Just say no once in a while…

It’s been a few days since I was able to even sit, let alone blog. When did my life get so bloody busy? How on Earth does an unemployed, part-time hairdresser, Junior Football Club Administrator, friend, mother and wife fit it all in? I ask myself this question every single day. I spread myself like Vegemite across all facets of my life and I’m honestly waiting for it all to unravel and to come undone; much like the kids I saw running round Target today. Cranky little fuckers!


For those who know me, know I don’t talk ‘kids’ much. In fact I fucking dislike the subject, and will only engage in it if I am asked, someone else brings the topic up, or someone needs to be told. Then, generally, what I say will be brutal and honest, so don’t ask me what child-birth is like, unless you truly want to know that it feels like a really bad Chinese burn on your vagina…

Don’t get me wrong. I love my boys and I’ll boast once in a while. I’m oober proud of them and the young men they’re becoming, but I don’t need the whole world and all of Target to know that. It is what it is, they know, I know and it’s all good.

GThe mundane dribble and coma inducing conversation about a child’s achievement in school or sport bores the fuck out of me, particularly when it’s a conversation I’ve heard already, read on Facebook twice already or Nanny Gertrude has told me too. Why is it, that some parents and grandparents just don’t shut the fuck up? A constant slurry of the verbal runs. I appreciate achievements and will congratulate when warranted, but why must they harp on about it? I love to hear of milestones that mean oodles and events that really show how hard someone has worked, but I’m not really interested in the everyday child talk of Little Johnny using the potty six times.

Being proud is one thing, but drawing attention to your child and then yourself by means of explaining every single iota of the 324 minute birth that was WAY more interesting than your own, but only you know that because you can’t get a word in edgewise, does my fucking head in. Little Max is better than your Barry because his little finger is longer and my uterus can fit a mini bus in it. Who fucking cares? At what point do women stop comparing birth stories and vaginas? When do they cease the constant comparing of their children to other children? Am I normal? Should I give a fat rats arse about it?

As I walked through Target this afternoon with our youngest son, a strapping young man of almost 13, we walked through a group of women with a tribe of kids, who were all running wild, each one pushing one of those kids shopping trolleys around. They all had one can you believe? Saying no wouldn’t have even been a conversation thought about. Crashing and slamming into each other. One mum hollering across the aisle to the other mum facing her about three meters away, something about “kids, who’d have them?” Hmmm. Yup. You, you fucking moron, well done! Even Colby muttered to me, geez Mum, they’re out of control!

Everywhere you go, you see kids just doing what ever the fuck they want. Parents letting them do what ever the hell they want. Restaurants where kids are running around, shopping centres, theyre pulling things off shelves, I even witnessed a little boy in the post office last week hitting his mum and yelling no, no, hate you, no because she wouldn’t take him home, she then slapped him across the top of the head, three times. My look was probably enough for her to know that that was out of line, but the look I gave him shut him up. He then stood behind his mum. Kids aren’t afraid of their parents anymore. Not that hitting a child is right, and your children fearing you is not ideal, but having boundaries is important, that’s where kids learn to stop.

My boys aren’t angels. They have their moments. So do I no doubt, but not at any point have either of my boys run around a restaurant out of control, nor have they abused something that didn’t belong to them slamming into things, and never have they hit me, lashed out and carried on like a spoiled little brat. Sure I’ve been told they hate me, but a quick reply with, oh but I love you and there ain’t a thing you can do about that, is enough to finish the conversation.

Kids are given too much voice, and too much choice now. Would you like a sandwich for lunch? Uh uh, not in this house, what would you like on your sandwich is about the only choice you’ll get. Kids don’t know disappointment anymore, they never hear the word no, or, not a chance, for fear that they’ll be beaten down by it, or that they’ll be scarred by the disappointment. I’m sorry, but I think my kids are who they are because they know their boundaries. They know what it is to go without, they’ve felt disappointment sitting on the footy bench and losing a swimming race. Being told no is very important. So just fucking do it, once in a while PLEASE!

I attended school interviews last week. The boys attend the same school and have a teacher or three the same. On three occasions I was told I have fantastic boys, they’re well mannered, try hard and are respectful. Every teacher praised them and told me they were great young men. I have to say I was a little gob smacked by it. Its a huge pat on the back for me, for Ben and our hard work raising them. It’s not all beer and skittles. It’s hard work raising kids that respect others, particularly their elders. I’m proud of that fact. I’m proud of my boys. It’s not over yet but the foundation blocks are laid and I believe in our boys to keep doing the right thing.

So in among all the hum of my life, the external commitments with Footy and part time work, being a wife, and sister and not forgetting a friend, being a good mum is working. I think… ¬†I try to be there as much as I can, while I can, even if it is like the scratching of Vegemite across toast. You don’t need much vegemite, just a taste because it’s soooo good! ūüėČ Guess Im yet to come undone.

Make sure you turn the teapot twice clockwise and once anticlockwise!


Snakes & Ladders (and Mud)

I would consider myself as a pretty cool cucumber most of the time. Nothing much fazes me. I deal with change well and I’m quite arty farty, so my imagination is well formed. My imagination is where I think my irrational fears stem from and while an imagination is a wonderful thing, it’s sometimes not the blessing or tool one really wants. 

Easter is approaching which to me signifies our next camping trip. We have been camping with the same family for about eight years now. Obviously along the way there have been ring ins and newbies who join us when they can, but generally it’s the same two base families every Easter. We’ve recently started camping over Christmas too, and this is where my imagination gets the better of me. 

Christmas means summer, summer is hot, when it’s hot up the Murray River, you swim. Seems fair yes? Until it comes to me getting into the water. I love the water, I love to swim, I love to take a spin in the tube and if I had adult skis I’d probably be skiing too, if I could get up! That would be something to see… 

Water is great but I detest the fucking mud. Insert clearing throat cough and the following words – and water I can’t see the bottom in. Yup, I have this completely irrational fear of letting my legs drop any lower than my hip level in water where I can’t see the bottom. You can thank fucking Jaws for that! I float around laid back with feet out in front, or in a breast stroke position. The thought of my feet just dangling and swishing in and around branches, or weeds, slimy reeds or actually touching the filthy clay mud on the bank almost brings me to tears. Mud squishing up, oozing through and in between my toes, engulfing my feet and touching my ankles freaks me the fuck out! I don’t even want to think about the creepy little critters lurking beneath the surface, yabbies, carp, mussels, turtles, fuck knows what else? Probably my sunnies in there somewhere too from when I did a backwards somersault in a pike position off the donut, while trying to get into the water last trip. I looked amazing doing that, one smooth action off the side of the boat, into the donut and into the water. A fucking 10 straight across the judging panel right there! 

Getting OUT of the water is umm, shall I say testing? I’m not even gunna try and describe that, but it involves manuvering my body up alongside the tinny, feet first, trying to find a slimy tree root to use as a skinny platform. Hands holding the edge of the boat I pull myself up and into a standing position, no mud wooohoooo, as ladylike as ever, leg up straddling the edge of the boat and in I go. Now, if I’m lucky, my feet don’t slip off the skinny fucking platform and I don’t freak the fuck out when my feet lodge toes deep into the side of the squelchy bank. All this happens in about a foot of water. Can you see it? Me sliding across the top of the water trying my hardest not to touch ANY mud. Meh, why do I bother? Easter fucking rocks, no swimming!


While up the river camping, you have to watch out for the creepy crawlies. Spiders, bugs, March flies, mozzies and snakes. If I’m honest we’ve never seen a snake on land while camping, and we camp a lot. We pretty well only see them in the water but it’s not the snakes camping that scare me. It’s the ones at home on the TV. They intrigue me, they fascinate me, I love to watch them but fuck they make me squeal. Footage of a rattle snake shaking it’s noisy tail, rearing back ready to strike makes the hairs on my neck stand up. I know it’s coming, I’m prepared and then BANG that fucking thing strikes right at the camera which is really my face yeah? Sharp fat fangs dripping with venom, ugh! I’m pinned to the back of the couch.

I’ve seen my fair share of snakes in the flesh. Browns, Tigers, Tipans, Death Adders, Pythons. Actually we owned a python while I was a baby on the farm in Hopetoun. By owned I mean it was the resident rodent eating Python. The mouse plagues back in the late seventies proved troublesome for those on the land, and in town. I was told stories that my cot legs sat inside four half drums filled with kerosine, to stop the mice from getting at me in the cot. Hence why the Python was a resident. I don’t mind mice lol.

Mum once stepped down onto a tiger snake on the back step of our house, she yelled screaming for someone to bring a shovel, and I will never ever forget the day that Dad thought it would be cool to come home from work in the old HQ sedan with two baby snakes flicking around under the windscreen wipers. They were writhing all over the window. Yup, coolest dad in the neighbourhood! What the fuck?

Snakes have featured strongly throughout my life. The day I found out I was pregnant with our eldest I came across a brown snake in the back yard while living on a cotton farm in QLD. Now I’m not a supporter of killing snakes but be fucked if we were gunna move it to the paddock next door! Ben arrived to ‘relocate’ the snake and while he was holding it by the tail I let him know he was going to be a father. How romantic! Nawww. A quick kiss, he’s happy, I’m happy and back to the tractor he went. My dislike of snakes doesn’t stop at real ones…you know those jointed wooden toy snakes that slither and writhe like real ones? Yup I burned one of those, perhaps two including the ones in the toy box that belonged to my nephews, and all the plastic ones the kids owned for a whole five minutes.


eastern brown sm 

So you’re probably wondering where the ladders come into the story… I have a fear of heights. You won’t see me any higher than about the third rung of a ladder. Being double bounced on our Olympic sized trampoline sometimes freaked me out enough to make me cry. As an adult though I will persevere to get what ever it is that needs doing, done. But I won’t be happy, and I’ll bitch and winge, protest a lot and swear more than I protest. Bungee jumping, Sky diving and high rides don’t interest me much. I forced myself to jump off a number of diving/jumping towers into water when I was a kid… Yup you guessed it, into water I couldn’t see the bottom in and as soon as I hit the water I’d be swimming to fucking save myself from Jaws or a giant crocodile, beast thing that was chasing me to the surface. Not to mention the dead bodies and souls of all the miners whose lives were lost over a hundred years ago, who lurk beneath the tower in Creswick’s local swimming hole that was once a mine shaft. Fark, I’m having a coronary thinking about it now…   

creswick tower 

I once fell from a hay stack on the Rapkin’s Family Farm straight onto my guts, winding myself to the point of almost passing out. I sounded like one of those plastic barking/squeaking chickens that you tease your dog with. Then there’s my fear of hanging, I don’t like to be lifted by anyone or anything, including myself. Perhaps I was dropped as a kid? That would explain a fucking huge amount of things.

So there you have it. Muddydarkwaterhighsepantobia in a nut shell! Just a couple of issues. I hear you river… I’m coming! 

Make sure you turn the teapot twice clockwise and once anticlockwise! 


Sleep is NOT over-rated! 

It’s been a long four¬†days since my 36 hour birthing-assist-bender with no sleep. My body and mind really struggled through the last few hours of that period. I had no clue just what sleep deprivation could do to you, or me.

I was curled up in a corner, on the floor of my bedroom at one point, sobbing. For a multitude of reasons, most of them completely irrational and some warranted. My head thumped, probably from the hours of crying but helped along by the my brain shutting down. My heart thumped, palpitations caused by anxiety perhaps or again, my body shutting down from being so sleep deprived. My eyes resembled piss holes in the sand, all red and sore from pushing a tissue into them.

When I think about what my body has been through in my life, I wonder how the fuck I am still here. I’ve endured two natural births of¬†large babies. The first a 25 hour labor birthing a 9lb 6oz baby boy and then 20 months later a 9 and a half hour labor resulting in a¬†10lb 7oz sack of potatoes aka my baby boy. Either one of those births should have turned me inside out! I’ve been in car accidents where I probably should have been thrown through the windscreen when our car rammed into the side of a 1-tonne tray truck. I even think fear has nearly made my heart pop when a huge windstorm went through Victoria and we were in an exposed area camping, trees snapping like pencils all around us. Of course all these moments don’t seem a lot until you put them all together.

Going back to the sleep deprivation, it’s not hard to understand how one gets to that point. I mean, when you’re so wired and excited about an imminent birth or what ever else is driving the need to stay awake, you begin to understand how benders happen when it’s drug induced. How easy it is to just keep going. My drug was adrenalin. I kept going, so too did my sisters.

Before I got to the fetal position in the corner stage, I went through a whole other series of stages. The weary stage; needing more caffeine because I recognise I’m tired but can’t sleep yet, so you fill up with caffeine which in turn is fueling my coming anxiety. Before you know it you’re in the middle of Wired Stage; running purely on adrenalin and excitement, head buzzing, you forget you’re tired which throws you deep into the Second Wind Stage; the I’m not tired at all now because you’ve passed that point of the ’15 minute power nap could save your life’ campaign. The Second Wind can last a while, it pushes you through to the I Really Need a Nap Stage; where you could either sit down and that’s it, goodnight senorita, but in my case I needed to drive the hour and a bit home yet and sleep wasn’t an option. I loaded myself with a double Maccas espresso and headed the back way home, stopping at my Besties to refuel for the remainder of the trip.

Sitting at her table Thursday morning our chatting kept me lucid. I probably bored the beegeezus out of her with me rattling on. Delirious jabber that I am certain she put up with to make me feel better. See, this is the sort of stuff Besties do… suggest a nanna nap before I head home, another coffee, perhaps one to take if you’re not going to have a nap?? She tried..

.not sleep

I got home and pretty well fell in a hole after my shower. Emotions are one thing but anxiety is another. I suffer from bouts of it, generally I can handle it but my stretch of awakeness had ramped it up a notch and I was really fucking struggling. Even while sitting on the couch trying to doze, my body wouldn’t switch off. I could feel the caffeine coursing through me veins, shudders of tiredness like I was cold, and my heart pounded.

Being tired amplifies EVERYTHING; the cold, the heat, hunger, loss of appetite, thirst, your eyelids scratching across your eyeballs when you blink, sounds begin to aggravate you like a ticking fucking clock or the pigeon cooing out the front. Right in that moment I hated myself, I hated my body, I’m not a contributing member of the family, I don’t work, my husband hates me, my kids think I’m shit, my father hates me and I miss mum why isn’t she here??… blah blah blah. Tragic isn’t it!?

2 yr old

The human body really is miraculous. I eventually shut my eyes and went to sleep… for fourteen¬†hours. I woke up still tired. Eyes like I had gone ten rounds with Mohammad Ali and a head ache I couldn’t jump over. No doubting I was dehydrated and the caffeine would have been wearing off so I was coming down off that too.

I think I’ve learned my lesson… next time there wont be a next time. Going that length of time without looking at the back of my eyelids is clearly no good for me. It’s taken me until today to actually feel like myself again, and that’s being really honest. My hubby does love me, he put up with me and supported me in his own little way, and my kids think I’m¬†fucking awesome, clearly because I am lol. A huge thank you to those who really know me and randomly text me to check on me. Without those little messages of love I’d be in some serious strife. I love you all, and I do love me too xxx

Make sure you turn the teapot twice clockwise and once anticlockwise!


Decade; heart for a heart.

The smell of coffee draws on many memories for me; lazy Sunday’s with my hubby sipping on homemade lattes; of a busy cafe when I’m catching up with girlfriends I haven’t seen in weeks; of my Pop waiting patiently at the kitchen table for his mug of black loveliness; but more often than not its a memory of my Mum.

I can still see her sitting relaxed at the table in the caravan, or out on the front porch sitting in a chair when we moved into our house, menthol ciggie perched between her long nailed fingers, head in a book, she loved to read, puffing away like Thomas and gulping her white-with-one-saccharine-tablet as she flips a page. Fuck I miss her.

It’s the small things I miss; ‘kneading the dough’ which was squishing¬†Mums bum cheeks while chanting “knead the dough, knead the dough” she hated that her bum was old and squishy, lol; brushing her salt and pepper coloured hair for her and putting it into piggy tails; plucking her near non-existent eyebrows and even putting on her socks for her, hitching them up to her knees. Yeah, I did that. How could you say no to Faye? She would glance over at me through her long fringe, brown eyes staring straight at me from behind her glasses, blinking her eye lids while conning me with a “Carn’ Nom, make me a cuppa will ya? You know you’re the best at making them!” Her cheesy smile always won me over. She generally got what she wanted. And, there’s no doubt she ran my sisters the exact same line!


A roast lamb was one of Mums best dishes. I vividly remember her marching back to her new local butcher one afternoon, carrying a half-cooked roast lamb in a baking dish of melted lard, stomping across the caravan park, into the butcher’s shop and slamming the dish on the counter. You didn’t fuck mum over, she paid for lamb, not mutton. She could smell the difference being as she was raised in the bush and slaughtering your own meat was common practise. She knew the difference and he learned his lesson, never giving her mutton again… ever. Her spag bog would take all day to cook and gosh it was worth waiting for. A huge boiler full to the top of the rich tomato blend. We would guts ourselves stupid on it, winding the spaghetti onto a spoon with our forks. That was living.

Mum had a naughty streak in her. Dirty jokes were her favourite. She always had one for the little old local men that came into her work at the Grocery Store, and then she had another share of filthy jokes for the old ladies that were with them! People just loved mum. She made you smile, even when she was taking the micky out of you. That was her knack. Making people laugh. Scaring the fucking shit out of little kids was another, like the time she told a six-year-old girl that she had trapped the Easter Bunny in a rabbit trap last night and he wasn’t coming this year… Yup, that one ended in tears and a fractured soul! She made up for it though I’m sure, by sneaking a lolly pop or chocolate into the little girls hand to fix the damage and then told her that Santa was next on her list.

Community was important to her. She knew everyone and every one knew her. She loved footy, and the Blues. Following Dad playing footy made it easy for mum to be involved. Sitting as the club secretary for a number of years, she managed the canteen and planned social functions. It was I would say some of the happiest years of her life. She watched future son in-laws play too, but sadly never got to see her grandsons on the ground. She’d be proud, like I am.

She had her funny little ways. Mum loved to douse herself in talcum powder after a shower, she may as well have rolled in it, a thick layer of white Cashmere Bouquet from her neck to her toes, but oh, she smelled lovely! You would often catch her gnawing on a frozen and stiff Birds Eye fish finger and she loved Butter Menthols, eating them like normal lollies. She was superstitious and believed the old Abbott family stories of people dying following a family picture. It took her decades to actually allow us to be in a complete family photo and I’ll be damned if that didn’t come true! We had our first family pic taken the Christmas before she died. I burned it.

Today is ten years.

I can still hear her voice. I can still see her face. If I try hard enough, I hear her laugh, and I kid you not, I smell her perfume often. Tabu. The heavy scent wafts through my lounge or kitchen, sometimes in the car. You won’t find a bottle of it in my home though. It’s comforting, but it hurts. That smell gets into my bones and rips at my heart. Perhaps I imagine it, maybe I don’t?

I have grown, a lot, and I’m a woman my Mum would be proud of. I still grieve for her, I have every right to and I believe that’s okay. I’m scared that moving on without remembering or honouring her will let me forget her, and who she was. She deserves to be remembered. I cry at the craziest of times, driving along the freeway or pushing a shopping trolley through the supermarket. It overwhelms me still that I will never see her again. Never hear her again. Or feel her hugs. Worst still is that my boys will never know her, my nieces and nephews will never know her, they’ll never remember the unconditional love she had for them. It takes my breath away when I think about it, like a kick in the chest. She made up for all her old misgivings with our kids, all the mistakes she made with us as children she made up for in those short few years she was a Granny.

image image

She was taken way too soon. Fifty two years young and everything to live for. I’m sure if you asked her she would admit that she died the way she wanted to, in her sleep. A heart attack that she never felt, no pain, no warning. It’s sort of comforting, almost. That day I took a phone call that you never want to get. I inhaled and dropped to my knees as my sister told me she was gone. If I’m honest it took me six years to exhale, to let go and accept it. A breath out that I needed. That’s when¬†I took my life by the balls, and started living again. Learning to breathe without her was hard, it’s still hard, but you just learn to endure it.

I wont live in the shadow of my mother’s death. Nor will I ever hide the hurt and pain that thinking about her can bring. My pain is often masked by a smile, laughs that hide my grief and when sharing memories I’m reminded that there will be no more made with her in it.

But, on the other side of my missing her is my thankfulness and my happiness of those memories of her I do have, the memories of her with our babies and knowing that some of her is in me, and in my sisters, always. I won’t forget her. Ever.

I had this blog all ready for today, not knowing that the cloud that today always has over it would be lifted just before dawn. I’ve been awake for 33 hours now. I’m completely spent, over tired and now, extremely emotional. At 3.41am, a few hours before the sun rose my beautiful, youngest sister Lana, birthed her sixth baby into the world. A big, healthy, nine pound nine ounce boy, with a crop of black hair, and dark eyes open, watching us all. He’s been here before, I have no doubt.

On all days to be born he chose today. I am so grateful. Truly I am, because now the tables have evened, a heart for a heart. This small bundle of perfect brightens a day that I mourn. Watching my sister progress through all the motions throughout yesterday I believed bubby would arrive before midnight, the rollercoaster just kept going. One of her longest births, he was waiting.

As I held him this morning, watching his scrunched face change and relax, and feeling his soft downy skin under my finger tips, and his tight grip around my finger, I thanked the stars above. He is perfect. How these tiny little people are grown inside of us is a pure miracle. It never ceases to amaze me. The circle of life, they take away, they give back. We have been waiting for you Akir! Thank you little man, you are very, VERY loved, like all of your cousins.

And, thank you to my sister, for allowing me to be a part of this huge privilege, again, for the third time. All three of us sisters together like we usually are on this day, but for a very different reason on this tenth year, awaiting the arrival of Mum’s tenth grandchild. I’m so proud of you and I love you both to the moon and back. Humble!


Make sure you turn the teapot twice clockwise and once anticlockwise!


Roses and a Note

I was struggling for the next topic to blog about, until just earlier when I found a box of Roses chocolates on my doorstep with a thank you note. Who left it there and why doesn’t matter really. What matters is that sometimes just being who you are naturally, is all that counts. I am me and I am grateful of that, and so are others it seems.

After thirty-nine years I have made a countless number of friends and lost some, I guess that’s bound to occur. I’m lucky enough to have a very healthy handful or two of girlfriends, and those closest to me believe it or not, are very like me. They hold values like mine, and the morals they live by, are just like mine. They’re often strong, loud and opinionated, expressive and forthright, again just like me. If it needs to be said you can count on me to say it, and so too can it be said for this beautiful circle around me. A spade is a spade, not a heart!

I’m not always vocal and expressive. I can be quiet too and I enjoy the silence between friends particularly over a cup of tea. It’s a strong comfort to me and shows that ‘we’ are okay. There’s no need to fill that silence with mundane chat that means nothing. White noise is all it is. Chats with my bestie can often take two days to complete… sometimes longer. Yup, this is true. Our relationship is like no other and it has weathered many storms such as school, distance, other friends, family and kids. We are connected mind, body and soul and I love her. I even had her fucking morning sickness before I knew she was pregnant, calling her to ask if she was expecting, and she was, having not long peed on the stick! We are undeniably connected, there is no doubt of that. We just know stuff. Things you couldn’t possibly know. Feelings you shouldn’t be feeling and emotions that grab you by the ribs and wrench at you in until you call or text to find out what’s going on. She is my earth line, keeping me grounded; the voice of reason, always ready to tell me I’m off the mark or bang on it; she’s my constant, somewhere to measure against. I mirror that back to her. We fit.

Learning to be grateful for all you have is a blessing and a lesson very well learned. It was a hard lesson for me to learn. Pride was my lesson. I could never have gotten through some really fucked up periods in my life, some still ongoing without the circle of friends I have around me. Friendship is only what you make it, and so too is family. Sadly, I’ve lost family because of pride and stubbornness, and that’s not my pride or stubbornness I’m talking about.¬†I have laid my cards and heart on the table, trying to hold onto all I can, but you can’t win them all and I’m tired. I’ve now surrounded myself with my chosen family of friends and that is what I am grateful for. I’m proud of all I have. Their constant support, the drop in visit to make sure I’m okay and the phone call to check on me are more than some family have ever done. That’s sad, but very true and I’m okay with that. I have done and will keep on doing the right thing, but only to those that respect me.

I love deeply, possibly too deeply. I hurt even more so. I’m fiercely loyal and will protect what’s mine, including my friends. I feel a friends pain, anguish, grief and happiness. If they hurt, I hurt. Some nights I’ve shed a tear and even sobbed for their pain. Is it normal to feel so strongly alongside your friends, to endure their hardship and their sadness? I think so. To at least empathise with them is natural.

Shooting from the hip can seem to some as brutal, or too confronting; and that’s okay. Don’t ask me to change. I won’t. I may lack some timing skills and can often be seen with my foot in my mouth but this is me. The true me. I won’t sugar coat to save you some face, but I will sometimes go easy with my approach. Caring hurts sometimes, well actually a lot of the time if you ask me, but from that pain grows respect and gratitude. What’s particularly beautiful is when that respect and gratitude is given back. A simple thank you means the world to me.

I think I’m worthy of every single one of my girlfriends. They all know who they are to me, and where they stand. I’m me because of them. I fuckin love every one of them, old and new and I would move Heaven and Earth for them if they asked. They’re all amazing, and strong, and deserving, not of me but of a beautiful life full of love and happiness. We all deserve that including me. Having friends who care just as much about me as I do them makes me smile, you know, really bloody smile. I’m so fucking lucky.

So thank you, to my ‘Roses and Note’ leaver, for giving me my topic today; and for hearing me when I tell you I care and that I’m here; for gently giving me advise when I needed it, even though I didn’t know you were giving it, I was listening. She’s a gentle soul with a gentle heart with a brilliant voice and brain to go with it. You are not alone, none of my friends are alone, not one. ¬†Xx

Make sure you turn the teapot twice clockwise and once anticlockwise!



Today I spent most of he day having my hair coloured and cut. I’m a bleach blonde going back to my natural brunette. Quite an undertaking really, leaving plenty of time for chatting. While I was patiently waiting for my hair to process, my hairdresser and friend (for the sake of this blog I’ll call her B) told me about her weekend dramas.

Her nephew was turning one, so his father, rented out two humongous houses in Sorento for a week. Yup my mouth dropped too, that’s some serious first birthday celebration. B explained that they all put in for the houses and it was to be a nice week away as well as a bit of a welcome home for B and her partner, who had been in Mexico for a month. All her family were there; her brother, sisters, hubbies and their kids and multiple parents of the group. In all, I tried to count them and there was probably about twenty there.

Anyways, before B even arrived on the Friday night after work, she was called by her brother and told to take her time getting there as they were a little under the weather. Hmm, right about there I would have said, perhaps we stay home? So they arrived late Friday night, and by then a ‘bug’ had taken a strangle hold over almost the entire family. Couples with their kids were shut up in their rooms, quarantined. Drinks and meals left at doors. The multiple bathrooms engaged by squirting bums and puking mouths. Charming right? Poor buggers.

B was telling me that she used toilet paper wrapped around her hand to open doors. Very ingenious B, perhaps your newly acquired immune from Mexico will save you? Cans of Glen 20 and antibacterial wipes sterilised the air and shitty toilet seats. The pool¬†out back and hired jumping castles stood unused. Kilos of meat and other foods thrown away, too scared to eat it. A germ was running rampant and B didn’t have it. Nor did she get it! The houses were empty by Sunday morning, although rented until Tuesday, they were now tainted, so they all went home.

Urban Dictionary Definition:


~A small, unintended defecation that occurs when one relaxes the anal sphincter to fart (blend of “shit” and “fart”)

~A cross between farting and dropping a load in your pants. Typically of a runny consistency. There are 5 categories of Sharts. Also known as a Foop.

Cat 1) Wet Sensation
Cat 2) Wet Underwear
Cat 3) Soak thru to inside of pants
Cat 4) Soak thru pants (Visible to general public)
Cat 5) Runs down to socks. (Oh my god, run for your life)

Gastro has presented itself in I would happily say, every single household in the world, including mine. No house is immune to that shit of a bug, excuse the pun. Even the mere mention of it makes me queasy. The slightest gurgle of the guts, or bubbling of air in the colon makes me nervous after a conversation with anyone that’s been in contact with the germ. The smell of gastro shite is one on its own. You know by the smell when you have the wretched bug. The splash back on your arse cheeks from the spray bouncing off the back of the dunny should be enough, but the smell confirms it.

Cutting my boy’s hair tonight after dinner, I felt a rumble, deep within my intestines. I ignored it… for a moment. That rumble turned into a gurgle, closer to my bowel, perhaps in my colon. Fark! Squeezing my butt cheeks together I excused myself and briskly waddled to the toilet where all hell broke loose in the crapper commencing first with a SHART! Then the smell…

You’ve got to be fucking kidding right? Just talking about gastro, does not mean you get it. While my sphincter¬†unleashed the unholy, I retraced my day in my head. Where the fuck have I picked this bug up from? Surely B hadn’t passed on a bug to me that she never had? Perhaps it was the Vegetarian Vermicelli I ate for lunch? Or the coffee lozenges I was sucking on throughout the day, that had a diarrhoea¬†warning on the pack if you consume too many… was four too many to make me shit through the eye of sixteen sewing needles lined up? Not a chance!

What is it about being so humiliated by your own feces¬†and defecation? I mean it’s not my fault my colon is angry. It is what it is, but I’m so glad that it happened at home and not in the city earlier. Imagine a Cat 4 or Cat 5 in public? On Johnston Street Fitzroy. I wouldn’t cope, and I’m not even sure how I would react. Not even being intoxicated excuses the Cat 4 & 5. That level is for the experts, the daredevils or the elderly. Now by no means am I pointing fingers or making fun at the elderly. I have a couple of friends in aged care and I’m telling you NOW, I could never do what they do, gastro or not! I take my hat off to them for doing what they do. A little bit of my own poop on my own finger accidentally is enough to make me dry wretch, let alone old Gladys’s poop. You’re my heroes Relle and Amy!

Even the Cat 3 is a worry, or well it used to be. Toilet training my boys more than a decade ago I went through many, many, many pairs of jocks, because I couldn’t ‘handle’ pooey jocks. Now I know we’re not talking runny when you’re potty training kids, but shit is shit yes? Can’t do it, I’m sorry! They went¬†straight in the bin after it was bagged first. Spew I can do…

As I’m sitting here typing, my guts is churning. Pinching, growling, rolling and rumbling underneath my pyjama pants. It can’t be gastro, I’m not spewing, right? I’m scared to fart (not that I fart because I’m a lady) but if I wanted to, there’s no fucking¬†way I would, even if I am at home! I listen to one of my boys walk through the kitchen, dropping his guts, while chugging milk straight from a carton, and I’m waiting for the Shart, because surely, it’s bound to rear its ugly head there too?

Hopefully it’s just something I ate, but just in case it’s not, all the wipes and Glen 20 will kill any hint of a germ lurking about in our bathrooms. There weren’t any goodnight kisses tonight for fear of spreading the germ I DONT HAVE! Mind over matter works doesn’t it? To be honest, I’m afraid, very afraid. I hate the raw, burning and sore sphincter left behind after a bout of gastro and the shitting like a duck for a day.

Best I go make a peppermint tea, see if I can settle this groaning guts. Wish me luck!

Make sure you turn the teapot twice clockwise and once anticlockwise!


Dolls, Clowns and Freddie.

I’ve watched countless horror movies in my life. I grew up in the television glow of Fright Night, Thriller, the Twighlight Zone series, Nightmare on Elm St, the American Werewolf In London, the evil clown in IT and that crazy arse creepy fuck Chuckie. The eighties saw a plethora of horror flicks made and I watched all of them, seemingly fairly unfazed¬†by the exposure. The nineties introduced the world to Interview With a Vampire, Alien, Silence of the Lambs, Candy Man and the Blair Witch. All a very differnt type of horror, the horror I knew was changing. But it was brilliant. The thriller horror grabbed you by your knackers and sat you in your seat.

My bestie and I spent many Friday and Saturday nights wrapped up in a blanket, next to her little open fire. Our hands over our faces on the couch in her tiny, dark lounge watching the latest horror flick from the local Video Store. We would trawl the shelves for a horror haul of videos and race home to engross ourselves in scare! We would stay up all night, scared half to death watching intently, waiting for the next doll stabbing or vampire to strike. We loved to hate it. Bowls of homemade popcorn and blocks of chocolate masked our fear.

Freddy brought a new breed of horror inside people’s dreams, becoming your worst nightmare. His bladed hands and scar face in his striped jumper invaded not just the casts dreams but mine too. The first couple of Freddie movies scared the fuck out of me and I couldn’t wait for the following sequels. Like the Scream movies in the naughties they had me hooked, costume, knife and mask. Bring it on I said!

I’ve never been a lover of dolls or clowns even as a little girl. I never owned any. Dolls; beady eyes of glass that follow you around the room, waiting for you to look away and their painted pert lips that don’t want a kiss, they’d rather just suck away your soul, and their arms and legs that sit in positions they shouldn’t, ready to stand or pounce at you. Clowns; painted smiles that don’t say hello but more like, come here little girl I have a gift for you, holding balloons that will drag you away to a dark evil place and a laugh that would make He Man’s plastic skin crawl. You won’t find a doll or clown in my home. EVER.

Beyond the naughties kind of horror came a more realistic, more believable genre that really pulled at the ‘that could actually fucking happen’ kind of movie like the Hostel and the Hills Have Eyes, and even the Texas Chainsaw remake. ¬†Taking a wrong turn could get you into some serious fucked up situation with banjos and inbred brothers looking to make you their new bride. Hmmm, no thanks, I think I’ll sit here in my happy little house eating my Zooper Dooper thank you.

Watching the Blair¬†Witch¬†Project while seven months pregnant probably wasn’t the brightest idea I’ve had.¬†I can no longer handle children crying in pain whether they’re mine or not, or see kids standing in corners with their back turned, not to mention those fucking dolls that were purpose made to replicate a kid standing in a corner… What the fuck? Seriously? I know that film is not real but at the time we lived on an exposed farm in the middle of nowhere, you begin to imagine shit that isn’t there… You digging me?


As my years have increased, my tolerance for the old horror flick has waned somewhat, a LOT. I’m currently sitting in front of the telly, with my two boys aged almost 13 and not quite 15 watching Annabelle in the broad daylight. Its the sequel to The Conjuring, which I should NOT have not watched in the first place a little while back. We’re not even half way through this fucked up female version of Chuckie and I have squealed three times already. Babies screaming and dark scenes of a crazed little girl running at the main character and morphing into a demonic woman in a white gown is enough to give me a full on panic attack. The boys are quite amused and I’m shitting my dacks. Yeah laugh it up ya little shits, your time will come!

Electrical devices spinning or screeching while working on their own; tortured souls voices howling through the walls and ceilings, calling you to come see what I am. They always leave the room or house to investigate. What idiots right? Didn’t they learn their lesson watching Scream? Lights flick on and off and elevators stop and groan at its occupants inside. Death stares through black eyes and sharp white teeth of werewolves and vampires, pasty white blue veined skin and bloody stained lips and necks. I lived for those types of scenes and loved every fright I got. How things have changed. But I still watch.

Plastered to the back of the couch I cringe behind a cushion, my hands and the iPad im blogging on. I can’t fucking believe I’m watching this shite! Jumping out of my skin more than thrice, I’m keeping the boys enthralled. Watching me squirm is worth its weight in gold, way better than this movie!


Make sure you turn the teapot twice clockwise and once anticlockwise!