Smears ‘n’ Echos

So I’ve started making my way down my Fucket List. If you missed that post then you best check it out.

blood2Today I went to the Red Cross Blood Bank all ready to donate my much-needed red stuff and guess what… no go because I need the all clear from my doctor or cardiologist because of my heart murmur. Fuck it! So, it just so happens that making sure my ticker was okay was actually on my Fucket List. I went and had my echocardiogram done last week, endured a halter strap for 24 hours too, just to make sure all is okay. Lucky I did, because I’d be doing it anyways now to donate blood. Like it was almost meant to be hey!

Having an echo done isn’t the most pleasant thing in the world, particularly with a huge set of tits. Undressing completely and donning a gown three sizes too small and opened at the front isn’t a grand look. Very, very unsexy. The gown covered my back. It was like I was wearing an apron on my back. Then laying back on the bed completely exposed while the skinny piece next to me lifts my tit out-of-the-way to get to my ribs… embarrassing much! Thanks love, just ask me next time and I’ll move my own tit, okay? I’m sure she didn’t even notice she was doing it and I’m even more certain she didn’t even care, but I do.

Then began the pressing and pushing of the hard handheld what ever you call it probe thing. Jabbing it beside my breast bone, into my boob. It’s like being poked with a really hard bony finger. Ice cold gel caked all over it, like I’ve been in a sex orgy and covered in lube, ha, no I’ve never been in a sex orgy! So for a half hour or so I lay there while she probes my chest, under my boob, beside my boob, on top of my boob, breath in and hold for 15 seconds and breathe out… Fuck me, if I didn’t do that thirty times over. Then she pokes the probe thing up under the bottom of my ribs and then down my throat at the middle of my collar bones. The joy of it.

Having routine checks done when you’re a woman is common, and necessary. The old pap smear is just as joyful, I promise. Yeah, I’m fucking kidding, it’s not fun, and it’s not enjoyable AT ALL. Being as I’m almost forty and I had my first smear when I was 19 years old and then every 2 years there on, I’ve been up on a doctors bed with my legs splayed more than 11 times not including the in between checks for shit like child-birth.

The Pap smear is generally not a conversation most women will elaborate on. Probably for good reason, but hey, I’m a bit of a 30-62realist so explaining a Pap smear could be fun. A lot of women delay, put off or don’t ever have one. It’s a dangerous game to play with your own body, and to be honest, for the sake of 5 minutes of sheer discomfort its worthwhile. The old speculum has come a long way in my life time. The set of expandable ‘tongs’ probe they use to stretch a ladies vaginal wall open, exposing her cervix… yeah there’s no other way to write it… used to be stainless steel but is now disposable and plastic. It’s a refreshing thought, having a new unused speculum inserted. I always wondered just how sanitary the metal ones were even when they’re sanitized and who 466-354-thickboxknows what else. Wait though, because these expandable tongs come in different sizes! Yes, I’ve been lucky enough to be told, “hang on love I’ll need to grab the other size”… **insert crickets chirping** Fucking lucky me, I have to endure TWO lots of probing and being told I have a big vagina! Thank you…

So once the cervix is exposed, we then have to wait for the scraping. That’s the part I don’t like the most. It’s uncomfortablecytobrush-plus-standard-unsteril and can sometimes hurt a little. The dull scratch on a part of your body you never have any sensation on normally. Your brain tries to process where the ‘pain’ is coming from; it’s not a normal sensation and quite confusing to the senses. Normally I will lay there with my eyes wandering over the ceiling, finding things to look at so I don’t have to see the mini-dunny-brush-cross- tooth-brush being inserted into ones open vagina.

Imagine a man doing this. They whine about having to have a finger popped up their butt to check their prostrate… Oh the horror of some rimming!

So there you have it. The Pap Smear explained… for those of you I love, get it done if you haven’t.

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



Roast lamb was on the table for dinner last night. The boys walked in from school, house is smelling divine and I get a holler from the front door, “what’s that smell, Mum?” Hmmm, not sure if that was an insult or excitement but I’ll take it which ever it is. At any rate, they all cleaned their plates so it must have been the latter…

WP_20150418_18_58_04_ProMy Granny Mart taught me to make home-made gravy. Mum taught me to cook a roast lamb. Gran’s thick soup of deliciousness is normally on the salty side if you don’t get in before her to season it first. Starting with a little of the roast fat left in the bottom of the roasting pan, you whack the heat up and add a sprinkle of plain flour. It was at this stage last night that “Dootz” our youngest son, took over the gravy. He’s a good little cook, always keen to learn, but can get a little carried away and is very, easily distracted. And, I mean VERY easily.

While stirring the fat rue vigorously to cook the flour, you have to scratch at the bottom to pick up all the black, cooked blood. Sounds completely disgusting but I promise, this is what makes the difference. Adding some water, a little at first, stir until a paste is formed and then start adding more water, but not too much at once or it will go lumpy. Eventually you have a nice ‘on the runny side’ batter and when left to simmer it will thicken.

So I left my more than capable Dootz in charge of the gravy while I tended to the meat and vegies. I was standing beside himWP_20150421_13_04_55_Pro looking in the other direction, only at arms reach and I hear a desperate whisper “oh shit!” and a whole lot of blowing and flapping. Now, our boys don’t swear – in front of us that is, but I’m certain they would elsewhere, how could they not with a Potty Mouthed Mother… so his swearing grabbed my attention. I turned to see him waving an oven mitt around, blowing at it trying to put out the tiny smouldering flame that was beginning on the corner. He looked at me bewildered and said, “it’s on fire Mum!” … You don’t say son, I was thinking. Easily extinguished under the tap I couldn’t help but giggle about another incident with fire we have had involving the same child.

Now we are going back about six years or more. He was in Prep I think. Very inquisitive, into everything but at the same time extremely aware of other people and their feelings and expectations. He knew right from wrong at a very early age. He hasn’t changed much, just a whole lot taller and more grown up.

This one day was warm. I had the house opened up, scented candles burning, and roast in the oven. Hubby was out the back mowing the lawn and I was from memory out the front yard pruning bushes. All is well, sun’s shining and I hear a kerfuffle inside. Some quiet yelling, and a raised but concerned hubbies voice. Walking into the house I smell smoke. The faint smell of paper burning and maybe plastic. “FUCK!!”

Getting to the back yard where the voices are I find hubby hosing down the bin. Dootz is in tears and big brother is standingWP_20150126_19_26_43_Pro back, shocked look on his face in a half smirk. After trying to settle Dootz we finally learn that he had gone to get a tissue from next to the scented candle that was burning. Some how, whether deliberate or not a tissue caught on fire. Dootz, thinking he was doing the right thing ran with the tissue to the bin and shoved the burning tissue in the bin. Hubby smelled the smoke and came in to find the bin in flames.

207281_5774578917_7603_nDootz; our second baby. A big, blue-eyed baby boy, almost five kilos heavy the day he was born. He went straight into a big cot and slept right through the night at 8 weeks after we put him on the bottle. He was so hungry all the time and would almost suck my spine through my nipple. He was a vicious feeder. Nothings changed in that respect, he eats like a man and loves his food but just with out the nipple. He teethed early at 4 months, only crawled for a month and then walked at 10 months; he was running a day later. He rode a bike with no training wheels at 3 years of age after seeing his brother doing it the night earlier.

I caught him on the roof of our house at 4 years of age after he scaled the side gate to get a ball off the roof. I heard this feet pattering across the roof and walked out back to find him on the roof retrieving his ball. There’s really nothing he hasn’t tried and I doubt he’ll ever be any different. A daredevil with no painWP_20150421_13_04_11_Pro threshold at all. When he was not even two he got his head stuck between the padded cushion and bottom rung of a the back of a dining chair; standing there with his head laying on the cushion watching the Wiggles until his dad could get home forty minutes later to cut the rung off the chair. I tried every which way to squeeze his head back out, I oiled his head and body, I stripped him naked and tried to push him back the other way; we twisted and pushed but he was NOT coming out of that gap. I couldn’t count how many walls and doors he has run into over the years, we called him Dozer for a while but most of the family knew him as Dootz.

He talked early and his first words were the usual Mum, Dad, bub and the likes. His first two words together were of course, “More Mum!” and his first three words together were “Dootz a dat” or in English ‘Look at that’, with an arm held out pointing. He said ‘dootz’ A LOT!! His blonde fluffy, slightly curled hair and big blue eyes peering at you, “Dootz a dat.”

WP_20150421_13_02_56_Pro Dootz makes me laugh almost every day. There is always something that he says or does; a little comment when something catches his attention for the first time, like when he sits in a different seat, or stands in an area of a room he’s not normally in and he’ll let me know he’s never seen the room from that angle or sat in that particular seat. He’s a quirky kid and I love him for it. He places his clothes folded neatly at his bedroom door every night ready for the next day, and sleeps with his arms behind his head, like he’s chillaxing at the beach. He goes about his day with no worries, and loves to make you feel good. A quick ‘huggie’ when no one is watching or a random cup of tea because he thinks I need it. He’s thoughtful and considerate, hating that anyone might be feeling unhappy or upset.1911858_10204953187447434_4088345173099663241_n

He may have his idiosyncrasies but that’s why we love him. There’s no one else like him. Our Dootz!

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


What ever you call ’em…

Rack, Dingle-bobbers, Tits, Norgs, Twins, Hangers I was fourteen when I realised that boys like tits. They loved a nice set of twins that were pert and firm, and at that particular time, mine were. I was a D-cup in year 9 and that attracted some attention. I’ll be honest, it wasn’t all unwanted either. There was a time when I had an okay figure and a spanking rack that went with it. I still have a ‘rack’ although it’s not standing as straight as it used to and its grown a few more shelves…they’re more like dingle-bobbers now. Gravity is not the friend of big breasted women, and if they tell you any different, they’re lying their arse off – or they’re fake! Natural norgs need help, that’s a fact. They go from a set of nice tits to a pair of hangers real fucking quick and with no warning.

Cans, Breasts, Mammary glands, Bazookas, Mozzie Bites I’ve wrestled with my breast all my life. I don’t ever remember being any smaller than a C-cup. Somehow I went from a little triangle training bra, that was just covering my mozzie-bite-sized mammary glands to a C cup, and then WHAM, they are fucking out of control. How does it happen? Breast feeding, sport, and just living in general is all so much harder when your cans are gifuckingnormous and let’s be honest, that’s exactly what mine are. I’d love to play golf with my hubby but swinging a golf stick with bazookas between your arms while holding a golf stick is very fucking testing, awkward and not to mention uncomfortable. I was once asked by my inquisitive 6-year-old if they “flapped” when I ran, and like that wasn’t enough, before I could answer him, he had made his own assumption and followed through with “that must really hurt Mum!” Ya think buddy? And off he wandered.


Puppies, Clappers, Chesticles, The Girls It sounds ridiculous I know, but The Girls are hazardous; just laying on your back can cause suffocation by chesticle; there’s no way I would feel a lump in my puppies, actually I could lose a real puppy in them and not even know let alone finding a lump the size of a pea; running without a bra or even running in a normal bra is just plain STUPID and extremely dangerous to myself, and then visually, anyone watching is likely to be scarred for life. The name clappers doesn’t come from no where you know.

Pair, Boobs, Bust, Melons, Fun Bags, Flapdoodles, Lungs Having a pair that have their own postcode is expensive. Shopping for bras to fit huge boobs is extremely depressing and stressful. I dream about walking into a lingerie shop and saying “I’m a 14GG and I’d like a pretty, lacy, white bra for my fun bags please?” I’m more likely to find that puppy I lost earlier or worse still, lose my sanity and every ounce of dignity I have left after trying on three hundred and one bras and none of them fitting my fucking flapdoodles! If I’m lucky I might leave with a black, or tan plain Jane minimiser. A bra shopping day results in tears of frustration and no bra more often than not. I’m about to go on my biennial bra shopping day, which this time round means finding a new shop because the one I used to go to closed down. Fucking lucky me right? I’m already anxious about it and keep making excuses not to bother. For me buying a bra to fit my lungs that comes directly off a shopping rack is not as easy as it sounds. I haven’t bought a bra from Target or K-Mart EVER!! They don’t stock the sizes to fit melons. Bra’s n Things claim to fit larger busts, but I haven’t been able to buy a bra from there in over a decade, and that was ordered in. To add to all the frustration, I have never purchased a bra under $50.00, hence why I make them last two years.


Cha Cha’s, Hooters, Balcony, Sex can be interesting with a set of cha cha’s doing their own tango. They get in the way constantly, banging and slapping around, not at all graceful or sexy. I mean this is just my opinion and I am certain my hubby thinks differently. Men seem to love the varying sizes of hooters, the bigger the better apparently. I guess its easy to love something that’s not hanging off their chest and constantly being the resident bench for toast crumbs or dripping soup. Having a balcony that’s perched under your chin I guess can be an advantage at times… I’m trying to think of an example, just give me a minute…

Grillwork, Headlights, Fun Bags, Jugs, The weather can create havoc with your headlights, full beam is really embarrassing when you’re wearing a sheer shirt… or not so sheer shirt. Oh and there’s another subject, shirts! Buttons on fucking shirts are a decent-set of jugs, arch nemesis. A shirt will burst open at the most inauspicious time, guaranteed, showing the whole audience your Grillwork. I bet not one of the blokes in the audience will tell you that your fun bags are showing their stuff!


Knockers, Bosom, Titty, Norgs Obscenely huge fake bosoms are just ridiculous. Having lived with a pair of knockers that weigh more than a small child, I cannot understand the reasoning that is behind women increasing their norgs to unrealistic proportions. Having a titty job makes sense when it’s for self-esteem and within normal parameters but going from an already busty D cup to a boob the size of a beach ball is fucking bawdy, wanton and outrageous in my eyes.

Chest Pillows, Honkers, Lady Lumps, Boobies, Rib Bumpers, Naturally I inspect my boobies often and I love them most when I stretch my arms up high above me head. Go on ladies, tell me you’ve never done that… This action tends to lift my honkers UP and they sit there on my breast-plate looking like a perfect set of rib bumpers. I’ve considered a reduction, more times than I can count, but I’ve come to the understanding that my chest pillows are just how they’re meant to be. Yeah they might be heavy and my backs rooted because of them; and yeah they cost me a fortune and create un-necessary stress, but I’m not sure I could deal with the pain of surgery, the scarring and then the chance that the surgeon might fuck it up royally and I end up with a pair of ugly, funky shaped lady lumps that I hate more than I did before. I’ll just leave them be.

Who wants to come bra shopping with me?

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


Chloe Elizabeth

I wasn’t a huge doll lover and never owned a Barbie or Ken doll. To be honest I thought Barbie was over rated; even more so when my sister got the ‘Twist n Curl’ Barbie after she was diagnosed with Viral Meningitis. Clearly in our house we had to be on our death-bed to get anything remotely cool, so just not wanting them was easier than the disappointment of never receiving something that you really fucking wanted. I remember being so jealous of her. I hated that Barbie.

I owned a Crissy Doll though. She was almost as tall as me, with bright red hair that pulled out through a hole in her head to create a long pony tail. A string hanging out of her back was the cord that pulled her hair back in again. She was, in all honesty, the ONLY doll I ever owned. She looked even more beautiful after I painted her lips and nails with red nail polish. She was now Crissy the street-walker! Think I might have even cut her hair at one point, thinking that the hair machine I imagined lived in her head would grow more… I was wrong, so she donned a rocking water-fountain-hairstyle out the top of her head from then on. Something like the female mammoth on Ice Age…

crissy doll

I always wanted a Cabbage Patch Doll but never got one. My best friend did though. And I loved her like my own. After all, I was her Auntie. Chloe Elizabeth Goldsmith is 30 years old today, where ever she is… she was loaned to a niece and from memory and never came home. Kidnapped. I am sure if she still lived with her Mum we would be throwing a big PARTAY this weekend. Chloe seriously went everywhere with Caroline and I. She had her own pram, clothes, nappies, bottle, dummy and even a bouncer like the old wire and crotchet bouncers that we laid in. She used to come for drives with us to Cards and Bingo and any other random trip away from Clunes. We would strap her into the seat belt between us on the back seat. This one night on the way home from the Melbourne Show, we almost hit a sheep on the side of the road. We are going back some time here so my memory is being tested but I think there was one further up the road that had been hit earlier. As we sat in the car silent after seeing a bloodied squished sheep and almost hitting one, one of us muttered “Baa Splat”. Chloe sat in between us as we giggled our heads off. “Baa Splat” has forever been an in-house joke between Caroline, her mum and I. Oh the boredom of a trip to Melbourne pre the Western Freeway.

Chloe wasn’t always known as Chloe, she was actually called Venora Hilda… Hmm. Caroline insisted that she have a name change. No idea why.


I’m seriously not laughing at you Carol… Hang on, yes I am. Sorry. What a fucking terrible name to give a doll. Have you ever actually googled the given names of Vintage Cabbage Patch Dolls? I have.

GIRLS                                                                 BOYS

Farica Scarlett                                                    Paola Paul
Babette Jocelyne                                                Radford Jervis
Myra Hope                                                          Floyd Herb
Norine Marietta                                                   Landon Chauncey
Cherry Cathyleen                                               Russ Sebastian
Laraine Cammie                                                 Denney Alex
Ariel Leila                                                            Derek Edric
Lucette Jacynth                                                  Sheldon Rex
Desirae Chandelle                                              Richie Donald
Lanette Ariana                                                   Oscar Dick
Jovany Lincoln                                                   Milton Reece

So it seems that our poor Chloe Elizabeth aka Venora Hilda wasn’t alone. She had a whole generation of patch siblings with weird arse names. I wonder how many adopted parents changed their adopted patch child’s name? I know I certainly would have.

Happy 30th Birthday Chloe Elizabeth! I hope you’re shredding it up somewhere this weekend, chugging back a couple of schooners with a handful of beers nuts. I bet you even married a Patch Bloke, and I even bet he has a weird arse name like yours… Derek Chauncey sounds original and fucked up enough to be a Patch name. Perhaps you have had baby brussel sprouts by now and are living in a Patch Village in Brussels… Oh stop it Nom! Enough already with the cabbage jokes.

Happy Birthday Venora Hilda!

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


Just Take Those Old Records Off The Shelf…

I sit and listen to them by myself,

todays music aint got the same soul,

I like that Old time a rock’n’roll.

Bopping away in my car this afternoon a song came on that I haven’t heard in like a BILLION years. ‘Old Time Rockin’ Roll’ being belted out by Bob Seger. Classic? Hell yes, but that’s not only why I love it. For me, and all my Grade six classmates it brings back the days of the Jim Welsh Dance Studio; and ten weeks of dancing lessons every Friday for two hours. Gosh it brought the hugest smile to my face.

Grade six was, in no doubt at all, the best year of my school life. I loved that year. I loved my friends but more so my Bestie, we were inseparable; sleep overs every weekend. Trips to I have no clue where with her Mum and old Bill in his chariot and out to Card Nights or Bingo in Ballarat. We would perch ourselves up on the bench seat in front and sing all the way to Ballarat. The vinyl seat smelled of plastic, it was hard and cold at night. The dash lights lit up the front seat, we’d push the square buttons on the radio to find a station.

My grade six teacher Miss Wilson, was the first lesbian I ever knew as it turned out. Yeah sure, I knew she was different, but back then you just didn’t think about that sort of stuff. She wore the coolest of clothes, bright fluro multi-coloured shirts and loose pants. I look back now and see it clear as day, but to me she was just Miss Wilson who took no shit from anyone. I looked up to that, and to her and credit her for part of my back bone. She was fucking awesome. While other kids hated her, I thought she was cool.

Marge Welsh our dance instructor, who was the coolest old chook ever. She could seriously DANCE! She had a bit of Flash Dance going on. The studio was upstairs and very un-air-conditioned! It would be stinking hot up there. The class would climb the old stairs into the huge room. Light flooded in through the windows. The old wooden floor was worn from millions of trods and clops over it. It smelled of sweat and wood. Partnering up standing in a great big circle we would fox trot, waltz and rock’n’roll. I always had the same partner, who back then was my boyfriend – who is now my brother in-law. Ha, sounds so incestuous and naughty, but I promise you there was a good 15 years between those dances and the one he danced with my sister on their wedding day. I remember dancing with my future hubby too, he was always happy to grab hold of me back then, but I never really realised until later on that he had a thing for me all the way back then. There was always that awkward space between the dancers and Marge would have to encourage us to come together. “Come on” she would say “They wont bite!” as she flicked around the room pushing couples together.

jim welsh studio

I remember the hot summer at the local pool, melting choc buds on the scorching hot metal plate that covered the pool filters. We practically lived at the pool, the whole town centred around it. It was the social hub, the place to be. “Bombing” competitions where the local hunk what’s-his-face-Millar always won. He was stunning back then, bronzed, muscled… groooowl! All the boys were something to look at back then. Days of not worrying about sunburn, or anything else except Cath giving you a free dim sim or two at the end of the day.

Not a worry in the world back then, just listening to Bob Seger belting it out in the background on Risky Business while Tom danced his way to stardom with a mop and sunnies to star in Top Gun; Wham was waking us up before we go-go and fucking John Farnham pre retirement six times wasn’t the “Retiring Jack!” he was apparently Whispering and the rest of the worlds artists came together and sung We Are The World; Grease was still a staple flick and BMX Kids were burning up the arse of the late cast of Stand By Me; rah-rah skirts bounced and hair bows held back a spiral perm while we danced to Madonna in tulle before she morphed into a talented, pointy titted old lady. Those were the days.


Vale Marge Welsh. I am saddened to learn that Marge passed away last month. She must have taught thousands of children and adults to dance. What a great loss her passing is.

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



Kids sniffing; the constant babble and mumbling to themselves, complaints about it. Right now I’m being ear bashed by a dry sniff that’s about two seconds long. You know the kind? The burning sniff of air sucked out into Mars’ atmosphere. It echoes off his bedroom walls, slams into the hallway walls and bounces around the lounge. My fourteen year old son has a nose that is always running. Particularly when he is in bed or sitting still. We’re close to having some sort of procedure to fix the fucking sniffing. Perhaps my finger shoved up his nostril to my second knuckle might fix it? Its driving me fucking NUTS.

He’s been subscribed a nasal spray, which he hates to use. He protests constantly about it when I suggest that just perhaps, it might stop him from sniffing his brains back down the length of his spine and into his arse? It seems that using a whining tone in a choir boys voice is much more Mum annoying and effective as he snorts and complains that it (the nasal spray) “runs” out his nose, which apparently is way more annoying for him than sniffing a fucking billion and one times. He claims “it does nothing Mum!” Or worse yet, he’ll blow his nose that fucking hard he’s lucky that his brains are actually in his fucking arse.

Yet, after two continuous days of use we are generally greeted with a non-sniffing boy, who doesn’t realise he’s not fucking sniffing… but it clearly doesn’t work. Yup!

Why is sniffing one of the most annoying sounds? It has got to be one of the most ear offensive sounds ever; well to me it’s definitely up there. The back of the throat snort that raises the dead just turns my gut. A dripping, slippery sniff that pulls down the neck as far as ones lungs every 5 seconds is enough to really fuck some ones day, particularly mine.

My kids aren’t the only sniffers, of this I know. Using public transport can be just has hazardous to my already bleeding ears. I’ve been privy to adults sniffing like 4 years olds. Wiping their green snot across sleeves, leaving a dry silvery track across their arm. The joy of it. Grown men too busy playing on their phone to blow their nose, instead, lets just sniff… sniff… sniff… sniff… sniff… for the entire thirty minute train ride. You wanker!

Anyways, he’s asleep now. Not sniffing: the serenity and no, my finger is not lodged up into his cranium. But wait, there it is… sniiiiiiiiif! He’s lucky my moccasin isn’t a direct throw from the lounge or he’d be copping a moccy forehead slap.

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


Fucket List

Sitting in my car yesterday I just happened to be on the right radio station to observe the minute silence for our Australian Cricket Legend the late Richie Benaud, who passed away overnight, aged 84 years. There wouldn’t be many people in Australia, and dare I say the cricket world who wouldn’t know who he is. The man who wore white, the off white, the ivory and the beige. The man who said two for two hundred and twenty-two with such an individual sound through a pursed lip; many of us replicated it, over and over. He was and will for ever be the voice of Australian Cricket commentary. Sitting there in silence I succumbed to something that completely took me by surprise. A pang of grief and loss. I never really knew him obviously. I guess it doesn’t matter, does it? I’m sure I am not alone, he will be missed.

I guess it just got me thinking about how short life is. Eighty four years really isn’t that long. Well I don’t think it is. All my life until now I have looked forward to birthdays, to reaching milestones, my sixteenth, my eighteenth and even my thirtieth birthday. It’s after you reach the near forty mark that you start thinking, fuck, I might only have forty years left… that last forty really fucking flew by. And, then I start thinking about how perhaps I wont live until eighty, what if I only get to sixty or worse like Mum, bloody 52? Never in my life have I been more aware of my age; more aware of just how quick things happen; more aware of my own mortality and of the mortally of those around me, my husband, my sisters, my friends and family. It’s ridiculous to focus on, and not even remotely beneficial for my sanity but I can’t be the only one who doesn’t think about this. Or am I?

As relationships I once relied on and held precious fall apart, today I focus more on what is still around me. Fuck all those who don’t give a rats arse about me, I don’t have time to waste on it wondering if they will ever try to fix the wrong, I clearly don’t have the years left to waste worrying and if I’m not worth their worrying then they sure as shit aren’t worth mine. Right? Yesterday I thought differently, I wondered if it was worth my worry. Not today. Not anymore. My Great Uncles death three days ago along side Richie’s a day later has been a catalyst for my self-preservation. Both lived to a ripe old age… I hope I do too.

If I live another forty years I’ll be happy. Fuck the unobtainable bucket list that most can’t afford. Ticking a bunch of things off a long list of things I’ll never be able do wont ever make me happy, it’ll just make me unhappy and broke-r. So I’ve decided to do a no cost obtainable Fucket List; and here it is.

  1. Have my long over due echocardiogram done… yes I know, fuck it, it’s not really my idea of fun either but at least I’ll know my ticker is still okay.
  2. Tell my boys and my hubby that I love them every day. I tell them everyday anyways but fuck it, they’re gunna keep hearing it. I never heard it as a kid.
  3. I’m going to jump off the Altona Pier, yup fuck that too, just not at low tide!
  4. Play a game of Scrabble and use a 10 point tile on a triple points square TWICE in the same game! Yeah take that Scrabble board. You watch me slap down those words zoo and xray on your bright red squares.
  5. Borrow a Nintendo Console and play Mario Bros all day. Housework? Fuck it, I’m going to clock that shit!
  6. Learn a second language, thinking Greek or Italian. Been on my mind most of my life so fuck it, I’m going to give that a whirl.
  7. Touch a snake, yes a real one. I’m shitting proverbial bricks already!
  8. Finish the lace edging on my Great Grandmothers tablecloth, (that she started). It’s been sitting in my closet for almost ten years so fuck it all, I better just get it done yeah?
  9. Drink a pot of Stout.. crook! Ugh, fuck it, why don’t I just skull it…? Yeah why don’t I? Who’s bloody idea was that?
  10. Ride a horse again… I’ll just wear all three of my bras, fuck it, maybe my tits will rip right off!
  11. Donate blood. I hate needles but hey, fuck it, let’s go get a free bickie and cup of tea.
  12. Run 10 kilometres again. Probably going to take me a while to get to that stage again coz fuck I’m unfit.
  13. Eat a packet of Popping Candy. Might seem simple to you but I couldn’t stand the sensation as a kid. My head will explode.
  14. Change my bed linen for seven days in a row, just so I can pretend I’m in a swanky motel. Who doesn’t fucking love the feel of fresh sheets?
  15. I’m going to chuck a party for all my “Goddies”, all seven of them just coz I want to.
  16. Weld some steel together. LOL yeah I’m serious, I reckon I’d be good at it. While I’m at it I might even use a grinder and grind that shit too! I’m gunna look rocking in my leg warmers and leotard doing Flash Dance in Ben’s shed.
  17. If I can find a friend we’re going to play Elastics, like the good old primary school days. I was sooo fucking good at that game.
  18. Start writing letters again and actually fucking post them. Be ready people, I’m getting some ‘pen friends’!
  19. Chop down a fresh pine tree for Christmas this year. Who has a little beat box car I can lend at the end of the year? My sisters and I have some chopping to do!
  20. Write my memoirs.

So there you have it. A list of shit I’m going to do THIS year. I need some buddies to help me, so start putting your hands up.

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