what in the fuck are you talking about??" She would then recalibrate and we would get on with it.

After a brief stop in Sydney where I slept on a very comfortable couch lent to me by the very lovely Nicky L, I made my way on to Albury. But not before a stop off at one of only two McDonalds on the stretch for a caffeine fix. Now here’s the thing. There is absolutely NOTHING to see on the highway between Sydney and Melbourne. The Hume Highway should just be rebranded the LONGEST STRETCH OF NOTHINGNESS IN THE WORLD; at least then people would be prepared. This must be why, when people see a McDonalds, they lose their shit and treat it like a McDisco. Seriously, people were dressed like they were ready to pick up. Forget Farmer wants a wife Channel 9, just set your cameras up at the closest Hume Highway Maccas and you’ve got your next series RIGHT. THERE.

The other thing I noticed about this drive was the radio stations. I mean, I took a stack of music to listen to, but if I had to listen to Adele one more time I would probably have to gouge my own eye out no matter how beautiful a singer she is. So intermittently, I would attempt to get a radio station. There was one in particular, an ABC station that was talking about fleas on dogs. This was one of the questions:

Presenter: “So what is a sign your dog may have fleas?”

Vet: “The dog will be scratching itself” Fucking really???

I could also probably debate the subject of corporate tax fairly comprehensively after listening to at least three hours of information regarding this. Any takers. No. I didn't think so.

I arrived in Albury late-ish in the afternoon and proceeded to check into a non-descript motel with zero Wi-Fi and a studded velvet bed head. One that I could still tune in AM radio from. I’m pretty sure for an extra tenner; I could have secured the suite with a mirror on the roof. I resisted.

What I did quickly ascertain was that I would need a drink that night. No internet, limited television channels, i.e. SBS or SBS, I reckoned I’d need some company. My inebriated mind seemed like a logical choice, so I set out into the mean streets of Albury in my jeans, tattered Beatles T-shirt and thongs. Bup-Bow.

See, in Albury, I could NOT for love nor money, find a bottle shop that existed outside a licensed establishment. In turn, this meant that the bouncer at the Albury RSL club I ended up tracking down was NOT loving my jean/t-shirt/thong combination. In fact, I think he was one sentence away from saying ‘Not in that footwear Miss’ when I walked on past him.

I ate there, the locals were lovely and I went back to my room where I was graciously offered a toke of a guy’s joint on the way up the stairs to my ‘apartment’. I declined.

Tune in next time to find out how FUCKING boring the drive is between there and Melbourne. But wait, there is more. It involves St Kilda, fare evading on trams and forcing people to make eye contact with me on the mean streets of Melbourne. Oh and getting the rest of my family to join me here.

Hope to be writing this from our own place next time and not a dodgy hotel that has blue lighting in the foyer. I think this is where I am meant to say Ciao.

CHOP CHOP

2011-09-28T20:28:00.000+10:00

When the Post it Note appeared on the fridge with the words ‘Book Vasectomy Clinic’ scrawled across it, I knew my baby making days were all but over.

It appeared my husband knew me better than I knew myself and even though at that point in time, i.e. three months pregnant with baby number 3, I had no intention of having a number four, he knew all it would take was a mere sighting of a cute baby and I’d be back on the newborn express.

See, babies are my crack. One whiff, one sighting, one hold and I am hooked and need a more personal fix. My husband was onto me, hence the post it note.

He had also done some logical thinking, damn him. Going from a family of 5 to a family of 6 would mean more than adding a new name to the Medicare Card. It would require a 7 seater car. It would mean a four bedroom home (at the very least). It would also mean that we would probably not retire until we were dead, (although to be honest, we are fairly prepared for that scenario anyway).

Are these reasons, which essentially are material based, valid enough to veto child number 4, 5 or even 6? If you had caught me off guard in the post baby haze, three years down the track when the memories of vaginal tearing and sleep deprivation were conveniently forgotten, I’d have said, no, not a good enough reason. In the cold light of day however, knee deep in shitty nappies and having cleaned up my body weight in vomit, I’d probably quite happily snip the offending sperm carrying tube myself. So yes, I guess I’m saying three is the magic number for us.

It almost feels like three is the new two. Most all of my friends have three children and, like us, they went back for more ~~punishment~~ bliss at that comfortable, fuss free time of their lives when their other children were basically self-sufficient. And I can’t even say we had our third child because we wanted a child of a particular sex. We already had a pigeon pair and they were/are good kids. And then, perhaps just to teach us a lesson to mess with fate, we had the now Mr 4, the hurricane on two legs.

This boy came out born ready. He took no more than 2 hours to make his way out, 9 pounds and I didn’t even require a single stitch. This either means I was totally ‘one’ with my breathing during labour or, probably closer to the truth, I was just a total loose goose. I digress, the fact is, this kid was jumping out of trees and breaking his wrists before he could tell me No. And he tells me No A LOT.

Do I still hanker for another addition? Honestly no. I love that my friends are having babies and I am getting to enjoy them in an ‘Aunty Bern’ capacity, i.e. I’m getting to give all the hugs, kisses and long holds and then sleep for 8 hours. Sometimes 9.

In hindsight, that 20 minute trip to the clinic where the doctor pulled out his glorified soldering iron and burnt the pathways to fatherhood to render my husband infertile was both sad, yet necessary.

Where did you draw the line? Have you?

*Note - I had to google vasectomy to find a picture for this post. What I have seen cannot be unseen.

I LIKE TO MOVE IT MOVE IT

2011-09-25T22:19:00.001+10:00

They say getting married and moving are two of the most stressful events you will face in your lifetime.

Let's just say that that I’d dance the funky chicken at my 19^th wedding rather than move house one more time. Because this time, we aren’t just moving house, which for some insane reason, we seem to do about every 4 years, we are moving State. Lots of states. We are moving to Victoria.

Have you ever talked so much about something that it actually turned into reality? I mean, like something so massive, so life changing, it will not only interrupt your own life but all of those around you as well? It seems that I may have done this.

A few months ago my husband I sat down and realised we were getting nowhere. Building and construction here on the Gold Coast has basically stalled. People are sitting on their hands waiting for something to happen. In turn, Phil hasn’t worked a solid week since Christmas 2010. I’m pretty sure this is the story being told by any tradie on the Gold Coast right now. Confidence is thin on the ground, the Real Estate Bubble burst a while back and people are scrambling to sell at much less than they did two years ago. We could see it coming, but we’ve rode this out here a few times before.

The last time was in 2001 and we only had one child at the time. Phil moved to Sydney where he was offered a great job. I stayed behind and it was relatively easy. Well for me. Although to be honest, we were kind of running two households, flying to and fro and what not. And although I was fine working, running Mad to day care and looking after ourselves, Phil didn’t fare quite as well. What should be every man’s dream was his nightmare. I mean, nights to oneself, pub dinners, beers with mates and complete control of the remote control sent him nuts. So he came home.

So this time around we were realistic. The mines were an option, but that involved FIFO and weeks away from the family. No go. So we started to investigate. Before we knew it, Phil was offered a job. In Melbourne. Whoa.

So, in just over a week, I alone, will set off in my little car and drive away from the only place I’ve ever known. Away from my brother and two of my best friends in the world, my wonderful boss, all of our lovely neighbours and other friends and family and drive in a semi- straight line to Melbourne. In the mean time, I have, oh, one thousand, four hundred and fifty nine things to organise and very little time to do so. But winging it has always kind of been my MO, so I’m hoping it works for me this time.

As we sat out on our deck, in our modest little seaside home this afternoon and had a beer, I wondered out loud if we were doing the right thing. The logistics are huge. Phil looked at me and simply said ‘Mate, if it’s not right, we can always come back, what have we got to lose?’ Oh, just my sanity, but apart from that, nothing.

Have you ever made a massive move?

LOVE, LOVE ME DO

2011-09-15T06:30:00.001+10:00

I'm not sure when I first started to follow Carly Findlay on Twitter. I can't remember when she went from being a tiny picture on my laptop screen to a person I genuinely grew to care for.

I don’t know how we started to chat, perhaps it was a recommendation from someone on Twitter, perhaps it was our mutual love of all things Callan Mulvey. I honestly don’t know, but the one thing I do know, was that when we started interacting I wasn’t aware Carly had a disability. This I guess comes down to the fact that she doesn’t let it define her. Plus, to be honest, Carly was just ace. Is, just ace. Carly is funny, relevant, spirited, is a fantastic writer and to be honest, often more in tune with the ways of the world than what I am.

Carly Findlay was born with Ichthyosis. In her own words Carly explains what this means:

‘I am red and scaly. My skin gets itchy and sore. My face is the reddest part of my body because it is exposed to the elements. I get infections easily - generally on my legs, but sometimes on my face. Sometimes my infections result in hospital stays where I am bandaged up like a mummy. These infections can make me very sore.’

Carly as a baby

I had the pleasure of meeting Carly in real life, for the second time last month in her home town of Melbourne and we caught up for dinner. I was able to witness first hand people’s reaction to her. I noticed it, I’m not sure if she did. The stares on the Tram, the looks from the less obvious on the city streets. On the flip side, I saw her interact with people in a way, and start conversations with strangers, that I guess I never usually would. And people were attracted to her vibrancy.

Recently Carly featured on Triple J’s Hack program discussing love and dating with a disability, so I decided to ask her a few more questions of my own:

HAVE YOU HAD MANY RELATIONSHIPS? TELL ME ABOUT THEM:

Four I guess, maybe five, but I can’t define the fifth one. Though I loved the fifth more than anyone before.

I guess they've all been problematic - the boys have often had bigger issues of their own then my skin condition. I have been asked if I've settled for people with disabilities because of mine. No, but I have settled for douchebags.
There was the guy who lied about his whole life, two unemployed ones, one addicted to painkillers who had an alter ego, and one extremely troubled man. Charmers! But I saw good in all of them at the time, sometimes beyond. Sometimes I think when people have bad attributes, the good shines through, like a silver lining.

And there have been a lot of unrequited loves. I loved my best friend for about three years. I'd watch the footy, bored out of my brain, just to be with him! He and I shared a moment, but he told me I was "too fucking special" to him to take things further. Devastating.

Sometimes when I have had a boyfriend I feel like letting those who doubted I ever would have one know. "I've found love! I've had sex! And you never thought I would!" hahaha!

WHO IS YOUR IDEAL MAN? WHAT ARE HIS CHARACTERISTICS, BOTH IN PERSONALITY AND PHYSICALITY?

I like a man who will treat me right, is compassionate, understanding and accepting, is intelligent, makes a difference in the world even if it's just a small thing like helping a stranger, and who can have a laugh.

Physically I like a man who is taller than me, nice eyes and big smile. I like a bit of scruff - a beard is cute.

When I was younger I really liked boys with long hair and piercings, but I don't know if those characteristics work well now I'm looking in the 25-35 age bracket! I once had a boyfriend with 11 piercings, a chain that went from his nose to ear rings, and had long plaits with a shaved top of head.

Celebrity ideal men – Callan Mulvey! Sam Johnson. Hamish Blake. Brendan Cowell. Caleb Followill from Kings of Leon

WHAT DO YOU MISS MOST, BEING SINGLE?

Sharing my day with someone.
Being held at night.
Knowing things only "we'd" know.

I KNOW IT PYSICALLY HURTS OFTEN TO BE TOUCHED. INTAMACY IS A BIG PART OF ANY RELATIONSHIP. IS THIS A CHALLENGE?

Being touched doesn't hurt all the time, except when my skin is really sore. I guess the biggest challenge is being comfortable enough to let someone see my whole body. I'm happy with my shape and size - I got some great assets! But I worry about how they'll react to my skin shedding.

That's probably a big factor in me preferring to be intimate with someone I love and trust, and who is understanding, rather than casual encounters. Sometimes I wish I was more inclined to pursue casual encounters, but the emotional effort for me is so great when starting any relationship that I'd rather expend the energy cultivating a more meaningful relationship.

DO YOU FALL FOR WORDS OR LOOKS? A COMBINATION?

Usually it starts with words. I fall for a good vocabulary and articulate writing. I think I had one relationship or whatever it was, based on a year of words (texts, emails, phone calls) and three days physical contact.

Maybe it is because most of my relationships have started with the Internet.

Words are hard though - you only get a 2 dimensional perspective of the person. It is easy to forget they may have values that you don't agree with. And you can also conjure up an ideal.

I think If I have a connection to someone via words, the physical attraction heightens. With Matt*, I hardly took notice of his looks initially, it was all about his thoughts and words. And perhaps because of our connection I thought he was one of the most beautiful looking men I had ever seen.

HAVE YOU CONSIDERED OR TRIED A DATING SITE?

I have tried many, particularly when I moved to Melbourne. I'm in two minds about them whenever I use them. I want men to get to know me for my fabulousness, but even online there's a superficiality, and despite being honest about my skin and writing about all the great things I do in my life, if they don’t like the way I look, or don't like that I have a chronic illness, they won't get to know me. Even despite their profile listing that they want a girl who is different, and they have a kind heart.

Sometimes I think as 'open minded' people say they are, disability and chronic illness can be too confronting for them. It's like being in a very competitive catalogue.

I have met a few of my boyfriends online though. One on a dating site. The others on ICQ and Facebook - and one at the train station (I dumped him on a train too!) It's hard to be honest when communicating with someone from an online dating site without it sounding like I'm pleading for acceptance.

WHAT IS THE WORST THING A GUY HAS EVER SAID TO YOU? THE BEST?

The worst:

"your looks and illness are too much of a burden on me" - an Internet date. Didn't go past the first date.

"didn't I tell you I don't love you anymore" - an ex boyfriend

The best:

My second boyfriend used to be very protective of me and would often be very defensive if people stared or commented. It was chivalrous, but got annoying when he'd be more confrontational than the starer!!

It's also been nice being told "I love you". (of course)

"You are the person I admire the most. Not my favourite rock stars or sports personalities. YOU.
99% of the time I see your posts they are very constructive and mostly of some joy.
I wish I had the courage that you have.

I wish you everything Carly. You are the most beautiful person I have ever met.
When I see the pics of you smiling, it makes me smile."

SO YOU HAVE RECENTLY SPLIT UP FROM SOMEONE. WELL, FOR GOOD AND YOU ARE HURTING. WHAT SONG IS ON REPEAT RIGHT NOW?

I don't know if it's a break up because as I said, this thing has been so hard to define. (Darren Hayes once sang "how do redefine something that never really had a name?") But it is certainly I love/d him more than I have ever felt, and now I feel it's a loss and I feel like I'm grieving.

I discovered I don't have any uplifting songs. They all feel like they've been written about or for me!

Gotye's Somebody I used to know and Adele someone like you have fitting words for the situation.

Darren Hayes - Bloodstained Heart - it feels like he's giving me a hug with this song

Bertie Blackman Television - I can just relate to the lyrics where she wants to be like everyone else, she wants to fit in, be loved.

IF YOU COULD GIVE THE GUYS OUT THERE A WORD OF ADVICE ON HOW TO APPROACH YOU AND/OR ASK YOU OUT, WHAT WOULD IT BE?

Don't be afraid of the way I look. Take a chance and get to know me to find out I'm more than just a red face. And I hope that they can see my beauty - inner and outer. I am a great cook, love music and will make you laugh. And my boobs are pretty good too!

Below has been taken from Carly’s blog which I highly recommend you read. She captures the essence in a situation in such a way, I could only dream of being able to replicate.

‘This week marks one year since I began to love him. I remember my realisation – it was after a text from him, telling me he is glad he started talking to me, it feels so easy, and reconfirmed after an after midnight text following a three hour conversation telling me I am the perfect girl for him. I fell quick, I fell hard. I wonder whether I am destined to keep falling in love this way – through words alone?

A couple of months ago I wrote about wondering whether a year will go by with a day where I wouldn't think of him. The answer is no. There hasn't been one day in these 12 months that I haven't felt something for him. Sadness, frustration, and hope. But mostly love.

Just after I wrote that piece, we became in contact more than we've ever been. It has been one of the good things to come out of a very bad situation. Long emails and texts almost each day, and one call. The contact is, to an extent, more positive. I'm comfortable talking about things with him that I'd never with somebody else.

I feel a different kind of love for him now. It is more realistic due to the difference and distance between us. I feel it's evolved from idealism and me wanting to be in a relationship, to lustful, to heartbroken... and now it's this type of caring, understanding, non judgmental, fully trusting love on my part. It's the kind of love I hope to feel growing old with someone. Only I won't with him. It's a nostalgic love. I feel more sad than happy about it, especially when he told me he wishes he could have our time again.

I don't expect love from him in return. Though in the past I've hoped for it, I've never expected it. Just loving him is enough for me. Is that unhealthy? To settle for unrequited love?

This thing. It's based on words and memories alone. And need. Mutual need. Unconventional love. I sort of want to set him free from my heart. He deserves this love from somebody closer to him, and so do I. And then I get sad at the thought of him no longer needing me.

A month ago I went to see a counsellor. The counsellor asked whether I loved him.
I said yes.
The counsellor asked whether I told him that I loved him.
Only once in person. A few times recently in text, to remind him of his worth to me. But I don't want to push it. I don't want to ruin things. Maybe he knows my love for him through my loyalty.
I have every right to tell him I love him, the counsellor told me, for I have earned my stripes.

I've earned my stripes. I love him.’

I find the above a beautiful piece. Settling for unrequited love? You deserve so much more than that Carly.

Thank you Carly, you are a simply wonderful.

WHAT TO REALLY EXPECT

2011-09-11T23:00:00.000+10:00

I remember being given a copy of ‘What to Expect When You’re Expecting’ when I was first pregnant. On the front cover, sat a serene woman in sensible shoes, rocking away in her wooden rocking chair with a fairly sceptical look on her face. Clearly she’d already read what was going on inside, i.e the very vanilla, straight laced version of what was actually going to happen when she got pregnant, had a child and then raised said child (followed up in the aptly titled ‘What to Expect in your first Year’ and ‘What to Expect in the Toddler Years’. I can save you forty bucks. Just expect your life to change. Massively.

But here are a few more expectations I personally have found to be true:

EXPECT LABOUR TO HURT – A LOT

Pinch that soft fleshy bit under your arm. Hard. Harder. Feel that? Hurt? That doesn’t even come close to the absolute agony that is labour. In fact, go outside, put your foot under a 4WD tyre and ask someone will very few scruples to reverse over it a couple of times. Painful? Nope, still not even close. Shit out a watermelon. Yeah, that comes kinda close.

EXPECT TO NEVER SLEEP IN. EVER AGAIN

Look, just think of those last uncomfortable months of sleeping whilst pregnant as training. Training for the Tired Olympics. Believe me, your training will be so intensive you’ll be almost a dead cert for the Gold medal. Expect to never sleep in past 6am ever again. Oh, wait, I take that back, *just* when your body is used to waking up at that time and can no longer physically break the 7am barrier, your child will start to sleep in. Until midday. This will enrage you.

EXPECT TO BE EMBARRASSED IN PUBLIC

“Mum, why is there a snake coming out of your bottom?” I’ll set the scene. Public toilet at some brightly lit Megaplex in the burbs. Me, in sudden need of a toilet and believe me, if it could wait until I was in my own home, it would have. The 3 year old, standing in front of me while I try to efficiently do as nature intends. He, when not trying to escape under the door, is peering into the toilet and in his best big boy voice, alerting my stable mates that I am doing a massive shit.

EXPECT TO NEVER SEE THE BOTTOM OF YOUR LAUNDRY HAMPER. EVER AGAIN

You know, if someone was smart, they’d make a laundry hamper with a big picture of your celebrity free pass at the bottom. Give you some incentive to make your way down there. Mine would be Jason Bateman or Mark Ruffalo. If someone was doubly smart, they would make it your husband’s Free Pass. Therefore I would find Natalie Portman at the bottom of ours.

EXPECT TO NOT HAVE AN ORGASM DURING CHILDBIRTH

I know, I’m totally bursting your bubble right? Oh, but if you do happen to reach the Big O during birth, congratufuckinglations, you’ve just won the equivalent of OzLotto. I mean, I don’t think I even orgasmed when I conceived, let alone when my vagina was being ripped apart.

EXPECT TO FEEL GUILT AT CODE RED LEVELS

Mother s guilt really needs its own postcode. Are we working too much, feeding them too little, not enough? Allowing them too much screen time? Are they eating enough dirt? Too much? It’s guilt central and we are our own harshest critics.

EXPECT TO BECOME THE MASTER OF EMPTY THREATS

You will need to find your currency when it comes to kids and threats. ‘Stop it or you go to your room’ rarely cuts it. 'So freaking what, all my toys are in my room, do better Mum.' So you have to find what they love the most and threaten to take it away from them. More often than not, these are empty threats. I mean you want to go to Dreamworld just as much as they do, but you can’t let them know that.

Expect to lose your train of thought. Which has just happened to me right now.

Feel free to add your own advice to the list....

AND THE AWARD FOR SHITTEST WIFE IN THE WORLD GOES TO.....

2011-09-04T08:00:00.000+10:00

This is a total rewind of last years Fathers Day Post. This year, I will be up and cooking pancakes. Or toast. Or going out and breaking no less than 15 traffic rules to make the 10:30 breakfast cut off at Maccas. Either way, I will feed him this year. I also spent ten bucks on a card that makes a farting sound when you pull its cardboard finger. I've outdone myself this year. Happy Fathers Day to all you dads out there!

My effort in 2010 went like this:

My blog was conspicuously absent from Fathers Day platitudes this year. Not because I don’t think my husband is an ace father, I do and he is, but quite simply, when the day rolled around, I was holed up in bed, unable to move. Now before you start to feel sorry for me, stop. I don’t deserve your sympathy. No you should be receiving me with scorn in your heart and with your lips twisted in distaste.   It was self-inflicted.

See, due to sucking back quite a few (mixed) beverages the day before, I was, well, shall we say, enduring quite the self-inflicted dehydration event that consisted of epic head pounding headaches and quite a few rides on the porcelain bus. Yes, I had a hangover. In my defence, we started drinking at a family gathering at 12pm on the Saturday and then continued on to a 40th where the last thing I remember was seeing a crowd surfing geriatric blow up doll.   I think my problem was quantity. Ya think? Phil imbibed equal amounts, but clearly, he’s not a girl, both literally and figuratively and can semi-function the next day. God I miss my twenties on days like that.

So, my dear husband, the father of my three children, got up and cooked not only himself, but his children pancakes on Fathers day.   There was a five minute window where I managed to remove myself from bed and hand him a SuperDad Toblerone Chocolate bar and an obligatory coffee mug with a suitably hilarious Dad cliché emblazoned across the front. Then the window shut and it was back to bed for me.

My lowest point however, was when I surfaced around three hours later to an empty house.   I sucked down some more water and Panadol, sat down on the couch and thought to myself ‘Oh he must have taken them out for lunch, or ice-cream or to the park.’ Way. Off. Base.

I heard the car pull up. I heard, what appeared to be a heated debate between 4yo and 9yo about whether the TMNT was called Michelangelo or Mikey. I heard Maddie scream at both of them to 'BE QUIET!!!!' Oh dear. That’s when I heard the rustle. The rustle of grocery bags.

Yes my friends, my husband, on fathers day, had wrangled all three children into Coles at the local megaplex AND taken them to the foodcourt. I know this because he mentioned 'It was really quiet in the foodcourt at lunchtime.' I gently reminded him that most families were probably ensconced in fathers day love-ins at trendy restaurants, hence the downturn at Maccas.

Here’s the thing though, shoe on the other foot i.e. should that have been me on Mothers Day; I would have been royally ticked off. And I know how selfish that sounds, believe me, no one was more pissed at me, than me, but it’s the truth. But not once did he complain.

I at least tried to make amends. I took Hurricane Jack and we picked up pasta for dinner. I cleaned up, I made lunches, I dealt with arsenic hour solo and sent him out to his shed to do bloke in shed stuff. In short I tried to pack a day’s worth of being a proper wife into three short hours.

It’s overdue, I suck and you are awesome and even though you still don’t know you have an active Facebook account and more than likely will never read this, you’re a top dad and I love you to bits.

WHY SO SERIOUS?

2011-09-02T07:07:00.001+10:00

Driving the 11yo to school today I noticed another family walking along the street heading to the same destination. They were a little family with Mum, Dad, child in stroller & school aged child around, say, 7. I was waiting in the (godforsaken) traffic and my attention was caught by the 7yo who was turbo-ing up the grass hill and crawling on her knees above her parents. Immediately I thought ‘No! Dirty knees, dirty uniform, she needs to be stopped, what are you people doing?!’

Meanwhile, Maddison the 11 year old, was absolutely murdering Papa Don’t Preach beside me in the passenger seat, earphones tightly in her ears, singing with abandon. I turned to her and with my pointer finger, indicated in an anti-clockwise circular motion to turn that shit down. I meant her singing volume. She did so, reluctantly.

I looked back at the climber and her family who had now overtaken my crawling car. The complete joy on the little girls face when she rolled down the hill gave me pause for thought. Was I just a spoilsport? Did it matter if she had a bit of dirt on her knees? Did it matter that Mad was singing a bit too loud and could possibly make my ears bleed? Especially when she was doing so with such unselfconsciousness? Was I just being a big old wet blanket?

Yes.

Welcome to killjoy city people. Population: Me. When did I become this way. When did I start to care more about the practicalities of a situation and not enjoy it for what it essentially was, fun?

As a child I caught a lot of buses. This was mainly due to the fact that we only owned a car that was drivable sporadically as Dad was either a) pissed b) broke or c) pissed. As I fancied myself quite the singer, it was quite common for me to sit on a seat in a bus and sing, in my loudest voice, any song I liked at the time. This was the 80’s, so there I was, belting out a bit of ‘Hello, is it me you’re looking for’ when a teenager sitting in front of me turned around and told me to ‘Be quiet!’ Or he could have said ‘Shut the Fuck up’, I’ve blocked it out. But I do know from that day on I was less of an extrovert. I didn’t dance like no one was watching because there was always someone that was, and they were only all too happy to tell me I looked like a dickhead.

I was the one who was always begging her brother to stop mucking around or he’d get hurt or dobbing to avoid conflict. In short, I didn’t relax.

So now, I’m going to make a conscious effort to let my kids be kids. Stop sweating the small stuff. Let them wrestle on the floor. Not stress when they throw a baseball at to me with very little warning. Play the music a bit too loud. Live a little. Or at least a little bit bit more.

WHY DO YOU DO

2011-08-29T00:02:00.002+10:00

Only recently a fairly big deal of a person asked me why I started blogging. And I really didn’t have a good answer. Such is my reputation for being woefully unprepared, I hoped she'd think my answer of ‘I was sick of playing spider solitaire’ was cute instead of lazy but her face gave her away. Wrong answer. So I decided to think about it in case there was a next time.

So Now What? was born from reading a Blog from a lady I knew in real life. Her posts illustrated a seemingly perfect life. Her as a regular Holly Homemaker with perfect offspring. According to her regular updates, she was spending her days reading poetry to her children upon rising, making gluten free goulash for lunch then spinning organic cotton on her multi-spool spinning frame while her perfect offspring napped for at least two hours. She of course set aside this free time to write to her many African Sponsor children about her quest for world peace.

Meanwhile, in reality, she was setting her children up in front of ABC2 with a big bowl of Cocoa Pops and flopping back into bed to watch a Jersey Shore marathon. It was hypocrisy at its finest . And it bugged me. So I started my own blog, perhaps almost in retaliation.

It also felt like I had a lot of stories to tell at the time. A lot of shit was going down in my life. Not always good stuff, but with 3 children, a money pit, life as a working mother, good friends, bad friends, sickness and a husband who although sweet was often somewhat unpredictable, the words practically wrote themselves.

And when you look at it, there are over 250 posts on here now, averaging 800 words a post. That’s wait, I have to pull out the mad technology that is my computer calculator, 200,000 words. That’s two books! Although I’m not sure there is a market for a book about Cheese Toast, Bedazzlers and geriatric blow up dolls. But I’m happy to be proven wrong.

Why did you start writing blogs or reading them for that matter?

Blog post in the making. Drinking with my sisters-in-law

DON'T FORGET YOUR CRACK PIPE

2011-08-24T19:40:00.000+10:00

We are renovating. You know that.

What you don’t know is that we have progressed a little. See, Phil, my lovely, wonderful and sometimes undervalued husband (read about that here) has had a bit of a slack new financial year.

Plumbing, construction in general is facing a bit of tough time. Two years ago, he had more work than he could poke a plunger at (do you like what I did there?), but right now, not so much. Anyhoo, as such, he’s had a few days to work exclusively on our own home and I am pleased to tell you – we no longer have an asbestos fence. I know right! One more deadly poison taken out of the equation. What a win for our children’s health.

Now, up until roughly three weeks ago, I was working from the dining room table. Did I mention our dining room would be more appropriate in a Barbie Townhouse? All too often, I found chick peas in my notebooks and chicken korma jammed in the printer. The situation was less than ideal.

But, then, one bright day in August, we got a new bathroom and laundry, which made way for a study nook where the old laundry used to be. And by jingo, lookey here, I have found my happy place. It’s nothing more than a long bench and a chair, but it’s mine and I am no longer a nomad in my own home.

Study Nook & Jack using his best table manners.

All we have left to do now is:

Patch Internal Walls

Unfortunately our walls are about 50 years old and cracked to the shit. Before we moved in, every single one of them was wallpapered. And not in a good way. So eager to start, I ripped it off every single wall. Three years later, it’s like time stood still. I haven’t hung a photo in my house in over 3 years. I realise this is a total first world problem, but it saddens me none-the-less.

Jack showing you the crap walls. Doing his best Captain Hook Impression.

Paint Internal Walls

Remember, about ten years ago, it was all the rage to internally paint your house in bright blues and yellows? The beach theme I think it was. Well we got right into that shitful trend. In fact, we went one better and used blue and yellow SUEDE effects paint. Pretty much impossible to paint over that bad boy. Looking back, it would have been like living in a freaking day care centre. So, from that we’ve learnt, less is more. Neutral is my new buzz word.

Back Deck

Right now, we have a culmination of three different, 1970 inspired slippery as all fuck, patterned brown tiles leading onto concrete in our back yard. Further to this, as we have just ripped out a concrete garden/jungle, we have a lot of dirt. Whilst the two boys just love getting into this each afternoon and ending up as mud men, we intend to put a timber deck out and create an urban oasis. Or at least stop the kids splitting their heads open each time they run out the back door.

Don't let the cute kid and dog distract you, killer slippery tiles alert.

A new kitchen.

You know what, I seriously think Phil and I sat down and smoked a big crack pipe the day we bought this house. It is the only reason I can feasibly come up with as to why we didn’t see how useless this kitchen would be for a family of 5. Or a family of 1 for that matter.

Not only is it tiny, there is zero bench space. Further to this, there is hardly any cupboard space and more often than not, someone cops an elbow to the face if they attempt to enter when it is being utilised. I know I exaggerate and I wish this time, I was. It’s also starting to fall apart. Something needs to be done before we try to sell it. Either that or we will have to force-feed people joints at the door when they rock up for an Open for Inspection.

The kitchen is even sending Sam bananas.

A new driveway.

Bit of concrete. I have nothing funny to insert here. It genuinely is, just fancier concrete than the revolting stuff that is out there now.

Right, all that needs to be done now is a) work to make money to pay for the above, b) find time in between working at our normal jobs, to finish it and c) agree with each other on the details. Guess which bit is going to be the toughest?

And then, after all that, you know what we will do? The same thing we’ve done every other time we’ve renovated the bejesus out of a house. Sell it. And move on. Will we renovate again? To this extent? Ooooh, let me think, did I enjoy living with mould, asbestos, lead paint and one toilet to share between five? Let’s just say, I’d rather paper cut my own eyeballs with a ream of Reflex than attempt this again, so that’s a no.

SAY WHAT NOW?

2011-08-22T22:18:00.001+10:00

There were words and phrases we used growing up that don’t really get a run these days. Well not enough. Ace, tops, rad, poxy, unreal, dead set, Skeg, Webber, spewing, bummed and, for those of you in Victoria, grouse - just to mention a few. The 8o’s weren’t big on making things complicated. We were too busy crimping our hair, sourcing some sweet leg warmers and being dazzled by Max Headroom.

Lately though, I’ve heard some words and phrases bandied about that make me feel like I’m 100 years old because I don’t know what they mean. I mean, when did I become uncool? When did these kids overtake me? I recently had the privilege of learning what an actual champagne Shower is. And it's not this:

Colour me informed. I unfortunately had to do this at work and am really hoping I don’t have to explain it to my boss. Hi Nadia *waves*. I’ve been learning acronyms against my will and equally, using them when space permits me no other option. LMFAO, LOL, IDK.

So, with that in mind, surely all I need is a little up skilling? A little further education in the 2011 way of speak? So here, thanks to the brilliance that is the internet, I have the following to share. I dare you to throw a few into conversations today:

BEEF WALK: Going outside or away from the group in order to fart with less consequence

COCKBLOCALYPSE: To go out to a bar and get cockblocked SO BADLY it is like the end of the world as you know it.

JFC: Acronym for Jesus Fucking Christ.

DIRTY PIRATE HOOKER: A fun and nice way of calling someone an extremely dirty whore. (Oh, there is a “fun” way to do this. Huh?)

GOOGLEHEIMERS: The condition where you think of something you want to Google but by the time you get to your computer or open the tab, you have forgotten what it was.

NOMONYM: When you eat something and it tastes like something else. Things often taste like chicken.

HANGRY: When you are so hungry that your lack of food causes you to become hungry, frustrated or both. We used to call this Fungry. (Fucking hungry – much better IMO) Oh, IMO means In my opinion.

TRAFFUCK: Peak hour traffic or any traffic that slows you down.

BOREGASM: The result of or act of reaching the apex or climax of boredom; Filling one’s capacity for boredom to the extreme boundary.

FO’ SHIZZLE MA NIZZLE: is a bastardisation of “fo’ sheezy mah neezy” which is a bastardisation of “for sure mah nigga” which is a bastardisation of “I concur with you whole heartedly my African American brother”.

JIGGA: Someone who has a way with the ladies i.e. a Gigolo.

WITAF: What in the Actual fuck? I just made that one up, but I’m going to get it happening.

Now here’s one from back in the day. One, admittedly I only learnt a couple of months ago thanks to my lovely workmate – Gusset Typing. Google it.

Please update me with any more. I'm all about learning if nothing else.

MESSAGE RECEIVED

2011-08-14T23:42:00.000+10:00

I didn’t pick up my best friends call last Thursday, even though she rang twice in the space of 10 minutes. This is nothing new. She does it to me, I do it to her, figuring, as per usual, it would just be something trivial. It’s pretty standard that we both call each other at inopportune times for nothing in particular. I was at work. I was busy and I didn’t bother listening to the message she left me straight away. In fact, I only listened to her message later that night to get to another one I thought would be important. It wasn’t, but hers couldn’t have been more so.

Her thirteen month old daughter was at the Mater Children’s hospital having micro surgery on her teeny tiny thumb in an attempt to save it. It had been basically severed off when she attempted to pick up a piece of shattered glass.

But when I did eventually listen to the message, Jodi, my friend, still didn’t actually tell me what had happened. The message was fast and it was clear that she was upset and anxious. She was in shock but in auto-pilot mode which is, from my experience, the brace position we all take as parents when something truly awful happens to our children. No, see, the silly thing was, the message was an apology to me. Huh?

It was hard to interpret her words at times, but basically she was trying to stress that she didn’t think she had been around enough when my children were in hospital. She was leaving this message, pacing the hospital corridor while her husband cradled her daughter. I knew that feeling and I certainly didn’t want her feeling any extra irrational guilt for being a shit friend. Because she wasn’t. To the contrary, I always felt well supported and even more importantly, like I could count on my close friends and family when something spectacularly awful had gone down. I should be the one apologising.

And you know, had Jodi come around the corner 5 seconds earlier, gorgeous little Georgia would know for sure that she’d be able to make the AOK signal with her hand when she grows up. But she didn’t. And that's life.

Our own examples:

Maddison Aged 2: Got her foot broken by a kid at Sizzler. This kid got up on the railing, jumped down and drove his knee down into her foot WWF style. Two broken bones and 6 weeks in a cast.

Sam Aged 1.5: RSV – In for three nights

Same Aged 2: Intussusception (when the bowel telescopes back in on itself) Scary as shit to watch. Scarier when they find it hard to diagnose.

Sam Aged 2.5: Hernia operation . In for a week

Sam Aged 3: Severe Influenza A. Lumbar Puncture. Weeks in hospital

Jack Aged: 3 Fell from his father’s shoulders and broke both is wrists and busted his face.

Sam Aged 7: Fell off the monkey bars, totally broke and disconnected his upper and low arms. Surgery to insert wires. Wires got infected (100:1 odds) and had to spend another week in hospital on heavy duty antibiotics. Further surgery to remove wires.

So that’s it. I think. There may have been other nights we rushed them to the ER that don’t stand out. Oh, once we had Jack taken to the hospital in the Ambulance because he couldn’t breathe. Equally tops.

And I guess it all comes down to the fact that to get through life unscathed and to never see the inside of a hospital for anyone is rare. To blame ourselves for not identifying certain symptoms in time, or to beat ourselves up for not avoiding the day to day accidents is just useless. Phil still finds it hard to accept that Jack fell from his shoulders on his watch. And I'm pretty sure he's never forgiven himself no matter how much I try and make him see otherwise.

But Jodi, you have done a wonderful job of not only being my friend, but also being there when I have needed you. You are an outstanding mother and Jodi, be kind to yourself, it’s all going to be okay. And I promise to pick up every call in the future. x

Jodi, myself and Bonnie. Best friends a gal could have. (and you too Bron)

SO LONG, FAREWELL, GOOD RIDDANCE

2011-08-11T22:18:00.010+10:00

So the fuckstick neighbours have moved out. And I didn’t even realise.

If only they had applied such stealth to the way they lived their lives.

Let’s call the couple that used to to be our neighbours, Dazza and Shazza. Dazza and Shazza moved into the high-set house next door, around a year ago. They were a young couple in their very early 20’s and unfortunately we didn’t have the pleasure of getting to know them very well. This is more than likely due to our first interaction.

Daz and Shaz had a “house-warming” party. Or a riot. You be the judge. From my experience, parties usually end somewhere at worst, in the early hours of the morning. Oh no, this was a 24 hour event chock full of massive mufflered cars coming and going, unnecessary screaming and boys wearing hats perpendicular to their skulls. The ones you just want to slap right off.

Next day when they were still recreating the night before’s hilarity on their veranda, my husband walked on over and politely said “That’s not going to happen again is it?” half asking but mostly instructing. Shazza shook her head and implored that it was a one off. Shazza is clearly a bit shit at maths because they had no less than 15 events Corey Worthington would be proud to endorse in the following 6 months.

I became Mrs Mangel on a rampage. I found out which agency managed the house, I wrote to the owners direct, I called the cops (who, by the way, told us that unless someone was being hurt, there was nothing they could do). The agent told me they were living cleanly and she had never heard a party. Of course not dickhead! Unless you are doing drivebys at 4am, there's nothing to see!

It got to the point where I was so stressed out, I was imagining ways to make their lives a living hell to reciprocate the atrocious way they were treating our neighbourhood. One night I even did a walk-by egging. Except I threw the egg into the yard and it didn’t break. It just sat there. So the next day they no doubt woke up, walked down the stairs and wondered how in the fuck a whole egg had gotten into their front yard. Passive Aggressiveness is my speciality. Clandestine egging is not.

Amazingly enough they settled down one Sunday morning after being kept up all night listening to them yell and talk utter shit, I got out the ultimate weapon, Hot Potato by the wiggles. I played it full bore, directed at their open windows on repeat. And then we went out for the day.

So to be honest it kind of saddens me because they were just beginning to get the idea of how to be normal members of society and respect their neighbours. Please powers that be, just send us a normal family next time. One where I don’t have go Sunny Queen on their arse.

HOW'S THE SERENITY

2011-08-07T20:25:00.000+10:00

All I really wanted was a nice Sunday out.

Bit of kicking a ball around a park followed by a nice lunch. Preferably in a restaurant where we could fob the kids off to a supervised play area and then sit quietly in the beautiful sunshine, having a few quiet Sunday beverages watching the world go by. Was. Never. Going. To. Happen.

See Jack the 4 year old, received some 2nd hand football boots from our friends just over two weeks ago. For two solid weeks, those shoes have only left his feet when it was time to sleep. And even then, he was reluctant to part with them. He has stood on my exposed fingers and toes with the studs no less than five times. So many expletives. So, so many expletives. So with that we figured we should take him and his boots down the local oval and use them for what they were intended, kicking a football.

So promising

At around 11am, we all got ready to leave the house and head out. Oh wait, the receptacle of bad attitude, aka Maddison the 11 year old, was still in bed asleep. Sleeping off a big night of doing fuck all it seemed. I shotgunned not to be the one to wake her and retreated to the car and waited for her to appear. She appeared at my window five minutes later, dressed for what I imagined you would wear to the apocalypse. Our conversation went like this:

HER: Can’t I stay here?

ME: No

HER: Why not?! I don’t want to go to the stupid football ground.

ME: Because

HER: We always do what they want to do, never what *I* want to

ME: Well what do you want to do?

HER: I don’t know. Nothing.

ME: Get in the car.

We turned up to the football ground and exploded out of the car as only a family of 5 jam packed into a ridiculously small car can, and made our way over to the oval.

This is when Maddison thought it would be a top idea to position herself right under the goalposts. Right where Jack was making it his mission to kick the ball over said goalposts. We told her to move, she chose to ignore us. Two balls to the head later, she still refused to move but was sobbing silently.

Sam was wandering around constantly returning to lament on the litter situation, often referring to it as a “wasteland” and surely a sign of the “end of days”.

As for Jack, the reason we were even down at this godforsaken oval? Well he’d lost his shit almost immediately. We were either kicking it too high, too low, too fast, too slow. There was no pleasing him. He did manage to kick it over the goalposts twice. 2 times out of about 54 attempts meant 52 meltdowns.

By the time he’d got himself wedged in the tree he had climbed in a fit of rage, we called time on the Morley football adventure. Time to activate part B – relaxing lunch. Oh, but not before Jack coat-hangered himself on the rope he failed to see on the ovals perimeter.

I’ll admit at this point I was ready to throw in the towel, go home and commence drinking. Screw a nice steak; we had cheese tubes in the cupboard and all manner of alcoholic selections atop the fridge. But we soldiered on, determined we would have a nice day out. Damn it.

For some unknown reason we decided to try somewhere we’d heard about yet never actually been. It was in a dodgy area, yet people were raving and we were a family wearing football shoes and thongs, we were hardly in a position to judge.

11 year old Maddie was still moaning over god knows what, peeping up from her angsty Vampire book every so often to shoot me daggers. The two boys had settled in nicely to a game of 'Catch the Cop' which I assume is reverse Cops and Robbers in the playground I had surreptitiously swept for used needles and Phil and I sat down in the sunshine as planned.

Then we were asked to leave. Well leave the sunshine. Apparently only people smoking could sit in the sweet area where you could actually keep an eye on your children. As we attempted to move ourselves, Phil accidently knocked his beer and in turn, gave Jack a bath in Peroni. Cue the screaming. Not because he was soaked in beer, but because now he’d have to get “naked!”

We settled into more appropriate seats and I started reading the Sunday paper. As talk turned to the Ekka (Brisbane’s Royal show), Phil declared we were going to go this year. News to me as a) he usually fucking hates the Ekka and b) I don’t even have a b. I was thrown. Immediately the kids went nuts scouring the show bag guide. Maddie decided Sam would be getting the Mega Moron bag which of course Sam took umbrage at and the name calling commenced. Jack fell from his chair after being repeatedly asked to sit still and the other two had upped the ante and started a slapping war.

I was mopping up beer, yell whispering death threats under my breath and mechanically chewing what was really good steak. I looked at Phil, he at me and I shook my head. I turned serenely to my three ~~animals~~ children and quietly told them that there would be no more Sunday Lunches and there would definitely not be a trip to the Ekka. I also may have said they were a bunch of ingrates. At this point all three started to cry. Sunday bloody Sunday.

Ahh, how’s the serenity?

WHERE WERE YOU WHEN...

2011-08-04T00:43:00.005+10:00

As I sit here and write this, there is a situation unfolding. Apparently an 18 year old girl in Mosman, Sydney has had an explosives collar attached to her neck along with a reported ransom note. There is a lot of speculation and a lot of unconfirmed stories floating around. I’m watching ABC 24 waiting for a news conference to receive the official news. It’s late, I’ve got to have the 11 year old at school by 7:30 to compete in regional shot-put (go my big girl) but I can’t go to bed. Because I need to know what’s going on. I am really hoping the fact that not a whole lot of attention and exposure is being given to the situation on commercial TV means it won’t be as bad it appears. I'm really hoping it's not going to turn into one of those moments I remember where I was “when”.

Because there are only so many moments, in hindsight, that you will remember exactly where you were “when”.

For example:

9/11 I was at home. Pregnant. In fact, my husband had gotten up that morning, watched a lot of it in real time but FAILED TO WAKE ME UP. I guess perhaps he didn’t want to wake me, but when I did eventually get up and realised ABC kids wasn't even on, I figured some heavy shit was going down. Playschool stops for no man. I flicked from channel to channel and it didn’t take me long to comprehend that what I was witnessing wasn’t a bad Bruce Willis movie, but actual real life planes slamming into actual real life buildings. The world changed that day. And we all remember where we were when we heard or saw the news.

The Day Diana died. Love, hate, ambivalence, whatever it is you feel towards The Royal Family, you would still remember where you were when you heard the news that Diana had been killed in a car crash. It was a Saturday morning here in Australia. I was at work in a real estate agency bumming around, reading the paper and pretending to look busy. We didn’t have internet back then and we certainly didn’t have very accurate, up to the minute news like we do today. I heard it on the radio news, rang my then boyfriend and mulled it over in the office until we had the news confirmed. It shocked me and I couldn’t even explain why. I also remember that we were in a hotel room the night of her funeral and instead of going out like we had planned, we stayed in and witnessed the prolific scene where her sons walked behind the card that was atop her funeral procession with the simple word “Mummy”.

Winning the America’s Cup. I was in grade 3 and vividly remember the famous Bob Hawke line about bums and bosses. What I remember more was that my dad was home that morning, putting off going to work to watch the unfolding events. He was so happy that morning. Everyone was. I was probably just happy I was allowed to say bum and get away with it.

Port Arthur. I’ve written about this before. We were at a friend’s house having a BBQ and as we all slowly but surely made our way inside to gather around the television, it was so horribly obvious that we would never be as innocent as we were when we had arrived that day.

Stuart Diver rescue. We were away, staying in Iluka. I had gone to pick up our Chinese from the one and only Iluka Bowls Club when on the little TV on the wall, we saw him being stretchered out. I remember bawling my eyes out surrounded by people waiting for their takeaway. There's something kind of beautiful sharing an emotional moment like that with complete strangers.

Socceroos’s making it into the world cup. We were sitting in bed, flicking around channels and for some reason stayed on SBS and watched the final kick and subsequent shirt over the head, running around goosebump moment.

You so silly Aloisi. Don't stop.

Oh, and it’s 12pm and they have just announced that the 18 year old is safe and sound. Very happy to say this won’t be one of those moments I'll remember forever.

So where were you “when”?

RIDIN SOLO

2011-07-27T00:30:00.003+10:00

“STOP right there Jack. You need to finish your Pepsi max before you hop into bed. And you are certainly NOT taking those Tim Tams in there with you either!” Those actual words came out of my mouth on a Monday night at 8:30pm. The one just gone actually. Rock bottom solo parenting, I believe I have just found your definition.

My only excuse, and it’s not even a valid one, is that I’ve been solo parenting for a week or so due to my husband working interstate. Now, I myself come from a single parent family, you would think I would be the first to appreciate what’s involved here, but I just had no. freaking. Idea. Granted my mother didn’t work and didn’t have to fight the logistics of getting three children to three separate learning institutions every morning and then retrieve them each evening, with the very real threat of shitty traffic and the setting sun putting her in the precarious position of being a no show as the lights were being turned off, but she certainly knew what it was to have no one to fall back upon.

So yes, back to Monday night. I managed to collect all three before they turned the lights off at their respective care and as I barrelled through the hideous traffic, my mind wandered to the mince sitting in the fridge and just knew my kids would be gnawing through my tibia if they had to wait for spaghetti that night. I made an executive decision; shite night was getting a new timeslot - Mondays. KFC loomed on the horizon.

And here’s a stark admission, my husband does a shitload around the house. This is starting to become startlingly evident the longer the week goes on. Right now, I can honestly say that as I sit here and type this in my lounge room, it looks as if someone has removed the roof while I’ve been at work today and shat directly in the middle of my house. And even though I tidied up, it is becoming increasingly apparent, he just has a natural talent to do this better than me. There are stray jumpers dropped where they were removed, upended empty plastic cups left to languish on the coffee table, Wii games strewn in front of the TV. I’m guessing these are usually taken care of by him before I return home from work in the evening. Pretty sure he would have found and turfed this mornings porridge before Jack had the chance to polish off the 12 hour old remains as well.

Another thing he must be ~~anal~~ fastidious about is returning the DVD’s to the Video store on time. Because right now, the Mean Girls 2 DVD cover is sitting on the Dining table sans disc. We rented this last Friday night. It is now 4 days overdue and the disc is AWOL. This is something my husband revels in, finding missing shit.

He makes it his mission and is ALWAYS successful. Me, well I have no god damn idea where it is. I have torn this place apart and it is still MIA. I fear we about to topple our $98 late fee record of Christmas 2009.

The hardest thing is that there is no one to fob to. I’m it. I’m the responsible adult in this family. The go-to person. And as much as I guess you’d say I’m the stronger personality in our relationship, I’m beginning to realise, he’s the stronger person. He’s just a quiet achiever.

I do notice a difference in the washing and the food consumption however. That shit is totally under control. As he changes THREE times a day and eats enough food to feed three armies, there is a definite shift in those areas.

And mine is only a temporary position. I have massive respect for any parent out there doing the solo parenting thing full time. Both time wise and financially, it would kick your arse. I know I joke, but I truly do respect you and your efforts.

I will be most happy to see his smiling, exhausted face this Thursday. And then I’ll kiss him goodbye Friday morning and hand over the reins as we tag team and I fly out to Melbourne for 3 days. And it will be his turn to ride solo. He will find that DVD, that much I can be sure of.

BOOK BOOK

2011-07-19T06:00:00.003+10:00

Maybe everyone has a book inside of them. Perhaps it’s just sitting there, waiting patiently for the perfect time to emerge. Alternatively it might be desperately trying to fight its way out of your head where it has been simmering for far too long.

I have always thought I had some kind of story to tell. In fact, during a particularly boring tax off-season I sat at my desk and wrote a movie script. The idea, I think, is still relevant, the way in which it was written, not so much. In hindsight, it was evident I was 21 and listening to *a lot* of Jeff Buckley at the time. The dialogue is angsty, flowery and it’s pretty clear I was going a little too Emo on myself.

And speaking with a lot of writers, it seems the way in which people excise their ideas from their minds and put them into a story on paper (or word document) varies greatly. Some just write with no real plan, others design each chapter, each plot line and each character flaw down to the last detail.

Karen Andrews, Author and Publisher (@miscmum on Twitter) said she loves this quote from Thomas Keneally “Don’t get it right, get it WRITTEN.” True statement.

Many admitted to half finished manuscripts languishing in their bedside table. Abandoned half way through due to a number of reasons. They got bored, it was too hard, life got too busy.

Like any world class procrastinator, I have a million excuses as to why I haven’t finished anything. My big one is finding time. Although any of you who know me through Twitter could argue that if I stopped dicking around on there so much, I’d have plenty of time. I do wonder though how other writers with small children that presumably reside in the same house as them, get a book written. Do they tie them down and force feed them Nanny McPhee on high rotation?

For mine, I'm usually breaking up UFC matches on the lounge room floor or feeding my continuously hungry children (note to self, worm them). I no sooner sit down, open a document and I have to get up again and the moment is lost. Although: admission, for the first six months of this year, I have had every Wednesday off from work and completely child free. Alone. Free to do with as I pleased. Ideally this was when I was going to write a substantial chunk of something. So how much writing did I do? Oh, none. How many Wednesdays did I spend meeting my friends and catching up? Oh, loads, in fact, the entire amount.

I also get caught up in the fact that my grammar needs a lot of work. That I don't know the process. Query letters, Agents, Publishers, editing, re-writes. Stupid really when you need to have written a book to be worried about the above in the first place.

Another ~~excuse~~ hurdle I find that personally slows me down is that I become overwhelmed. I walk into a book store and am immediately in awe of the talent on display. So many amazing books and writers. That have probably already told my story. And have done a better job. Not being self deprecating, just being real. And of course I’m well aware of the shitty statistics for manuscripts written vs. books published. That a great deal of super talented writers will never be published. It’s really easy to be self defeating before you even start.

I have started a book. It’s been on the go since I came back from a brief trip to Melbourne about 5 years ago. I woke up one morning not long after I returned, hopped onto my computer and just started punching out words. In hindsight, most of it was complete shit but it was a jumping off point. A start. And I’ll just keep building around it. Write what you know huh?

Write what you know. This poor Dinosaur sure did.

So, if you’ve got any advice I’d love to hear it.

Should I set myself a word count each day, each week? Should I plan it out more or just go with where ever my imagination takes me. Should I be realistic and just do some goddamn housework? (Husband nodding furiously in the background). Should others read what I have written early on in, just to make sure I am on the right track and it’s not complete horseshit?

MINIMISE ME

2011-07-14T00:17:00.006+10:00

I have finally found out what I was put on this earth to do. Chuck shit out. No, really, I am exceptionally good at it. Nearly as good as obtaining and hoarding copious amounts of shit in the first place.

See, more than 3 years after we intended, we are actually going to blow this pop stand. Well, that’s the plan. So, we have started to cull in anticipation of the big move.

And minimalism is my new mantra. I have been ruthless. What? You want to take pots and pans? You know that can only lead to cooking right? Because that’s what starts to happen when you start on the chuckingoutpalooza, you lose your shit and reasoning. What's that? Kids summer clothes? No, it’s freaking freezing, ditch. Doona covers? Nope, only need one at a time now don’t we? Oh and a dining table? Since when was that a necessity? Whatever wasn’t nailed down last weekend got turfed in the great cull of 2011.

But then I came across our kitchen drawers. The first two drawers were standard fare of course. Cutlery top drawer, bigger stuff like melon ballers* and potato mashers in the second. But what about the third drawer down of shit? This is where everyone, regardless of nature, will keep some truly inexplicable stuff.

EXHIBIT A

Yeah, we haven’t owned this Printer for over 2 years. Pretty good chance we won’t need to reinstall it anytime soon.

EXHIBIT B

Both Phil and I seem to have access to both of our cars, workplaces and every lock in the house without ever touching any of one of these keys. So what are they doing in the third drawer in my kitchen? Do you see the one that looks like it belongs in Alice in Wonderland? What kind of old timer door does that belong to?

EXHIBIT C

Heaven FORBID I just chuck out the last two remaining blank Christmas cards when it’s all over for another year. I mean, it’s not like they cost about two bucks for an entire pack nowadays. Plus, I’m pretty sure I haven’t sent Christmas Cards in over 2 years, so these has been wallowing in that drawer FOR. EVER.

EXHIBIT D

Hey, clearly I never knew when we’d be called up to some kind of exercise situation that may require not only a sweatband, but one that also had a handy zipper to keep my Panadol in.

EXHIBIT E

What in the actual fuck is this? I do not know. It lives in my drawer, I did not buy it, yet it made it there somehow. Explanations welcomed.

EXHIBIT F

I think I’ve only discovered the tip of the Iceberg in the Allen Key swag in this house. I’m sure there are a bazillion in his trailer or shed or beside him when he sleeps at night. Seriously, you want a flat pack assembled, my husband is your man.

So without any consultation, I am going to go crazy on the third drawer down of shit on the weekend. Batteries will be saved. All the half melted candles, screws, balloons, wrapping paper and out of date Warranties are gone. Gone I tells ya.

How do you keep the crap at bay? Mindset? An obsession with order? Please do tell.

*We've never owned a melon baller in our lives. But I do like the thought of one.

THIS I KNOW

2011-07-10T23:44:00.000+10:00

It’s kind of universally acknowledged that a children’s play centre is one of the biggest misnomers out there. I mean, how much time do the kids spend actually playing as opposed to chucking tantrums or bleeding from an orifice?

We had the pleasure of children’s party number 1506 on the weekend for Jack, the four year old. At the very same time, Maddison, 11, had also been invited to a party that started 30 minutes later, 30 minutes away. At the very same time as this, Phil was up in Brisbane, helping my brother do stuff to his house. So I was the parent who left her four year old at the party unattended and arrived back, 30 minutes before the party finished. Daggers. Oh yeah, I saw a few aimed my way. Luckily, one of his kindy teachers was there and was more than happy to keep an eye on him for me. She also informed me she'd only call if there was blood or a concussion.

I have written about kid’s parties and ants in my undies HERE. I guess they say write what you know and this is what I know:

I know there will be at least one musical instrument planted inside a party bag that will make you want to ~~shove said musical instrument so far~~ dispose of the mini piccolo/mini xylophone/ear piercing whistle the minute you get home. Basically this is an inside parent joke that passive aggressively tells you, the attendees parent, to go and get fucked. I am trying to source mini bagpipes for Jacks 5th.

I also know that more often than not your child will have their face painted in such a way that you will require sugar soap and a wire brush to remove it later on that night. Exhibit A

Jack. Making some lovely music. Binned 30 minutes later.

I know that at least one parent will tell you a not so funny anecdote about your own child. Like how they found your son in the bushes at kindy comparing “doodle sizes” and how he may or may not have tackled their child to the ground when said child stole and ran off with the communal drumsticks.

I know that one child will almost break a bone. Or actually break one. It’s a given. These kids are going freaking nuts. They are hopped up on kiddie crack, aka, red slushies, terrorising old women and young babies and are one step for shitting in a hotel hallway Nate Myles style by the time the party comes to an end. It’s a madhouse.

Lastly, from my experience I know that ironically, nearly every child leaving the Play centre called Smileez will exit crying. As my friend Sarah pointed out, this may well be because “they are obviously very distressed at the barstardisation of the English language”, and even though this is a good point, I reckon it’s because these gin joints aren’t play centres at all. No, I think they are were cooked up by some sadist who likes seeing tiny children, a UFC smack down and too many tiny teddies combined in a confined space.

So that’s me on the Play centre topic. Got a story to share?

LET ME JUST CONSULT MY CRYSTAL BALL

2011-07-06T00:10:00.000+10:00

It’s that time of year again. The one you either love or loathe, TAX TIME!

And let’s face it the only reason you love it is because you get a big fat refund cheque or loathe it because your get the mother of all tax bills. Either/or.

And see, for the last, oh ten or so years, this has been my day job. Doing tax returns. Riveting I know. But the thing is, it is often not about the actual work you are doing, but the people you are working with. I’m sure even if you were doing the best job in the world, i.e. Bradley Coopers' Personal Assistant, you would still detest going into work each day if everyone around you was being an arsehole. While granted, the lovely ladies I work with do not resemble Bradley Cooper (probably for the best), they are wonderful and funny and I love spending my day shooting the shit with them.

So back to tax, here are a few pointers from someone who has probably seen it all. A heads up as it were.

Do not try and pass off your new pec implants as a medical expense. It wasn't a ripped muscle due to excessive exercise. I can read the terminology on an invoice.

No, actually, I can't work out what you will be getting as a refund when you haven't given me all the information because I seem to have failed to activate my crystal ball. Give me a sec.

Do not give me all of your shit in manual and written form and then claim to use your computer 100% for work. I am not mentally challenged.

No. Your alcohol is not deductible. OK, once upon a time, I believe in the eighties, you could get away with a fair bit of stuff, boozy lunches being one of them. Now, no. OK. Just no. And hey, I’m as disappointed with this as you are.

If you don’t actually own a vehicle, please don’t try and tell me you take your heavy tools to and from work each day. I know you can’t and you don’t. Again, I may not look like it, but I actually possess a functioning brain.

No. I do not need to see pictures of your colonoscopy. Not necessary. A simple invoice will suffice.

Ditto love letters left inside your copious amounts of irrelevant paper work. Especially the ones that delve a little deeper into your personal lives than I necessarily need to know about.

Yes, yes you do have to tell me about the income you received from Dazza when you were labouring for him for 6 months. Especially when you tell me about it fuckstick. You have no idea how many times people say to me “Oh I got cash for about six months, but no one needs to know about that do they?” Well hey; no one would have until you opened your massive mouth. I prepare your tax return, I am not a priest.

It’s really nice talking to you but it is not necessary to hand me EVERY INDIVIDUAL PIECE OF INFORMATION. Believe it or not, I know what I’m looking at and get this; I’m not going to steal it. Hand it over.

OK. So there are a few tips. Quite disturbing that I already have such passive aggressive thoughts and tax season is not even a week old.

Any questions? I’ll do my best to answer them. Remember there are not stupid questions. Just ones I’ll use in next year’s Tax Time Blog post.

IT'S TWIT TO BE SQUARE

2011-07-03T23:08:00.002+10:00

Whenever I mention Twitter in conversation to my friends or husband, they all kind of look at me a little blankly. It’s like I’ve chosen Swahili on the DVD language selection and they can’t quite work out what in the fuck I am talking about. As an aside, I wonder if anyone actually does choose a language other than English to watch a DVD in. You know, just for shits and giggles. Or just so they can hear Hayley Joel Osment tell Bruce Willis that he sér dautt fólk in Icelandic. Once again, I digress....

I don’t really talk about Twitter with my husband. Mainly because I think he perceives it to be a giant pickup joint. This of course is coming from the guy whose sole use of the internet is to Google tits, but if we do discuss it, the conversation goes something like this; “So, you are talking to strangers?” Um yeah, I guess I am. “And they are just there like right now, waiting to talk to you?” No, not waiting for me per se, they are just on line at the same time. “How do you know they aren’t serial killers?” Well, that I don’t. But I’m not entirely sure the mad woman next door doesn’t have a sharp axe with my name on it either, so we are taking chances everyday. “What do you even talk about?” Well everything. And nothing.

And granted, twitter is really hard to explain. The best I can come up with is that it’s the Watercooler of the here and now. It’s where everything and nothing happens. It is used to discuss issues that are happening right now. The television program that is on, right that very minute, can be dissected and debated. It is used to ask for advice and recommendations. It is the place I find out about breaking news, in fact, often before most of news organisations on TV.

It is also the best way to find your tribe, the people you have stuff in common with, whatever that may be. Writers, readers, scientists, people who knit, sports enthusiasts, atheists, mothers, labor/liberal/green/independant voters, people who live close by, you name it, you will find your like minded kin on Twitter in a way you never could have before. Twitter is always on. Something is always happening. And basically there is always someone there to make contact with no matter where in the world you are, or how alone you physically may be.

I have seen firsthand how it promotes authors and their work. How when they immerse themselves and actually get involved with their readers, it increases sales, respect and immediate feedback. Kylie Ladd (@kylie_ladd) made the comment today that when she released her first fiction novel, After The Fall, the silence was deafening. This time around, with her new novel, Last Summer she has had immediate feedback from buyers and readers. Kerri Sackville (@kerrisackville) is another Twitter success story. Kerri, a writer who started with a popular blog, wrote a book and through her on line presence, has used twitter to both connect with her readers and gain new ones.

And if Television networks are in any way smart, they will be paying attention to Twitter. The appraisal of a television show has never been more accurate. The reviews are immediate and honest. Q and A (ABC) and Masterchef (Ch 10) are two perfect examples of the media crossover.

The same applies to advertising. For instance, Coles, here’s an idea, check out the opinions on Twitter to see how you new Down, down campaign is coming along. Heads up, people freaking hate it with a passion and some are actively boycotting your stores as a result.

Politics are constantly being discussed on on Twitter and even though I dream of world where we can all just get along, I know by watching my twitter stream that is just me living in fantasyland. From what I can make out, right now in Australian Politics we have two major political parties governing by self-preservation. Changing and tweaking their policies to popularity and Polls and forgetting to actually just get along with oh, you know, running the fucking country.

And the mood of the voters is so easy to access on Twitter. In fact I know this works. I know when I wrote THIS, and it was tweeted, the Premier of QLD read my Open Letter and we corresponded directly by phone and email soon after. That would never had happened pre-Twitter. It just would not have.

Twitter has been the reason anyone has paid me for my writing. But, I guess more importantly than any of that, it has led me into legitimate friendships. Ones I truly count as very special. Which I know, if you are not someone who uses the internet, sounds naff, but it is incredibly true.

To be honest, if you are reading this blog, upselling Twitter is preaching to converted. I have found they go hand in hand. I started my blog very soon after I found Twitter. Some find it the opposite way around, but they certainly find that one compliments the other. And if I’m being completely honest I should tell you I signed up to Twitter and didn’t touch it for 12 months. I had no freaking idea how it worked. I looked at the blinking cursor and the empty box and wondered what on earth I was supposed to do. So I did nothing .

I’m guessing boredom is what brought me back. Or perhaps I heard someone talking about it. Either way, I signed back up, followed a whole heap of celebrities (you do this at first, but I’ve got to say, I much prefer the everyday people in general) and local radio/television personalities. Then I simply waited for people to follow me back. I “tweeted” funny observations. I “tweeted” people back when they asked questions or said something I could relate to. And just over 2 years later, I am unequivocally hooked. In fact, I recently appeared in this publication as one of the 500 people you should follow on Twitter. As an “everyday” person. That’s either really cool or really sad.

I'iiiii am everyday people

Best advice, give it a go. Don’t use it solely as a place to promote yourself as a business if you’re not willing to get a little bit personal and have some fun. Use hashtags. Hashtags, ideally are used for topical reasons. For instance #qanda at the end of a tweet will direct others watching this to find you and your tweets. The other way is to use them in a smartarse or comical way. Like this:

@Bern_Morley Text from husband: "Hey, want me to grab some shite for dinner?" Well, when you make it sound so appealing. #sure

I asked on Twitter tonight for some advice for newbies. Here are a few of their answers.

@RobertHoge Jump right in. It's easier to understand once you start having conversations.

@gilfer Don't believe anything you read. Swear copiously. Don't talk about work, your clients, or your employer.

@zoomosis 1. find funny people to follow, 2. celebrities are (mostly) boring, 3. don't expect to learn how to use it quickly

@YogaJG get tweet deck or some app that allows you to see everything happening on one screen...So the conversation makes sense

@Skip91 jump right in, it's the only way :)

@KerriSackville Don't tweet drunk. Except if you want people to follow you #loveadrunktweep

@nicmclachlan bio is more important than avi #ireckon

@MsPraxis learn what a hashtag is, how to shorten links and post pics

@Lisa_lintern and don't try too hard...just be yourself

@LovelyWife Talk to people!!

@TheaTweets Do some searches of your interests...follow HEAPS of people...follow the tweeps of your favourite tweeps! And, tweet a LOT! :)

@melkettle I wrote a blog post about using twitter for biz recently. Happy for you to use or quote or just get ideas! www.melkettle.com.au

And finally:

@LozVox FUCK YOU COLES. HONESTLY

Any advice on Twitter? Need some advice?