I read today that Britney Spears ex security guard has dobbed her into the American version of DOCS for allegedly taking to her two small boys with a belt and feeding them food that caused them to react violently to their allergies.

Now if this is true, shame on you Brit, not cool.  But to be honest, I always had this idea in my head that the rich and famous kind of just well, you know, avoided all the hard stuff.
 
I mean doesn’t she have minions to get cross at her kids?  And cooks who just organise nutritional meals 24/7? After arsenic hour is complete, I’d like to think she just drifts on in ready with warm and loving hugs whilst accompanied by soft violins and candlelight.   Isn’t that what separates her life from mine? 
 
I guess I’m only wondering this because today I awoke to the sweet, sweet smell of faeces.  Well, actually no, scrap that, I firstly awoke to Maddie whispering loudly about 2 inches from my face “MUM!  Jack has done a poo on the toilet floor”.  My eyes flicked open quicker than Kevin Rudd called the removalists.

“What?”

Maddie, almost apologetically mumbled “Sam is running around out in the hallway saying he can’t POSSIBLY use the toilet”.  Newsflash Sam, we have two toilets; Dad installed the other one over a month ago.
 
Still, I had that sinking feeling.  Turns out that feeling was justified.  There on our poo brown tiles (note – white grout), was a slightly darker shade of poo.  And it was mushed like mashed potato.   I, as a fully grown adult have never, as far I as I can remember, crapped out something as large as my three year old managed to today.    Perhaps I should stop right now and tell you, lovely reader, I’m about to massively over share.  Actually maybe I should have done that about two paragraphs ago.
 
Imagine being in your pyjamas with copious amounts of sleep in your eyes, three children inexplicably hovering around the mountain of poo whilst simultaneously trying to keep the kitten from eating said mountain, all the while struggling to work out what in the fuck is going on.   Well, that was me. 
 
Now, for some reason, I don’t reckon the Britstar has found herself in this kind of situation.  I’m pretty sure that shit (literally) would have been cleaned up well and truly before she arose from her slumber.  Nor would there be a rude awakening to find the kitten pissing on the folded washing in the corner.   But maybe I’m making wild assumptions here.

Maybe Brit is a hands on “Mom” and gets up at sunrise when her children do.  Perhaps just like me, she wakes up hearing Lego men being dropped like bombs onto her timber floor.  Perhaps she gets up and makes them early morning Milo and gets quite cross when, for the fourth morning in a row, one child cannonballs themselves into the other whilst holding that Milo. 
 
Do we just imagine the rich and the famous live such different lives to us?  Surely no amount of money gets you out of childbirth of some description?  Surely no amount of cred means you don’t have to wipe your own bum?  And like any other mother, I imagine she loses her shit from time to time.  Actually I reckon we (the common people) are lucky to some degree.  We don’t have a third party stranger watching us 24/7 who sees us lose our patience, sometimes unfairly, with the little ones.  No one is generally there who keeps a keen eye on say, our meal choices and tut-tuts when we decide a pie & chips night is the best we can manage.  
 
I always marvel at Oprahs fluctuating weight.  I mean, I excuse my weight gain and lack of organic, healthy eating by blaming my innate lack of ability to plan and my complete busy-ness.  Surely, as the richest woman IN THE FREAKING WORLD, she could just employ someone to prepare really healthy yet tasty food and then just pay someone to whirl her round on an Ab-King Pro?

I digress.
 
The point is, we all lose our shit from time to time and hey, stand too close to my front door on some days and you may well hear what sounds like a screaming banshee with its arse on fire.  That would be me, telling off my kids for one reason or another.  Sure, not all of us shave our heads in front of millions and/or lose custody of our kids, and to be honest, if I see another photo of her having a ciggie above her kids head, I may very well go postal myself, but the point is, not one of us can say we are without fault. Can we?

One day, I am going to buy a recipe journal. And in that journal, I will keep all of my favourite recipes so I don't have go through the third drawer of shit every time I want to make something.

You know the drawer. The third drawer down in the kitchen. 
 
The first one of course is for your general cutlery.  Knives, spoons, forks, that kind of malarkey.  Although, you’d be hard pressed finding a spoon in ours due to our tragic teaspoon shortage.  I am still yet to determine who the spoon thief in the household is but I am heavily suspicious of Jack.  Where he is stashing these will no doubt present itself in the coming weeks.  Luckily, it’s hard to flush metal.
 
The second drawer down houses the big ticket items.  You know, the super dooper apple slicer, the peeler, bamboo skewers, salad servers with gigantic carrots on them, the can opener and the Teflon tube that apparently peels garlic, although no one has ever attempted this nor are they ever likely to. Why it hasn’t been turfed out is another Mystery Mum mystery.
 
That brings me to the third drawer. Now the actual drawer number may differ in your house, but I bet every single one of you have one – The third drawer down of shit.
 
In this drawer, all kinds of miscellaneous paraphernalia can be found.  In particular, nuts, bolts, batteries,  inappropriate wrapping paper, warranties and recipes scrawled on the back of empty envelopes.
 
I only write about this today because last night I was desperately trying to find a recipe for quiche that is unfuckerupable. It is idiot proof and I knew it was in that drawer SOMEWHERE.

On my way to (not finding it) I did encounter the following:

134 balloons and equal amount, candles:  Every day is a party at Chez Mystery Mum it seems.
 
Copious amounts of nuts and bolts:  Note, these will NEVER EVER be used for anything because whatever they belonged to has no doubt been chucked out in some sort of cleansing frenzy we go on from time to time.

Two, Twenty-first birthday cards: They will be very handy in about, oh, 11 years.

A ball of string:  I think this is just a mandatory third drawer of shit item. 

A set of unidentified keys:  I have a feeling these have followed us from house to house, but we are both too frightened to throw them out. Why I don’t know, because we’ve replaced every single door in this house and our cars have central locking.  I will approach Phil tonight about throwing them out.  I guarantee you he’ll say no.  It seems for every semi-new toy  he throws out behind my back, he scouts out a new key to add to this collection.

A mini shoe horn:  Can’t tell you much about this, other than the fact it’s mini and it’s not mine.  And no one ever uses it.

A double adaptor: I'm pretty sure this would blow up our house if it were to be plugged in.

A coke bottle label:  Apparently we still think we might be the lucky winner of a competition from 2006.  

Our bank book from January 2004.  For a bank account that no longer exists. Seriously??

3 Printer install disks: none of which we own any longer. 

Last but not least, our warranties:  We seem to have the enviable ability to keep warranties for each and every Fisher Price toy we’ve ever received (and probably no longer even own), yet bugger me if I can find the receipt for the camera I bought just over a week ago.  I only know this, because I was about to take a photo of the third (and fourth it appears) drawer of shit for the post and it won’t work. 
 
Anyway I couldn’t find my quiche recipe.   Fuck knows where it is, but it certainly doesn’t live in either of those two drawers.  This led to me moaning to anyone that would listen, that I need a journal.  A dedicated recipe journal and the feedback was mixed.
 
Some of you say you’ve got one and keep it well maintained.  Some say you have a blog where all the great recipes are kept for prosperity and sharing purposes.  Some, like me, say they shove them in a drawer and pull them out every 6 months or so and a few said they couldn’t understand why I was cooking when I have a perfectly good husband.    I liked the last person very much.
 
Actually, we share the cooking load and don’t get me wrong, we have our bog standard meals that get  cooked week in, week out, but sometimes, I want something exotic (not last night clearly, quiche is more Fountaingate than Barbados), but you know what I mean.  Hence I think it's time to grow up and get myself organised. 
 
Now, I have a camera receipt to track down.  It could be on top of the fridge.  That is my second favourite place to horde really important stuff.

I’d love to hear what you do.  Do you have a journal or box?  What about a dedicated drawer of shit?  Or am I just totally alone in this one. 

I’m going to have a whinge.  Let’s face it, apparently it’s what we women do best, and if it were an Olympic sport, I sincerely hope I would be a contender for at least the silver after I get this off my chest.

I spent a good, solid hour yesterday cleaning my car from top to bottom, inside and out. If you’ve read about my cesspit of a car before, you’ll know this is quite a rare event for me.  But because today was my 40,000km service (let’s just pretend the  odometer doesn’t sit at approximately forty-six thousand k’s right now) I figured I better make the Jazz pretty for the mechanics, lest they think I don’t lub her enough.

So, after ripping off the car seat cover that was inadvertently involved in a game of hold the coffee yesterday, I discovered some disgusting and unidentified scuzz.  Could be mould, could be dirt, could be a combo.  Hmm, that neck rash Sam is sporting suddenly starting to make sense.  Anyhoo, the scuzz was the least of my problems. 

Even after the cleanfest, the fact that the drive-thru kid at KFC (don’t judge me, it was a Friday night and I was rooted) dropped all of our Pepsi max cans on the bitumen which in turn, caused them to explode and basically shoot paint stripper at my duco, didn't really bother me.

It wasn’t even the fact we had to get up at with the sparrows fart to get the car in for servicing at the local Honda dealership that got to me.  Well, it bothered Maddie who has comfortably fallen into the teenage sloth fest that sees her sleep in until lunchtime if allowed. 

No, not much worried me actually, prior to rocking up to the big fuck-off, newly built Honda mechanical workshop.  I got out of my car and waited like a plubber at reception waiting for someone to acknowledge me and then I handed over my keys. That’s when I noticed something was amiss. 

See these guys have pre-printed invoices, seeing as it’s a standard service and all, and I noticed the figures 703.  Oh, I thought to myself, that must be the code for the 40K service.   Doubtful.    So I decided to ask what price I could expect to pay when I picked it up.

Now, here is where I should tell you that this is my first ever, brand new car.  As such, I swore on a bible to Phil (OK, so we don’t own a bible, but you know, I was deadly serious and shit) that I would a) keep the car clean, tidy and the children would NEVER, EVER eat in it and  b) I would religiously log book service it.  One out of two ain’t bad.  Oh shit, that’s two out of three ain’t bad.  Damn you Meatloaf.

Anyway, I made vows and I intended to stay true to them.  But let’s face it, when you spend a fair amount of your time in the car when your kids are particularly hungry, the vow* of though shalt not inhale French fries whilst you drive around in the Jazz, goes out the (electric) window.

Again, I digress.  The servicing part I have stuck to. For the first time in my life, I have looked after a car mechanically and in fear of voiding my 5 year warranty, have always taken it to the Dealership I brought it from.   You know what?  I know they did fuck all when I dropped it in for the last, oh, say 5 services.  I’m well aware that they just topped up the oil and drove it through their carwash and I happily parted with $200 for the privilege.
 
But this time, well this time, when I asked the question I mentioned so long ago in this post, the smarmy front reception guy said to me “Oh, $700 assuming we don’t find any trouble”.  What the fuck?  Dude, if you find any “trouble” it will be me, kicking you in the nuts for ripping me off.

Still, I handed over my keys.  I mean, I'd made that vow.  I wanted a good, safe and warrantied up car.  And hey, I expected it to be a little more this time, but not more than $400.   Walking back to my waiting husband and his idling car, Jack yelled to me at about 1000 decibels through his open window, that he had “just found snot up his nose”. I watched my family faces change from gleeful to confused as I turned and walked back towards the dealership.  

I went back inside and got my keys from Smarm and made a vague excuse of bringing it back soon and "not expecting it to cost so much".  Like he gave a shit.  It just meant he could go home earlier on a Saturday. 

Phil cursed a lot on the way home.  There was a lot of “That’s bullshit” and “Seven hundred dollars?” being bandied back and forth.  I got home, rang around and found a great place that will do it for, get this, two hundred and fifty dollars.    No voided warranty, no planting my foot into anybodys genitals**, it truly is a win win situation.

 
* I think I am confusing vows and commandments somehow.

** I'm pretty sure I’ve never actually kicked anyone in the nuts.  Although, my memory is hazy and I may or may not have kicked my brother in the ghoulies in my pre-teen years.  Sorry Les.

No I’m not trying to flog you some unnecessary Foxtel goodness.  I’m wishing you a Happy End of Financial year.

For a living, during the day, I prepare tax returns.  Now, now, don’t go all Justin Bieber fanlike and mob me, I know it’s pretty awesome.

But to be honest, the beginning of a new financial year in an Accounting practice is actually quite exciting.  For one, we get REALLY busy.  And for two, we, um, get to use our mad tax skillz and get people massive refunds.  Sometimes.  Not always.  Please don’t hate me....

I joke, but I’ve been at my current job for nearly ten years.   I’ve been in the tax game, with a small break in transmission here and there,  for 18 years. 

But I’m guessing like anyone who’s ever worked for someone, it’s only a matter of time before you realise, it’s not about the work you do necessarily, but the people you work with.   I’ve worked at a few dodgy places.  Some where the principals idea of preparing journal entries was sticking his hand down your blouse (he didn’t actually crack on to me, but I was warned several times to be wary) and another where the guy was masquerading as an accountant, solicitor and a real estate agent combined, and was prepared to pay me the big dollars to shut up and just go with it.  Hmmm, no thanks.  Funnily enough, after years of watching Prisoner, my desire to have my head slammed in an ironing press and to become the prison wardens bitch wasn’t high.  So I quit. 

That aside, after working for a wonderful boss, I’ve learnt quite a few things in my time that might just help out the uninitiated with preparation of tax returns and the like this year.  Having said that, this information,  to the general population will be (as Alf from Home and Away would say) stating the flaming obvious.

Keep your receipts!!!  Far out, the amount of people who come in and tell us that they want us to get them “most of their tax back” and then give us fuck all in the way of receipts, just astounds me.  Hang on there young fella, I just need to grab my magic wand and conjure up some kind of mystical law-fucking spell that allows me to do that.  We need to see evidence.  End of story.

Don’t listen to the Pub Accountant.  A few beers, a few peanuts and the advice starts to flow.  “My mate Johnno gets all of his tax back EVERY SINGLE YEAR”.  That’s because he claims his pool, and his married mans tax and he says he works from home and claims his whole house as a tax deduction.  OH REAAAALLLY?  It is so incredibly dangerous to listen to this shit.  What you’ve got to understand, is that your accountant will be doing their damnedest  (well the good ones anyway) to get you the best, legitimate tax outcome. That way, you can recommend them to others. Why on earth would we be trying to get you the shittest refund in history?  Do you think we enjoy death threats?  Let me tell you from experience, we don’t. 

Don’t smoke heaps of pot before coming into see your accountant.  I really don’t think I need to elaborate.

We are not the enemy.  In fact, we work for you and not the tax office.  But, we do have to use their laws and guidelines.  Please don’t treat us like bits of shit and tell my boss that you hope “she dies over the weekend” because Child Support took all of your refund.    Not cool.

Your refund will take 14 days.  Not 10.  Not 7.  Especially, not 4.  Please don’t keep ringing; we will contact you the minute it arrives in our letter box.  This has been especially hard since the Australian Taxation office implemented a new software system that completely shit itself in December last year.  Think QLD health pay bungle and multiply it by 5.  Yep, that fucked.  Hoping to hell it’s fixed by July 1.
 
Last but not least, if in doubt, ask!!  The old mantra there are no stupid questions, only stupid answers, totally applies here.  However, if you do not listen to the reasonable answer you are given and just continue on to be a fuckwit, I reserve the right to hang up on you.  OK, so, sorted??  Good.

Happy EOFY everyone and best of luck with the tax man.

As  I write this, Phil is out getting me a birthday present.  Now, we kind of agreed a few years ago, after the kids came along, that we wouldn’t exchange presents.  Because, let’s face it, if either of us want something, we  generally just go out and get it.  Bunnings and Phil have quite the history of this.   And well, on top of that, his money is my money and vice versa. 

Don’t worry, we've never actually stuck to this plan.   I even made it dead easy for him by getting a Pandora bracelet a couple of Christmas’ ago.     There is always a sneaky present of some sort that comes out for him though.  In fact, previously,  I had become increasingly creative with my  present ideas for him.  Twenty laps in a race car with a racing legend, Jet boating, deposit on a surfboard of his choice,  you get the picture. It seems though, these kind of gifts require forward thinking and well, a bit of motivation. 

But this year I just don’t know what happened.  All of a sudden, it was the day before his birthday and I had Jack Shit.    No, not just the saying, I literally had Jack shit.  All over the toilet.   In his pants, on the sheets, in fact, there was so much of it, he was ready to star in his very own Gastro Boy.   So we made a mercy dash to the shops and all I could manage to get him was a plain block of Cadbury chocolate.  Regular Size.  And NOTHING ELSE.

I knew he was disappointed.  I think he might have even  been thinking as the day went on, that I would surprise him game show style, with a snowboard and trip to Perisher.   Bupbow.

The other thing is, we are really trying to finish this house and therefore any unnecessary spending has been ruled out.  We discussed this and I thought he was on board with the plan.  I guess not if todays comment of “I only need 5 minutes to get your present.  I know where the lolly aisle at Woolies is”  Shazam.

I have heaps of friends who just go out and buy the coffee machine they want and tell their husband when he gets home  to “Go look in the kitchen and see what you got me for my birthday big boy”.  Or “Check out these diamond earrings, Happy Birthday to me, thanks darling”.  Whilst I reckon this saves the bullshit of pretending you love the gift you get, (hello earrings from mothers day), it also takes away the exciting part of birthdays – the surprise.

And I think I get my fill of surprises with the kids.   I just about spoil the living shit out of them.  When they ask for toys during the year, I always tell them, “How about you ask for it for your birthday”.  So when the birthday does eventually roll around, I want to deliver.  And when I say spoil, I’m not saying stacks and stack of money on presents, I mean I want them to feel like they are the most special person in the world, for an entire day. 

I’ve always thought the best presents are the ones you can’t buy.  And my only request every year from Phil is a “no strings attached” massage.  Or as someone put it the other day “A massage with no happy ending”.  There is nothing I covet more.   That and a new handbag.  But, just quietly, I’ll be picking that one myself. 

In reality though, as much as I wouldn’t say no to a "Bradley Cooper  jumping out of a gigantic birthday cake surprise", I’m thinking my present may be more along the lines of a snack sized packet of Cheese and Bacon Balls.

Seriously though, it’s just stuff and on most days, having each other and a roof over our heads is enough.   

“The happiest people don't necessarily have the best of everything... They make the best of everything they have...”  (Thanks Emily)

Addendum:  He has just returned home with a jumbo sized ladder strapped to the back of his car.  For Moi??

I recently came across my daughters weekend journal from year one.
   
This is the Journal where they write, every Monday morning,  about what they got up to on to on their weekends.  It was so cute and hilarious.  Oh how we laughed.

Until of course, I realised after I actually started reading her somewhat stilted words properly, that she had the teacher convinced Phil and I were divorced and more than likely teaching her to speak ghetto.
 
I vaguely remember some odd, concerned and at times, downright questioning looks when picking her up from school, but it never occurred to me she might be painting me as a tainted woman. 
 
And look, things start off quite sedate in the journal:
 
“Yesterday I went to the Bitch for a piknic”  Translation. She went to the beach for picnic.  Unlikely.  I mean, maybe we went to the beach.  Maybe I was being a bitch.  Unlikely her weekend would have involved a picnic in either scenario though.
 
“today I am gowhang to Mi Dads hows”  The Teacher responded with “I hope you have fun at your dad’s house”. Translation.  So, you’re mum and dad are divorced,  noted.  – Except we weren’t and never were.  This is where the lies begin.
 
“On Sunday I am going to Sidny Habr Brig”  - Sydney Harbour Bridge.  I can safely say, she’s never seen that bridge or been to Sydney. 
 
“On Monday, I am going to the Zoo bEcause We are going to move housers”  This came with a picture of a moving truck and six other cars.  Perhaps we won the lotto in her imaginary life.
 
“On Sadurday I am going to my dads house because I messe him vere much” Even though she saw him every day.  In her own house.
 
“This afternnon I am going To ride my bike with my brothel and my mum and I am going to Sizzler”   Cause you know, that kind of work makes a kid hungry for cheese toast.
 
On a Fathers day card: “Dear Dady, you are speceal because you read me books and takes me to the beatch, Love Maddie xxxooo”  Take that Beatch.   That’ll teach you to leave your wife and take the kids on interstate trips to the zoo without advising your ex-wife.
 
“Dear Santa, I hope you hav a god Christmas.  I thincy you are had. I would like a barbie doll please.  From Maddison”.  Don’t worry honey, now you’re old enough to understand, I think you know it’s you who’s been had.
 
Only just over a year ago, Sam’s teacher, in my first parent teacher interview with her, asked me why he goes up to his Grandfathers on the train every weekend.  A)  His grandfather lives in Burleigh  B) He sees him about four times a year. And C) we drive him there in a car.  Apparently he had Mrs Bourke convinced he lived with his grandfather on the weekends and he took a train to get there.  Yeah, NO.
 
I guess my main question is why did my children make up stories about,  or idolise alternative lives to the ones they were living.  Did they hear their friends talking about staying with different parents and it sounded exotic?  Would writing “We went to Aldi and mum flipped out when she found a stainless steel door stopper for $4.99” just sound too mundane?  Actually, yeah, I think I’m starting to understand.

I recently put it out there – how much coffee is too much coffee to ingest in one day?

I would have, on an average day, three, maybe four coffees in a 24 hour period.  But I have two teaspoons of coffee at home when I make instant.  So is that really eight?

Jesus, that eye twitch is starting to make sense.

And the thing is, I had not touched coffee until my first office job, aged 17.  Not even a sip, but to curb both my boredom and appetite, I got stuck into the coffee.   Plus, I had to make it for my geriatric boss who would demand one via internal phone whenever he felt like it.  Only problem was, I was a coffee virgin and thus, it afforded me the luxury of completely fucking it up. Every. Single. Time.   He stopped asking me after a while.

But being a teenager with a rapidly expanding ass due to going from active high school girl, to stationary office minger in one month, made me want to fill the gaps in my always hungry tummy with something that wasn’t food.  Hellloooo Nescafe.  *gag*
 
My addiction seemed to ramp up after my first child.   Every morning, I would take the two of us down to a coffee shop, usually the same one, and enjoy my first real coffee of the day.  It wasn’t my first one of the day, mind, just my first real one, from a real machine.    I swear to god it was my saviour in those first few months where my mind was mush and everything revolved around nappies, sleeplessness, milk and spew.  It got me out. It got me speaking to other humans and it got me a little bit happy.  So happy in fact, I would often go on a shopping frenzy for shit I didn’t need.   Story of my life.  Hey look at that, I’ve traced it back, I blame the evil brown bean for my shopping addiction. Damn you and your underhanded high.

My best friend resolutely avoided coffee until about 3 years ago. She went to a friends, for morning tea and for one reason or another, she accepted a coffee.  Instantly hooked.  Into the latte sachets quicker than you can change Federal Governments and sucking back the cappuccinos on a regular basis.

Same friend just brought a Nespresso Machine. You know the one.  The one where George Clooney comes and licks your ear whilst presenting you with an awesome cup of coffee in bed with every machine purchased?*   We got a chance to sample some in Myer.  I was impressed.  Didn’t think I would be, but was. 
 
I also have two friends who don’t drink coffee.  At all.   One has agreed we need to meet for an alcoholic beverage should we ever be in the same state, the other drinks a truckload of V and probably has more heart palpitations than a fat kid at a cupcake party.

I do however, have little time for the pretentious wankers who turn up to a generic coffee shop and order a half caff, soy, extra hot, mini, non-fat chai tea latte.  FUCK. OFF. 

So, back to my original question – how much is too much.  I have settled on a limit of 3 a day.  2 before I get to work, one when I get there.  Sufficient stimulus to get me awake, functioning and get all four of us to kindy/School and work each day.    That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

How many do you do a day?

*May or may not be a bit of bullshit.

I grew up on the Gold Coast which means it was practically mandatory for me to wag school in year 12 and head down the beach on my oversized mens bike with ape-hanger handlebars and roast myself in the midday sun, lathered in baby oil. 

For some unknown reason, we never got busted.  Perhaps it was because no one ever noticed we were AWOL or more than likely, it was because our high school was just really shithouse at monitoring truancy.

Our favourite beach was Focus, so called this due to it being in front of a big round building as coincidence would have it, named Focus.  We spent every daylight, weekend hour on that beach.  Sunbaking, swimming and perving.    We spent every spare cent we had on Coconut Oil, Cheetah Togs and Oakley Sunglasses.

This all came flooding back to me on Sunday when I got a solid whiff of Reef Oil.  After letting off some heavy duty cockroach bombs inside our kitchen, we as a family had to get the hell out of dodge and decided to give the beach a whirl.

Now, again, living on the Gold Coast, you would think we would be down there most weekends, but to be honest, most weekends we run out of time.  Not to mention the fact that the surf beach is a 25 minute drive away (with the Broadwater being walking distance) and well, add to that fact that we are incredibly lazy, our beach days are limited. 

My kids love the beach and have seemingly zero fear of the waves.  Unfortunately on Sunday the waves were dumping like a footballer down a hotel hallway, so we had to be very careful, but for a winters day, it was sensational weather.

The reef oil of course wasn’t mine.  Not too far from where we dumped our plethora of shite which included sunscreen, towels, hats, two spare changes of clothes, the Sunday Mail, 25 monster trucks and my body weight in Tupperware, lay two young ladies in their bikinis.   Holy maxi family Batman, where the fuck did the family with the beach bag the size of Kansas come from?

What struck me was the fact that, there I was, in military issue clothing, caking my children in suncream and erring on the high side of the sun alert level and yet here these two girls were, (one a fair skinned ginger) slathering reef oil on and having little regard to the danger of the sun.

I know this sounds hypocritical, after I just explained what I did in my youth,  but I can honestly say, and let me be a Nanna for a moment, back in my day, we just weren’t alerted to the danger of the sun.  My own mother suggested I fry myself with pure olive oil to get a better tan for god sakes.   We would have competitions of who could rip the largest piece of second skin off a sunburnt back.    This would not have been the case if the dangers of the sun had been presented to us back then, the way it is now.

Now I take Jack into kindy and he must be covered head to toe in Sunscreen, have appropriate hat and stay out of direct sun during the midday hours.  Same with the school aged kids.  They are whiter than Michael Jacksons good hand, but so is most every other kid their age.

The thing about the beach is that it’s so versatile.  Of course there is the general, swimming and sunbaking aspect to it but on Sunday I saw it being used by a couple who were clearly distraught and taking some time out.  There was a group of American boys using the beach as a grid iron stadium and for a young girl and her boyfriend, it was being used as a daylight drivein complete with heavy duty makeout session. 

After two hours of swimming, driving cars through sand hills, making sand cakes, a couple of moments of going postal at Jack, kicking balls and sliding down the sand hills, we packed up our copious amount of shit and got cracking.  Well Jack tried to get to know the bikini girls a little better first by asking them why they “had their boobies out”, but then we got going. 

I do wonder if all of this will sink in to my daughter or whether her desire for a fabulous tan in her teens will outweigh all of the scare tactics.  She can always just have a close look at her mothers crows feet and freckly face. That should give any young kid pause for thought.

Today is a double bunger.  It is Phil's birthday and it is also our 11th Wedding Anniversary.

I have pre-written this as a) we have a hectic schedule between today and the last time I blogged and b) I want to enjoy this day.

It kind of just happened that we got married on his birthday.  It certainly wasn’t in our original “plan”.

See, we’d booked the church for September.  The dress was paid for and sitting patiently in my closet.  The venue had been narrowed down.   And then, well then I missed a very important date.  My period. 

So everything I had ready for nine months time, all those moments I had already lived out in my mind, exploded into a cloud of morning sickness and fear.

One thing I was sure of, I wanted to be married before I had that baby because otherwise, I knew we would just never, you know, get around to it.
 
And look, it’s not like we didn’t get quality time together before we got hitched.  We had been together for over four years.  We had been travelling, albeit to Bali a hundred times, but still.  We were living together and saving for a house.  So we knew what we wanted, we just didn’t realise our undies only need touch for me to fall pregnant.
 
So what to do?  I clearly remember feeling that ill during my first 16 weeks of my first pregnancy, I could barely get myself dressed and into work, let alone pull together a wedding for 80 people.  But somehow I did.  I would say we, but let’s face it, Phil just turned up (oh and fixed the drain, more on that soon).

And the date, well it just had to be that date. The reasons elude me now.  Perhaps I thought it would be cute to get married on his birthday.  I was only 23.  Maybe it was the only day those around me could definitely make it. I have no freaking idea, but that’s what we did.

So, going with the track record of the last, oh say 100 years of fairly mild, dry early winters, we organised for the ceremony to be held on the headland at Burleigh Beach.  My girlfriends and I would drive up there on the weekends proceeding the day, Savage Garden blasting and all four of us bubbling over with excitement.   We would map out where I would walk, where Phil would stand and look out onto the Ocean I expected to say our vows to.

But of course, fate had other plans for me.  I went to bed, the night before the wedding to the sound of pouring rain.  No problem I thought, it will stop.    I put my pillow over my ears so I couldn’t hear it.

Yet, the next day, it was still raining.  Ot Oh. 

June 5, 1999, was the rainiest day on the Gold Coast in over 16 years.  A fact I heard bandied about and marvelled over quite a few times during that day.  That and the old chestnut “Rain on your wedding day is good luck”.  Bet no one says that to a couple when they get married on a balmy sunshiny day. 

The wedding and reception was moved to my in-laws big, beautiful house in Burleigh.  I can honestly say I loved my day.  And even though my husband was on his parents roof 30 minutes before I was meant to arrive plugging a leaking drain, he too looked a vision when I eventually walked in on my brothers arm to “A groovy Kind of Love”. 

I remember lots of tears and a lot of love in that room that afternoon.  I remember a friend saying to me “That is the best ceremony I have ever been to; you could just tell the love between you two is real”.  That meant a lot to me.

We babymooned in Bali, one last time and enjoyed our last months as a married couple sans kids. 

4 months later, our lives changed again.  Again, there was rain event.  Seems we Morleys love a good rain event.  You can almost set your clocks to us.

So Happy Birthday Phil.  I asked your son Sam today how old he reckons you are.  He said “Well, considering he’s old and  crippled, I’d say the big four oh”.   You're not far off mate and even though you still haven’t moved past goggling tits on the interwebz and more than likely will never read this, I love you.  Happy Anniversary beautiful man.

So can a pair of shoes determine what kind of day you are going to have?  What about what kind of season you will be living through?

I am not a hippy, so normally; I would say a definitive – NO.

Why was it then, after wearing my new, lovely red wedges that I adore, I ended up in the Emergency Department at our local hospital, not once, but twice?

Now, these aren’t expensive shoes, nor are they are brand labelled.  In fact, these imitation leather, I believe the word is synthetic upper, high wedges were purchased at Target.

They were $8.92 in one of those, had to be there at the right time, 40% off the lowest marked price clearance sales.

I had first seen these shoes about two months before and had immediately loved them.  But red shoes, I thought, were for zany people.  Ones that wore bright green spectacles and were the brightest beacon in the room at any social event.  I just straight up passed them over for a similar pair of black ones.  Same cut, same design, just black.

And I wear a lot of black.  Particularly for two reasons:  a)  It trims down the appearance of my particularly large arse and b) I spill stuff on myself.  A lot.  Black is always going to be my new black.

But then one day, for no particular reason,  I wandered into Target, and there sitting in the clearance bin, discarded along with 2 pairs of gold lame’ slip on sandals that would do Demis Roussos proud,  were my red wedges.  Size 9.  I tried them on with my black work pants.   Great news, they fit.  Extra great news, they were comfortable. Fucking excellent news:  They were less than ten bucks!  SOLD.

The very next day, I went to work wearing my new Red Shoes.  Along with black skirt, a black top and a little black cardigan.  And I loved myself sick.  Compliments flowed.  Well, I work with 3 other people, so they I guess, they leaked, rather than flowed, but they were forthcoming none the less.

Just after lunch an unknown number flashed up on my mobile.   I ignored it with some flippant remark like “If they want me bad enough, they will call me at work or stop blocking their number”.     Turns out they did want me badly.  Very badly.  My eight year old son had fallen off the monkey bars at school.  Standard schoolyard folly one would think.  Except this wasn’t standard.  Basically not much connected his elbow anymore to the rest of his arm.

So after sitting in the ER, having being told his break was “as bad as it could possibly get” and being told they couldn’t guarantee he would ever use his arm again”, I put my head down, focused on my stupid red shoes and cried into my knees.

Good news:  his operation was successful.  An overnight stay. Yet, my red high wedges had one more appearance to make during this hospital stay.  See, my dear husband, stressed to his eyeballs, went home, grabbed me a tracksuit to sleep in, but no other shoes.  So if you happened to see a dishevelled lunatic wandering around the kids ward on the Gold Coast, wearing a mismatched tracksuit with high red wedges, you would have been looking at me.

Not one week later, I got ready for work, but knew something wasn’t right.  I put on my work outfit, yep black and my red shoes, first time since the last time.    Sam was lethargic.  And hot.  And well, just scaring the living shit out of me with his pale listlessness.  I think every parent knows this particular feeling.

I still went out that morning appearing to go about my business as normal, yet inside I just knew it would be anything but.  Sam and I went directly to the ER.  See, his arm had a 5% chance of getting an infection.  Highly unlikely the doctor informed me.  Well, you know what doc, after the year I’ve just had, highly and unlikely are just two words that I have heard bandied about one too many times.

So after a full day of having Sam assessed in the ER, we were admitted.  Likely infection in the arm.  Bad if it gets in the bones apparently. Sam, eight, small, the light of my life, just lying there, whilst I looked down at those god damned red shoes again and commenced my best impression of a prayer.    The next week was not pretty.  Countless cannulas, enough antibiotics to kill a hippo and equal amount of tears to break the outback drought.

Within two months, my mother died.  My two sons ended up in hospital with various degrees of broken bones.  My own mortality was tested.  Those shoes went to the back of the closet.

So, have I worn them again?  Have I tempted fate?  You betcha.

They are shoes, not the precursor to seven shades of shit that seem to have previously accompanied them.   Of course I always knew this; it’s just hard when you associate shite times with an inanimate object.

They now are starting to look a little dog eared.  They have scuffs and the weather is getting cooler and I want to wear boots.  But they will remain in my cupboard until next summer.

Next summer which can’t be as bad as the last.  I refuse to believe that.

My husband and I just had the conversation where he got to tell me "I told you so". 
 
By my very nature I am a sceptical person.  So when I started using twitter, I took it slowly. I followed people I knew, knew of or I was interested in.  And it wasn’t long until I was on my way. 

Phil was dubious.  “What are you doing, meeting dudes on there?”  And I guess, if he starting talking or tweeting to random people on the internet, I too would be a bit put out.  But it has never been about that.  Not for me anyway.  I talk to lots of people about lots of things.  And I’d like to think I’ve made some very strong and real connections since mid last year when I started “social networking”.  I’m not in it for the networking side, just the social bit.  Oh and the fact I am a bit of a news junkie, I find that the news travels to Twitter way quicker than TV or radio a lot of the time. 

I’m not looking for new best friends.  I’ve already got mine and they could never be replaced. 

It’s kind of hard to know though, when people are just showing you a facade on the net.  I mean, there are endless avenues to secure fake photos, personas and lives and basically turn themselves into anybody they would like to be. 
 
A year ago, I didn’t even really know what a blog was.  I was introduced by an acquaintance. She told me I should check out hers and gave me the web address.   The first thing I noted was that it was kind of like an online journal of her life.  I was intrigued.   So much of her life was on there.  I mean I knew her, she was also my neighbour and whilst I wouldn't say we hung out, I knew a fair bit about her.   Her blog displayed lots of crafty things she made.  She is very talented and absolutely gifted at holding kids parties.  But then again, if I did nothing all day, I reckon I could whip up a pretty outstanding Lego Man party myself.  It wasn’t long until she started to rant.  About stuff that I could see she was clearly being hypocritical about.   She made out she was the worlds biggest earth mother and dutiful wife, whilst in reality, she was good at keeping her husband firmly planted under her thumb and borrowing tools and gear off her neighbours and then hastily turning around and talking smack about them.    At one point, she called her husband home from work one day to clean her sons arse.  True story.

In short, her on-line and real life personas, just did not match up.  It was easy to make herself into something she wasn't.  What struck me though was that in the end, she was only deluding herself.
 
So, having said that do I change my mind on subjects?  Yes.  Do I say stuff in one breath and then maybe contradict myself in the next?  I don’t intend to but maybe I do?  When you are trying to entertain and be funny, sometimes situations are made to look more entertaining than they actually were. Let’s face it, me saying I stood in line with a tantrumming toddler whilst someone took too long at the ATM is not as funny as the way I blog about it.  But all in all, I’ve stayed true to who I am and what our family represent which is basically organised chaos. 
 
For instance I could not have made up the last year I have been through.    I just couldn’t have.  Cancer, broken bones, surgery, breast cancer scares, teeth pulled, tampon painting. Could I put all of that out there just for the fun of it?  Well I couldn’t.  You have to have a good memory to make it as a good lier.  And my mind is like a freaking sieve.
 
OK, so what this really is about is my last 48 hours.

During that time, it has come to light, someone I follow on Twitter, someone I have actually met in real life (only 1 of 2 I have actually done this with) turned out to be a total scammer and a fraud.

She led me, and a lot of other people to believe a lot of things that are simply just not true.  Basically, she sucked a lot of people into believing she was incredibly sick with cancer.  She made up fake people online that she used to con money from unsuspecting, good hearted people.

I should have followed my gut instinct.  That something was off.  That and the fact that she was incredibly rude to the majority of the retail assistants she spoke with that day.  But hey, she was meant to have cancer.  You can't call bullshit on someone with cancer over a "gut feeling". 
 
Where the lies start and end, at this point in time, are undefinable.  It was elaborate.  It was started at least over a year ago and a lot of good, smart and trusting people were sucked in.  The sad thing is, at the end of the day, if she really was sick, we all would have embraced her.  Probably even helped her out financially eventually should she have needed it.   But now, well now, she’s fucked herself.  And she’s tarnished a lot of what I thought was cool about this whole “community”, which is really sad, because I reckon 99% of the people I know, follow and speak with, are really fun, smart, and genuine people.

I think this may very well be, the modern day scam.  And I think I’ve had my very first taste of the evil side of the net. 

I literally drive around in a rubbish dump.

My car is my vessel.  No really.  It's the tiny shuttle that takes me and my three children around the joint seven days of a week.

And it's a pit.

I seem to get in said pit, at say, 8am in the morning, do 3 separate drop offs and then drop myself to work.  At about 2:30pm, I get back in and repeat that same process, in reverse.  When I return home, I get all three school bags out again, along with my handbag and other paraphernalia which has accumulated during the day and go back inside my house.  And that's it.  Everything else I've taken in, everything the children have taken in to that car, have remained there. For oh, going on 6 months now.

And that my friends, is why I have a French fry blocking my air conditioning vent right now.

OK, I'm not going to make excuses, but excuse me while I do.

I work 4 days, I am studying.  I have three children. We are renovating the unrenovatable house.  I have a child with a disability. I have a child who is akin to a natural disaster on legs and I have a daughter on the precipice of premature womanhood.  Add to that a husband who also works a lot, a serious case of too much shit do to and you get the idea.

Blah blah blah. Who doesn't have a heap of shit going on in their lives? No one. Ask anyone how they are. Their standard response?  "Yeah good thanks".  But generally, no one is really "good".  There is always something we have the shits with. There is always something we are struggling with. There is always something we would really like to change.    There is always something we wish would happen to us.

So all in all, I have no excuse as to why the following reside in my car right this minute:
Inside the car: 
What I’m fairly sure is a Jar Jar Binks Lego Mini Figurine
Last Monday's Coffee mug.  I say mug and not travel cup because all hopes of using a travel mug have been abandoned after I've left them to fester one too many times in the cup holder.  So now I use a porcelain mug that is fraught with danger as I could spill coffee upon myself and the surrounds during a commute.  I wear a lot of black for this very reason. 
An award for "Being a Delight in music class" my daughter received at school, last November. 
At least 18 different types of items that could be used for writing. 
Eight Library books (more than likely that explains our temporary ban on loaning shit out) 
4 Chapsticks in various states of use. 
Four different shoes. None of which have mates. None of which fit my childrens feet anymore. 
7 Lego Men. None of which look like they anatomically belong together.
5 KFC cricketing mini men.  If you have never had a KFC happy meal, this will make absolutely no sense, but we have 5 of these, in their original plastic and they are all fucking useless.

In the Glove box:
Standard car records.  Give me SOME credit. 
A nappy.  My child hasn’t been in a nappy for oh, over 12 months now. 
A business card for a DJ.   I have no explanation for this. 
A stubby holder. 
A packet of BBQ sauce.  Again, no explanation.

In the Boot:   
A bag with two hundred bucks worth of Tupperware.  This is my girlfriends whom I have met up with twice since it has resided in my car and twice I have forgotten to pass it on to her.  By rights though, she did avoid the actual party and therefore should suffer. 
A dodgy stroller. This contains the three year old on any shopping expedition.  Even though now, it has a wad of hair wrapped around its front left wheel and I can barely steer it anymore, I will not let this be tossed out as it is the only thing between me and shopping in relative peace and quiet anymore.

On the windscreen:
A flyer for Brazilian waxing.  Has been there for 3 days now so far.  I especially notice this whilst honking down the highway at about 120 kms an hour and think to myself "Mmmm, must remove that when I stop".
A whole heap of dirt that can't be removed because I haven't refilled the appropriate hole in the bonnet with water and detergent.

Ok, I think you get the picture, my car is a cesspit.  This of course was exacerbated by the fact that the other day when I lost a list of stuff my daughter needed for camp on my way from a friends front door to my car, she insisted on helping me search my car to find it, I was hideously embarrassed, I think it's time to get my shit together.

Imagine if she had of found the spare pair of undies I keep in the glove box.  I'll leave it to your discretion who you think these may be for.

Five words I never thought I would put down on paper.  Or type on the computer, oh you know what I mean. 

I am pretty much, a shopaholic.  Don't worry, I'm fully aware of my situation, I just really, really enjoy wandering around and buying shit.  Even more so when I have a mission.  Like, oh, say for instance, a new doona for our bed.  A man, or most men, would walk into the nearest shop that sells doonas, preferably one that had easy parking access, pick one out, pay a bazillion dollars for it, walk out and go directly home. 

And that brings a tear to my eye.

See, how does he know whether, if he had bothered to canvas at least 4 other stores, that he may not have got: a) something better, b) something cheaper and c) found something else like a lovely pair of winter boots inadvertently whilst casually strolling past Novo.   He wouldn’t.  And that is a total shame.

I of course have regressed as per usual because the above has absolutely nothing to do with why I am beginning to loathe walking into a shopping centre. 

I blame the Dead Sea Minerals.  Without them, there would be little reason for a hairy Brazilian Lothario to approach me whilst I walk innocently through the shopping centre.  Nor would there be reason for him to be calling me beautiful and/or gorgeous over the din of the shopping centre crowd and trying to convince me my skin would look ten years younger with a dab of his miracle dead sea crap.  Hey dude, you just insinuated I look a bit rough and basically said I look like an old hag.  Impressing your target market - Fail.

I have these guys sussed now though.  Funnily enough, I find I just can’t get enough of whatever is the shop window directly opposite their stand.  Wow!  A bidet shop.  How interesting, are those arse squirting toilet seats in that window?  Or else I will suddenly engage my three year old in a conversation about his kindy girlfriend.  Or whip out the mobile phone and have a fake conversation. 

What about the Citibank people trying to catch my eye so they can try and flog me a new credit card with an introductory rate of 1%, to be increased to a bazillion percent in 6 months.    I often just try and give these people a wide berth, but when that is not possible and I get too close, why do I feel the need to make them feel better and not be too rude?

"Excuse me madam, are you satisfied with your current cred..." I cut her off with a tight, frosty smile and speed walk past with a "No thanks, I'm fine".  Why don’t I just stop and say what I really want which is this: "Look lady, I know you’ve got a job, but I just want to walk through this shopping centre and not be harassed every five fucking metres.  If I want a god damn credit card, I will seek out a god damn credit card.  And by the way, I’m only 35, certainly too young to be called Madam, now please politely fuck off and LEAVE ME ALONE!"

What about the ones who want to lock you into a yearly contract to donate to the Heart Research Institute or WWF, World Wildlife Fund.  Do you reckon these good looking hippies are doing this out of the goodness of their hearts?  No freaking way.  Commission.   My boss told me once she got accused of "not loving the animals enough" because she walked on by.  A heads up, insults and shame-outs will get you nowhere.   

Then there's the stalls selling teddy bears for cancer research or raffle tickets for Rotary.  Whilst I do partake in buying something probably 5 times out of ten, I do for some reason, find it necessary, to say to no one in particular whilst walking past them.  "Oh I’ll get some on my way out".  Like they give a shit.   They're probably muttering "either pay up or walk past crazy lady".  And I really don’t have a problem with these guys.  Except the guilt factor I find I associate with it.

It just shits me to no end the amount of these mid corridor hawkers that have cropped up of late.   Everywhere you look; there they are, waiting for you with nail decorations or an ugly monkey jumper.    They are inescapable.

Take probably in my opinion, the best shopping Centre on the Gold Coast, Robina Town Centre.  This shopping centre is so full of win, I can barely articulate.  It has everything in one spot.  All three major department stores, David Jones, (it is about to get a Myer), all the big grocery stores, Max Brenner (a grown ups Charlie and the Chocolate Factory), every specialty store you can imagine and even a V-Max movie theatre and restaurants.  It has it all.  Yet, it is populated by the largest amount of mid centre "salespeople" on the Gold Coast. For this reason alone, it makes me want to stay away.

So to all those people out there, trying to sell this stuff, realise this: We will not be pleased to see you, nor will be overjoyed when you select one of us out of the masses and insinuate we are massive fatties and in desperate need of a session on your Vibro board.  I have a message from us to you: LEAVE US THE HELL ALONE TO SHOP IN PEACE!    If we want what you got, we’ll come over.  Okay?  

I’m not alone right?

So at what point, after having horrendously had your tooth pulled out of head, do you stop the world and tell anyone who’ll listen, that you want to get off?  Just for a bit?

It started with a tooth ache. Scratch that, it started with a broken tooth. Over 4 years ago.  I was pregnant with Jack.  And get this, I broke my back tooth by eating a freaking soft snake lolly.  See kids, lollies DO rot your teeth.  One minute I was enjoying my sunshiny orange snake, the next I was hoeing down on my own tooth particles.   Ewwww.
 
To be honest, I have always been shite at going to the Dentist.  This is not through fear or money worries particularly, just pure, unadulterated, laziness.  My mother made me go religiously to the dentist while I was under her direction.   But like any good teenager, I promptly stopped doing anything I was "made to do" the minute I left home.  And then, well, I only went when I had a problem.  BIG MISTAKE.

I write this today as a cautionary tale, because if I can save one person from going through what I did on the weekend, someone should award me an Order of Australia Medal, for I have helped my nation.

So, after chewing my own bone, I made an emergency appointment with a dentist around the corner.  He was reluctant, with me being pregnant and all, to do much at all.  Half my tooth had disintegrated, yet I was stoked he wanted me to get out of his face for 6 more months.  Ideally, I was meant to return within 1 month of giving birth.  Jack is now 3 and a half.

Last year I had a little trouble with my half in, half out wisdom teeth.  To be precise, one got infected.  Ah, the memories.  A Russian dentist  telling me I was basically fucked and would have to visit a specialist who wouldn’t be available for over 7 months and oh, whilst you’re here, how about I make you feel like a complete  and utter rabid human being for getting yourself into this predicament in the first place. 

Hey look man, I work in a job where we see people sometimes fob off doing their tax returns for 20 years. You know what?  We just do them and lodge them.  Because it is not our job to judge them.  Who knows what the hell  has gone in their lives to get them to this point.  So Hey, Mr Stalin the dentist, lay off,  I’m the only one in pain here buddy, no need to get all shouty.

So, back to the original story, oh yes, the broken back tooth.  Last week, I started to get a tooth ache.  OK, no need to panic I thought, perhaps it’s just a fleeting problem. Fixed with a good dose of barley, wheat, hops and a long lie down.  Nope.   I would drink a coffee and it would feel like I had sucked a pin directly into the core of my teeth.  Equally as painful were cold drinks.  Oh shit.

So luckily I got into a dentist on a Saturday.  I trotted off, without any children in tow and told my husband I would go do the grocery shopping after my dentist appointment.  Little did I know I was about to feature in my own version of Saw 3. 

Immediately my lovely, young dentist started making what can only be described as clucking noises.  Then he said, "Hmm, we will need an x-ray to see how bad this hole is.  If it’s not fillable, then, well a root canal is an option or we might have to pull it".  Me, full of bravado, "Just pull it out, no one can see it".  Stupid, stupid me.

To be totally honest, I would be open to going through childbirth again before having another tooth pulled.   It took just over 20 minutes.  That’s twenty minutes, even with anaesthetic where I could feel every nerve tear, hear every bone crack and taste every drop of blood entering my throat.  And he just could. not. get. the. fucker. out.  Oh and apparently according to the dentist, it wanted to come out backwards.  No Mr Dentist, it is an inanimate object, don’t tell me what it’s thinking, just get it the feck out of my mouth.
 
He ran out of options.  My wisdom tooth was blocking its way apparently. That would be right.  So he told me he was leaving to go and get the big guns.  Some more tools.   I had my eyes shut and arms in standard brace position, so I didn’t see these extra special tools, but  I reckon it was just a pair of pliers. 

Suddenly, he was done.  He asked if I wanted to see the offending tooth.  Me:  "No thanks" He showed me anyway, quite chuffed he got such a gnarly tooth out of my head.  I paid the squillion dollars, they loaded me up with 4 packs of gauzes and some advice to get some "hardcore pain relief" stat.

Still undeterred and I’m pretty sure, in shock, I went and did my grocery shopping.  Starting to feel a bit woozy, I secured some Panadeine fort and got moving.  About half an hour from home, I realised my final guaze was soaked through.  Blood ahoy so to speak.

With no chemist in sight, I rifled through my handbag , praying for some tissues or baby wipes, anything to get me home.  Zilch.  What, I can somehow house an electric pencil sharpener and a Kinder Surprise in my handbag, but no fucking tissues?  Then I spotted it.  A tampon.  Look, I fully accept responsibility if you choose to turn away now.  I would.  But I had no choice.  My mouth was like a blood geyser .  I opened one up and shoved it in and bit down.  Hard.   The only thing that could be worse right now would be if I was pulled over by a policeman.   I can just imagine him on his radio back to the station.   "Yep, bringing in a tampon munching, Panadiene Forte popping lunatic, have the shrink on standby".

Clearly I didn’t think this through.  Tampons expand with liquid.  You get the visual.

Right.   I think I’ve sufficiently humiliated myself. 

If you never want end up like me, go to the Dentist – REGULARLY.

Nits. Lice. Louse. Fecking crawling bloodsucking mites. Call them what you want, but I can guarantee, if you have children that attend day care or school, they will be coming to a familiar scalp nearest you.

The note came home today from Sams school. He’s in grade 2. “Please check your childs head, there’s been an outbreak of nits, blah blah blah, sign and return this to say you’ve checked and treated. Sure. I’ll check, treat, sign and return. But the mothers of the kids who heads are freaking well infested won’t, so it’s kinda pointless. I'm pretty sure this isn't what Elton John had in mind when he sang The Circle of Life.

Nits or lice are simply very small insects that live on the scalp of human beings. Oh and they feed and stay alive by SUCKING BLOOD FROM YOUR SCALP. Did I mention their sole purpose in life is to suck blood from your SKULL?

And when these creatures are having a little nibble, more often than not, preferring young, nubile heads to do so, they make that area incredibly itchy. Hence, the classroom full of head scratching children strikes fear into even the most hardened teacher.

I remember meeting my best friend, in her first year as a teacher for lunch. She was relaying the story of the nit infestation that had taken over her classroom. We were laughing and joking in only the way the unaffected and uninitiated can. Then, from seemingly nowhere, across her forehead, scurried an undeniable nit. My other friend and I both stared and like the children that we were, pointed and taunted. Hideous. Our punishment, it seemed, was due to be doled out some years later in the form of many, many lice infestations of our own.

Nits are nothing new. My mother swore by Pyrenol. I remember sitting as a seven year old, crying in our bathroom with the chemical foam on my head, burning my scalp and stinging my eyes. The only difference now is that we have so many options for treatment available to us.

Here are some of solutions I have tried:

KP24 - The most lethal chemical shit on the planet. I actually thought I had gone blind in one eye once, when using this stuff. Yes, that does mean that the dirty little mites have taken over my head from time to time. Imagine my joy when this happens. Trying to eliminate a thousand of the revolting little fucks from the most curly, knotty and wiry long hair on the planet.

Conditioner and Comb – To be honest, this appears to be the most effective way. Put mountains of generic conditioner into the hair which stuns the little buggers, brush and then get a good nit comb and section by section, comb and wipe on a tissue. When you get a live one, squish it between your fingernails. It may be just me, but that “pop” when you squash them is oddly satisfying. As is the hunt. When things were really bad, this was my daughter and I’s only time together.

Vegetable Oil through hair - I’ve never actually tried this as I am a bit dubious. Sure, it may well work, but being a walking greaseball is about as preferable as being a walking lice hatchery.

Electronic Nit comb – So, in absolute desperation, I decided something that is seventy bucks has GOT to work right? Wrong. All it did was give the kids electric shocks and kill a handful of nits.

Variety of “natural” non chemical solutions. – These are obviously genetically modified nits, the natural stuff was freaking useless.

Teatree oil/Lavender/Eucalyptus and Conditioner spray – I made this concoction myself. Crafty hey? And you know what, it works. I just have to be super vigilant about using it on my kids heads every single day. And it’s kind of like a beacon screaming “Hey look at me classmates, Nits hate my guts, not that I’ve ever had them or anything!” Maddie seriously hates it. UPDATE: I have been alerted to the fact that "Lavender oil has recently been implicated in gynecomastia, the abnormal development of breasts in young boys" So I suggest you don't use this method. I won't be now :(

And to be honest, she was the worst. I swear to god, late last year I reckon I could count the empty sacks at the base of her skull in the hundreds. Empty, meaning the rampant fuckers had at some stage walked her head and sucked her young blood. Twilight has nothing on my kid.

But this year, since Christmas 2009, she hasn’t had any. So that is nearly 6 months of being given the all clear. Too good to be true or just the age where it they miraculously disappear?

After finding only a few empty sacks on Sams head, I can only conclude, he’s a breeder. He simply incubates, hatches and then passes the special gifts onto his classmates. He’s such a giver.

Best go mix a batch of my special potion methinks.

I’ll leave you with this lovely quote from @thinkthinkers on Twitter “Often if I find the nursery is in one child's hair, the nightclub is in the others. #nits"

Sometimes, for kicks, I go to friends houses where a thinly veiled invitation to a “party” has been issued. These parties usually involve passive aggressive women trying to flog overpriced plastic kitchen wares to me.

The thing is, I always feel like the third wheel at these things. Often times, it is a good friend hosting the party and I have that whole obligation thing going on and often I go with the resolution I will not be buying. I have all the kitchen or cleaning, or beauty stuff I need. Plus, as this stuff costs a fricken fortune, it goes against my bargain hunting, grain.

But, like any good red blooded woman, the pressure, and the hype, get to me and I buy something I really don’t fecking well need. As displayed on Friday night. Not only am I victim of peer pressure, clearly I am a gambler because I bought 2 lucky dip, Mystery Boxes for $25 each, guaranteed to be full of stuff worth $75. Now I’m home, I predict a lot of melon ballers and avocado keepers in my booty. Why didn’t I just go with the ice cube trays as per my original plan. Oh, that’s right, because they were 30 fricken dollars each.

My very first experience with a muli-level marketing party was when I was about eight. All I remember was that I was super excited about seeing my cousins. I distinctly remember Mum on the telephone asking my Aunty “This isn’t Amway is it?” I could hear my Aunty screeching down the line “nooooo, of course not Betty, just a new opportunity. Gullible Mum, gullible. So we get to their house, I nick off to play with my cousins Barbie Townhouse which I coveted, and left mum to it. About 10 minutes in, just when I had Barbie and Ken chowing down on their delicious dinner, Mum came in and reefed me out of the house. “C’mon, we are going home”. Above my protests, were my Auntys ones. “Betty – just wait and see, it’s so easy, it’s a goldmine!!”. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mother so angry. Oh, except for the time she caught my brother lighting matches near the mango tree. Whole other story.

I do believe it is a certain type of woman who gets into the mult-level-marketing gig and make it their career. I mean, it doesn’t come without being a very social being. You would have to know people. Your business depends on it. And it also depends on you hitting up the new girl you just met at the park or Vera at the local shop to host a party at their own home.

And then, then, when you actually attend a party, the pressure is on the party host and her guests, to secure 2 more future party bookings then and there. If not, her first born is sold off to Craig McLaughlin and Check 1-2. Well, perhaps not that drastic, but she will definitely miss out on a delectable freezer container at the very least.

And look, don’t get me wrong, I’ve been to a few of these parties where “Enjo” was actually code for piss up, just not this one. I knew practically no-one which doesn’t bother me, but I guess, coming up against the pre-ordained masters of the Tupperware Party squad, caught me off guard.

There were two ladies in particular, who were referred to often by the presenter about how good the rice cooker/clear plastic container/roasting dish was. Look, by the sounds of it, they had all the plastic crap they could handle so clearly they were just there for the free organic coconut bread and Tim Tams.

At one stage, my friend showed all the women her incredibly organised, yet Tupperwareless cupboards. One of the chicks piped up with “Now, imagine how much better your cupboard would look if you had all of that in Modular Mates”. Standing off to the side, I replied, “Yeah but that would mean she’d have to marry a Packer”. Crickets. I got nothing. They had a mole in their midst, in more ways than one.

And what about the “fun” games they play? We played a very fun game called Indian Giver. Well not, but may as well have been. We all had our names put twice into a bowl and then the host picks out a whole heap of random shit she can’t offload and puts it on the prize table. If your name gets called out, you pick a prize. The next person who gets called out, can either take something off the prize table, or, alternatively, take the item you just chose, off you. And so it goes, until everyone’s names has been called twice and items have been stolen off one another. So, aim of the game, be called last. Anyhoo, one chick, who was a neighbour, had to leave half way through the game as her child got upset. At this stage she had a container in her possession. By the end of the game, it was gone. She came back and was spewing. “So what happened when my second name got called out? How did you make a decision on my behalf on what I would have wanted?” Um. Fuck. Off. It’s a game. Of Tupperware.

And all I could think when playing was, thank god they don’t play this game with a bunch of toddlers. Imagine the apocalyptic style meltdowns those kids would have when little Billy nicked Katies newly claimed Polly Pocket. Actually, come to think of it, that would be more tolerable. At least two year olds are meant to be immature.

So I stayed for the obligatory hour or so and to the chorus of talk about school cupcake decorating and debates over the merits of Baby monitors, I slunk off home. Next time, if there is a next time, I hope at least they get a decent game of Duck, Duck Goose going.

Mum dying last year happened so fast. To this day, I still don’t think I have digested it. If that’s the right word.

I eventually got off my procrastinating arse, and actually went and picked up her ashes from the crematorium. I put this off and missed at least two appointments to collect her. This is not like me. At. All. I turn up to appointments. I make sure I’m on time. And if, for some unforseen reason I can’t, I call. But twice, I put the appointment totally out of my mind. Not even realising until days later that I failed to show.

And poor Mum. Sitting there, alongside Bob or Margaret or June. Waiting for me to come and get her off the shelf. And look, I know that’s not her. I watched her die. I know she was no longer with her body. I get that, but we’ve got stuff in store for Mum. Stuff she will like.

So, on a sunny day in April, on my way to a gym class, I kept my appointment, and Maddie and I went in and picked up the plastic container with the engraved "Betty Joan Clarke" silver plate on the front, packed in what seemed like an inappropriate gift bag, and put it on the front seat and drove away.

I saw another psychic yesterday. Granted, the second one I’ve seen in 6 months, but this one, this one was different. Everything she said was 100 percent SPOT. FUCKING. ON. Like the fact:

Jack is a firecracker and will need major boundaries – Check.

Sam is very sensitive, yet can be distant and is smart in the areas he is interested in. Check.

We want to and will sell our house soon. Check.

I like to write. Check.

My mother passed on recently. Check.

All this without one ounce of pre-admission from me. You just can’t pluck this shit out of the air.

So, with that, she told me that mum was very close to me. With me, so to speak. And that Mum was frustrated. Frustrated it was all taken away from her so quickly and she wasn’t ready. This of course panicked me. I mean, the afterlife is like, forever, I don’t want her upset over there. The psychic assured me, she’s fine, she’s with her dad, my grandfather, who she missed and adored immensely. I wondered where her Mum was, who died when she was a young child, but I never asked.

But she told me, and hey, look, I am one of the worlds biggest sceptics, so please don’t think I’ve become a hippy freak over night, that whilst I held back my tears, she couldn’t move on. Not just yet.

And believe me, I’m not deliberately not grieving mum. I’m not deliberately, not losing my shit and sitting in a corner for a week, wailing. I just haven’t had the urge, or is it the time, yet.

By my very nature, I’m not an emotional person. Or a crier. I’m the strong one. I make sure everyone else is OK. And I recognise the fact that this is not always healthy for the body or mind. But it’s me and you can’t change the way you react or act, overnight.

So, this Sunday, Mothers Day, we, my family and my brothers, are going to meet in Shorncliffe, my Mum’s most loved town. This is where she was married. This is where we returned to some years ago and she pointed out her past to us and gave us a glimpse into her life before her life with us. A life before it got complicated I guess.

This is where we will take her ashes and walk to the end of the pier. And we will release them out to sea. Her best friend and sister-in-law tell me she loved the sea there. Not here so much, but there, yes .

Consequently, I reckon, this week, I may just take a little break from blogging.

Every day, we should be kind to one another, but on Sunday, the designated “mothers day”, if you’re mum is close, give her a squeeze, she’s pretty special.

I am finding it increasingly difficult to get quality s**t-scardness out of my 3yo. Bear with me while I explain.

See, Jacks’s one of these kids who was basically born standing up and drinking coffee. He can do most everything himself and usually does so, with a fair bit of skill. He can kick a ball, he can throw a punch (ask his eight year old brother) and he can dress (more often undress) himself with relative ease. And what he can’t do himself, he will attempt and crack the mother of all tantrums if it all proves too hard. At this stage, and only at this stage, will he begrudgingly ask for help. This is not without a fair bit of crying, whinging and moments when I think his head might spin 360 degrees.

Usually though, he needs little assistance from me. I guess what I’m trying to say, without sounding like I making out my kid is ready for Mensa, is that Jack is pretty switched on. Granted, way more street smart than book smart, but then again, I don’t flash card the shit out him either.

So that being said, discipline is hard because not a lot phases him. I’ve tried the smack, it’s all a bit meh, with me feeling like a child beater and it getting us nowhere, so that’s been nixed. I’ve tried the time out. He’ll just go back and do it again, the minute he’s out of toddler-jail. I’ve threatened to take stuff off him; he’s walked in and handed it to me. I’ve told him I’m going to pull the car over and he’ll have to walk home, he’s told me to pull over at the next red light we stop at. I am trying to outwit a 3 year old and I am failing. And I shouldn’t be, I mean I’ve had two before him who, whilst not angels, I could always control to a certain degree.

Perhaps this is just me getting my own back.

I was pretty straight at school. Until about year 10 that is. That’s when I got suspended. For taking drugs on a school trip. Then I was Bernie Drug. And the thing is, I hadn’t even smoked pot. I took a bucketload of travel sickness tablets and got faceless. Of course I wasn’t alone, we all did it, but I’m the only stupid one, who went running through the bushes in Canberra in Winter with no shoes on. And so, I got busted, and suspended.

I went home and lied through my teeth. I told Mum I had taken panadol with coca-cola. She of course, believed her previous-to-this-always-straight-laced daughter. The fact I let her go to the school and meet with the principal and unwittingly defend me and be made a fool, still haunts me to this day. What kind of little bitch was I? A big one that’s what. So Mum found out the truth, could barely speak to me for weeks and was terrified I was now a drug addict. To be honest, drug wise, it may be the best thing that ever happened to me. I haven’t touched anything worse in my life. That’s because I had remorse and I was scared of disappointing my mother. My teachers, by boss at the times, my friends’ parents.

And I think as kids get older, that’s where the discipline will come from. Not wanting to disappoint the person or people they admire.

In fact, at kindy, they use this a lot. “When you just kicked Tyler in the back of the leg then Jack, that really disappointed Miss Jo” Cue lip drop and lots of tears. See, at Child care Centres they are not allowed to say “No” or negative words. Or Smack. Or yell. Holy hell, those kindy teachers deserve a pay rise and a trip to Mauritius.

So I tried this on Jack today. I told him “how disappointed I was in him”. He immediately looked distraught and his lip quivered.

“No you’re not Mummy, don’t say that!”. He was trying to hush my mouth up.

“Oh but I am Jack, you have let me down today slamming doors after I told you to stop”.

“No, mummy, I haven’t let you dooooowwwwnnn” and he lost it. Mission accomplished. Seems those kindy teachers are onto something.

So now, with my new plan of attack and my words of discontent, I will try a new way of discipline. Looks like I'll be needing those flash cards after all.

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

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

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

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

And labour. SO. MUCH. FUN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carly over at http://early-childhood-resources.com/ asked me to do a guest post and talk about becoming a parent. Check out her site, some amazing ideas, suggestions and advice. Go on!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OLD FRIENDS

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

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

NEW FRIENDS

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

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

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

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

OUTGROWING FRIENDS

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway, I digress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here are some examples:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So what have we learned?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jess “Jesus?”

Maddie “Yeah, Jesus”

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

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

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

Me: “Sure”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you own a homemade fur coat”

To name a few.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Surely there’s a middle ground?

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

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

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

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

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

I have a theory about people. They are either the late kind. Or the early kind.

I pride myself on being the latter. I have the kids at school before the bell, sometimes, so much so, they wonder what the hell they are going to do with themselves for 40 minutes. I get to work before I’m meant to start, mostly so I can dick around and make myself a toasted sandwich and gossip. I get to friends houses for coffees and cake on time, if not a little early, because I can never gauge how long it’s going to take me get there. In general, I’m just an early bird. So is my husband. I do however draw the line at rocking up to a party before the allotted start time, that's, just, uncool.

There are some people though, who are just destined to be late. Never on time. Know any? I do. A few actually. Granted, it’s not the worst personality trait that someone can have, but it is kind of annoying when you’re waiting like an ejit, when someone is half an hour late. My best friend is always late. She knows who she is. Now I just tell her a time, half an hour before I really want her anywhere and that generally gets her there only slightly later than needs be. She’s the first one to admit it, having her clocks slightly fast so she shits herself and hauls serious arse to school each morning so the kids don’t get yet ANOTHER late pass. To her credit though, I think she is getting better with age.

And today, I could have taken her title of the Late Queen. I knew today, just this one day; we had to be at school by 8am. I had an education plan I needed to discuss with Sams teacher. Basically, we discuss what our aspirations for Sam will be in 2010. Well, an unbroken arm would be kind of high on that list – oh wait, too late. What about for him to take a sudden, unbridled interest and passion in reading and writing? Anyhoo, I digress. At 7am, I was a long way off even getting a foot in the classroom door.

This comes down to a series of events.

6:00am I wake up. I hear the two boys in their room discussing the time Sam threw up on his feet. I interrupt this conversation to get them up, make them a Milo, weetbix and turn on Channel 23. Top parenting at its best.

6:15am Make sure the clothes are all ready for access for all 4 of us. 2 school uniforms, one set of clothes for kindy and one presentable work outfit.

6:30am I hear Sam, doing a poo on the toilet, asking his 3yo brother Jack, why a chicken crosses a road. Jack - “He needed to do a poo?”. Sam “No, because he was a jerk”. Jack - “Oh Yeah? Sam, I have a peanut”.

6:45am Wake 10year old Maddie. She reluctantly rolls out of bed. I instruct her to get dressed and get her swimming bag ready. That bit will be very important to the outcome of this story.

6:50am I have a shower. Not one minute in, both boys come running from what sounds like 5 km’s away. “Mum, mum, mum, Maddie has smashed a glass, in the NEW room!!” The aptly named new room is, well, our new room, complete with porcelain tiles.

So there I am. In the nude, powerless to stop my kids cutting themselves to shreds without of course, potentially, slipping on my arse, on my way to cutting my own feet. I yelled at them to get into their rooms. Apparently Maddie was out there attempting the cleanup mission on her own. No doubt, shitting herself about the fact I had told her not 10 minutes before, to use a plastic cup. I must be speaking Chinese. It is the only reasonable way I can understand why, she doesn’t do as she is told.

So, where are we at? That’s right, about 6:55pm. I hastily dress, clean up the collateral damage and go about dressing the boys. And of course, this is where Jack, the 3yo and I, come to blows. See he, channelling an 80 yr old geriatric man, decides he will wear sandals and socks. And that combination ONLY. I try and reason with him that, mate; only old guys wear sandals and socks. “I am Batman” is his only response. Whatever. Fine, look like you belong in Cocoon, see if I care.

7:30am: Right, on track to be at school, with 3yo dropped off to kindy, by 8am. Oh, until I find the water on the tiles that is. Seems Jack has a new game. It’s called, “Let’s pull the arms off every single Lego man he can find, put them in his water bottle and then empty the contents on the porcelain floor”. It’s a fricken awesome game. Exactly what you need to find as a hidden surprise, when attempting to get out of the house in a hurry.

I start the car, waiting for the 10year old to finish fluffing her hair or whatever the hell she does inexplicably when we wait on her. She comes out looking distressed. “Mum! Where are my goggles?” Are you freaking kidding me? I asked her to get that ready at, let me check, 6:45 this morning. So we wait and wait. And I stomp out of the car, yell A LOT and finally we are good to go.

Kids secured in the car. We back out of the driveway. And it starts. “I’m yours” comes on by Jason Mraz. Jack: “This is my song” Sam: “No one owns a song Jack” Jack: “Yes, I do, this is MY song” And it goes on. This is nothing new; it is of course, just too much for me to take this particular morning. “No one owns a song” I roar and I flick the radio off. The car is silent for oh, 1 minute. Then

“I’m Batman” Jack.

“Batman isn’t real Jack, you dunkoff” Sam

“Yes I am, I is real Sam!” Jack says this line with accompanying blows to Sams arm.

“Owww, Jack! He is a cartoon character! You are just being a total jerk” Sam

You get the gist. All this, to the sweet serenade of Maddie singing, hideously off-key, Today was a Fairytale by Taylor freaking Swift.

We get there; thankfully, the kindy is across the road from the school, at 5 minutes to 8. That’s when I lose the keys.

So there I am, ransacking the back of my car, with various mothers offering very kindly to help me look. Me, refusing the help, based on the fact my car has last weeks French fries wedged in the back of the drivers chair and a unidentified smell coming from inside the carriage. I give up and run across to the school, 10 minutes late for my very important, 8am appointment. The keys are found, with one 10 year old late for school and one mother 35 minutes late for work, later, inside Sams school bag.

Today I was late. Tomorrow I intend not to be. You never can tell but.

So today, Sunday the 28th of March, is Neighbour Day. Who knew?

Kevin Rudd – that’s who. Along with all those who designed a big fuck-off website dedicated to this very day. It has posters and all kinds of paraphernalia to print out and hang up. It tells us that neighbour day is “Australia’s annual celebration of community, bringing together the people next door or across the street for a beer, a barbie or just a cuppa. It’s the perfect day to say thanks for being a great neighbour and for being there when I needed you most”

Well there you go. I mean, I’m all for getting to know my neighbours, but some, well some you wouldn’t have over your house to cut your toenails, let along give them a free beer and cup of tea. It’s all fun and games until one of them turns out to be a closet nudist or a drug dealer isn't it?

So what should we really expect from our neighbours? To be best mates? For them to feed the cat when we take a holiday? Or really, do we just want them to stay the hell away, and leave us be? Well for me, somewhere in between those three, would be just perfect. How do you know what you're in for though? Even staking out a house pre-purchase doesn't give you the ability to see through walls. We've learned this one the hard way. More than once. So here are a few experiences we've had.

THE DRUG DEALERS

Paulie & Renee moved into the unit next to us when were in our early 20's. They were kind of elusive, way hipper than us, and seemed to go out EVERY SINGLE NIGHT. We shared and cared for their very needy Siamese cat and waved whenever we saw each other. I think we realised we weren’t going to be best mates with them, when we found a packet of white powder, dropped accidentally outside of our front door early one morning. Not long after, the cops came and raided their unit and a very shifty Paulie was escorted away. Turns out, they were drug dealers.

THE NUDIST/GUN LOVER

Our very first house was a in a street my brother, a local policeman, warned us about. But we were undeterred, I mean it was near the water and it was in our price range. How bad could it be? Turns out - Pretty bad. There was no way we could have predicted we would soon be living next to a semi-professional nudist slash, pervert though, but that’s what we got. I don’t even know this freaks name, but his wife arrived on the first day we moved in, with some Bundaberg Rum fudge and a Cactus to say “Welcome”. She should have just given us a gigantic novelty card saying "Welcome to the neighbourhood, Fresh Meat". We found him on various occasions, on his roof, with binoculars and a esky, presumably for his coldies and lube, sans underwear, watching the teenage girls in the unit block behind us. Or just casually hanging in his back doorway, fake coughing, so I would look over and see his bare crotch waiting for me. Gag. I guess by rights, we should have been tipped off by the “I BARE ARMS AND I VOTE” sticker on his car. We live and we learn.

THE RACIST

Ahh, Shirley. Shirley the 80 year old racist. I’m not entirely sure who or what would have made Shirley happy. It surely wasn’t the “coons”, “faggots”, “gooks” or “Dagos” she constantly banged on about whenever she got lucky enough to corner me. Man, I cannot tell you how uncomfortable she made me. We eventually sold our house, but not before she had the chance to tell me, that, because of my “Jap” car, I was a disgrace to my nation. Sure I wanted to tell the old bag to get rooted, but sometimes retreat is easier than attack.

THE SCREAMER

This particular woman rented the house next door to us. She and her husband apparently couldn’t stand the sight of each other because about every third night, they would have arguments that would escalate into full scale riot situations. The cops came, the cops went. The next day, they would be all loved up, walking down the street hand in hand. Annoying.

THE OVERSHARER

Recently we had a street party. We let the kids to the letterbox drops. Mistake Number 1. We have one guy who lives up the street with a hotrod who likes dropping massive burnouts in it, whenever the moment takes him. Which is often. He's abused the host of the street party on an occasion, a couple of years ago, because she told him to slow down in the street. A week later, he wrote off his SS Commodore Ute after going 150 in a 70 zone. So, it was by the biggest mistake, that he received an invite. You would think he would have no interest in rolling up to a party full of haters. Oh no. He rocked up, drank about 50 beers, told each and everyone of us how much we must hate his guts (Roger that dickhead) and then, by the end of the night, was telling all the guys how, after numerous visits to a certain establishment, had acquired a rash that just WOULD NOT GO AWAY. He then proceeded to show it to our husbands, on the front lawn. Too much information mate. Far too much.

THE JEHOVAHS WITNESS

These guys were pretty harmless. Until we spoke to them. Then it was ON. They had a little girl around the same age as our daughter and with only a gun toting nudist and 80yr old racist as other alternatives, we were stoked we might finally have some decent neighbours. Ahhh, we should have known better. See we kind of did follow the “neighbour day” ethos and invite the new neighbours over for a beer or a cuppa. They turned up, 2 hours late and we offered them a drink. His response? “No thanks, we don’t drink”. Alarm bells. Fair, not everyone drinks. That’s when I noticed the copy of the Watchtower she’d casually placed on our coffee table. Fucking sirens. It was over before it began.

THE GOOD ONES

Then there are the good ones. The ones you find that are one of your kind. The ones you are happy to have met. The ones you’ve shared a beer and a cuppa with and it has made your life that little bit brighter. So Scott, Deb, Mike, Julie, Jen, Nick, Caroline and Damian. Thanks guys. Happy Neighbours Day. Help yourself to the fridge anytime you like.

I’ve never watched another females arse quite as intently as I did on Monday night.

Monday was my first ever Zumba class. Zumba, for uninitiated, is the latin dance/aerobics craze that has taken over the world. Well, taken over our office anyway.

Miss B, who works with me decided to give it a go as she has longed to get back into dancing for quite some time. Normal dancing however, requires quite a few lessons before you are let loose on a proper dance floor. With Zumba on the other hand, you just dive on in and have a go.

And dive in we did. Holy hell, it was one solid hour of shaking my bum, hips and fingertips like a lunatic. Best way I can describe it - a cross between dancing like Shakira, Beyonce' and a little bit of locomotion, all rolled into one. Never before, has having a gigantic arse, come in such handy.

The best thing? Everyone looked as unco as me. Well, not everyone, but I wasn’t alone. That’s the best thing about Zumba. You are only one, in at least another 100 other, equally clueless women. Even after a few classes, no one is a master. Not like Step Aerobics, where some chicks are going for it like they are in the running for step-olympics gold.

By the time “All the Single Ladies” came on, we all had it at least half sussed. We were, in no uncertain terms, making it clear, if he liked it, he should have put a ring on it. With our arses.

And how lucrative is this caper for the instructor? Sure they have to be super fit and talented, but just look at these figures. On average, a class of 150 x $10 per class = $1,500. They do 7 of these classes a week. Working basically 7 hours a week for $10,500. Give or take. FAR OUT. Attention Brain surgeons: Drop those scalpels and whip on some lycra pants Sir, you’re in the wrong game.

What also surprised me was the lack of men there. What an absolute untapped, gold mine for guys! Women J-Lo’ing it up, exercise pheromones coursing through their bodies. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad it’s like a Zumba Fernwood, but I’m guessing it’s only so long until word gets around town.

Weirdest part is, two days later, not one aching bone in my body. I’m sure it’s on it’s way, just lulling me into a fall sense of security, leading me to believe I can start running marathons and then, bam – knockout.

But, we’ll be back, because everyone who goes, just wants to one day, be as good as the instructor or master the hip swivel. Not going to happen, but it’s the trying that is the fun part.
And the best bit is, you don’t realise you’re exercising, you’re too busy making sure you don't take out the lady beside you with a ill-timed arm shunt or trip over your own feet, that, before you know it, it’s time to wind down to Janet Jackson.

The instructor at the class I went to is a registered nurse. Handy.

Just a really quick one. I'm used to those. Totally kidding Phil.

So, when we were up at the hospital quite a bit with Sam in Feb/March, we acquired 4 parking tickets outside the hospital.

Of course the policing of car spots outside a hospital are a ridiculous yet necessary evil. If people aren't moved along of course, they'll never leave, and no one will get a park. I totally get that.

But what about people like myself, like so many, who get stuck. Waiting on a doctor, waiting in an appointment, waiting in the Emergency Room, waiting all day. What about waiting with your child who doesn't want to go through the trauma of having a cannula inserted, all alone?

Well, all the above happened and those are the times, we got a parking ticket for overstaying our 2 hour limit. Between those times, however, we paid our meter as needed and by no means, ever avoid consciously paying our dues.

So when it all settled down, I decided to try my luck by contacting the Council and explaining my situation. I mean, seriously, for family who need to be up at the hospital, especially with a sick loved one, surely there should be some kind of pass they can be granted?
Any way, here is my initial letter:

18 February, 2010

The Chief Executive Officer

Gold Coast City Council

I write to you regarding a series of Parking tickets that myself and my husband received during our son Samuels stay at the Gold Coast Hospital. Our first stay was on Monday the 1st of February when our son fell off the monkey bars at school. He then had to be operated on and released the next day.

Our second stay, was from Tuesday the 9th of February, until Monday the 15th of February after he fell ill due to a terrible infection in the broken arm. So during these times we received 4 tickets at various times. I can tell you now, all of these fines were unavoidable. At all times, we were with our sick child and unable to leave his side. I find it incredible that a hospital and its local council do not have some sort of redemption system for car parking for the immediate family of loved ones. Or the facilities for long term parking on site. Clearly we are not parking around the hospital for the fun of it, nor is it pleasant to receive a parking ticket on your windscreen after being so completely stressed about a sick loved one, especially a child. Please note at all times, the longterm carpark bordering High Street was COMPLETELY full.

Also to note was that at all times, excluding the first day of the second stay where I was ensconced in the Emergency Department all day and unable to leave as I was on my own, we did feed the meter. We paid 40 cents per hour from 9 – 6 for 6 days in total. That is $19.40 we paid out.

Not a great deal I guess in the scheme of things, but add it to the fact that time off work with sick ones usually involves loss of income, tickets for $35 are just a massive kick in the teeth. I also understand the area needs to be policed so there is adequate parking however for people who up there 24/7, this is very difficult.

I am asking, on compassionate grounds, that you forgive and waive these 4 fines on our behalf. Your consideration in this matter would be greatly appreciated.
Regards

Mystery Mum (of course I actually put my own name)

CC. – Gold Coast Bulletin.

I am happy to report, today, we received a letter that says all four tickets have been waived. YAHOO!

Today, a little bit of Common Sense made it's way back into the world. Either that or the processor of the day, was on the gear. Either way, it's a nice surprise.

A funny thing happened last night, I unexpectantly ended up at 3am, waiting in the cab line in Surfers Paradise, chowing down on a chicken kebab. I guess that’s not the funny thing. Funnier would be seeing me, pickled at 1am dancing like a lunatic to Footloose at the Avenue. Funnier still, we used to scoff at the oldies dancing to Kenny Loggins at the Avenue some 15 years ago.

The night was meant to entail dinner for a friend who is leaving for an open-ended overseas trip. Dinner was lovely and we were done by about 9pm. Everyone was scattering and I was about to call a cab when two of the girls suggested that I “Come out with us to Melbas”. Well since you’ve got a shotgun to my head, sure, why not?

K & S, the girls I went with, are actually around my age, but childless thus far, and therefore, have got way more of a handle on the nightclub situation than I. For one, they didn’t wear Havaianas and a long flowing hippy dress. They were perhaps, shall we say, more suitably attired wearing high heels that could take your eye out, and skinny jeans. The fact that I trailed along like Demis Roussos in a kaftan, bless, didn’t seem to bother them. I was scared the bouncers would pull a “Not in those shoes lady” on me, but as we all know, that rule only applies to guys. Double Standard City

A lot of changes seem to have taken place since I was a nightclub regular. For one, the stripper pole appears to taken “pole” position on most dance floors. Further to this, every female there, will have at least one go at attempting the fireman slide down this pole. Myself included. Told you I was pissed. There were girls there who were getting rather over enthused and not scared to get their barely covered arses, wrapped seductively around the pole. Look at moi Kimmy, look at moi.

Another thing that has changed: My stamina. I was particularly impressed that I knew nearly every song. Thankfully there was zero Doof Doof music and of course, knowing all the songs, we just HAD to dance to each and everyone. One thing I wasn’t counting on, the massive stitch I acquired within about 10 minutes. Physically unfit? You betcha.

The handbag dance is a stayer however. You know the dance all women do regardless of age and generation. It entails all the handbags being piled in the middle if the dance floor and all the owners hailing them by dancing around them like it’s an open campfire.

It appears the game hasn\'t changed in the world of Nightclubbing, just the players.

Also unchanged is the ritual of getting home from a night out. A kebab can still be secured, there are still multiple vomit patches to avoid, and the cab line is longer than Tiger Woods’ phone bill.

I got home, eventually, but not before being chatted up by a 24 year old boy here for the Surf Titles. Whilst flattering, I think he was giving me the pissed pity chat up. And of course, accompanied by a six foot tall glamazon and gorgeous brunette, we had our fair share of guys breaking into our dance space. But happily, this unexpected night out, was enjoyable because we weren’t looking for anything from it, just a shimmy and a drink. And holy hell, just quietly, judging by todays long recovery, I may have gone a little overboard on both fronts.

I’ve been lucky enough to work for the one boss for 10 years this year. Or is it 9. I’m not sure, it’s been ages anyway. Of course there have been a few bits in between where you, know, I had two babies, but apart from that, I have been one of the lucky ones to enjoy constant employment at a place I enjoy turning up to.

I have always worked 3 days a week and 4 if it’s busy (usually, in tax season, between July and December). This year, rather than flip back to 3 days per week, I had a light bulb moment and decided to ask my boss if working school hours, over four days, would be cool with her. It was, cause that’s the kinda gal she is. But, just quietly, I think I’ve fucked myself.

A word of warning, if you, right now, are getting home from work AFTER your husband or partner and dinner is basically on the table, a load of washing is on, homework has been started and all three children have been showered or bathed, do not mess with that situation! I have learnt this the hard way.

Since changing my hours, it’s almost like my husband has just internally gone "woo-fucking-hoo, no more Mr Mum, watch me now as I just nick off out the back and start my shed living phase". I now get home before him therefore, I start dinner. I do homework with the 7 year old (which can be very harrowing) and I do lunches. I hate lunches. I cannot tell you why, it’s just the one thing I struggle with. Generally there are the three kids lunches and mine (ideally) for the next day. There are only so many ways to jazz up a vegemite sandwich I’m afraid. Wraps, tuna, carrot sticks, you name it, we’ve attempted it. Vegemite always creeps back in.

So as tempting as it to circle the block until my husband returns home, it’s not all bad news. I now get to spend an extra 10 hours a week more with my kids than I used to. I’d like to say quality time, but often I’m shooing them away from the gas cook top or telling the 3yo to STOP SQUEALING AND USE YOUR WORDS!! No, it is good. Plus I get to attend after school stuff, like the netball trials of last week. Actually, that might not be considered a pro (see the Netball post). At least I was there to see her though, and I know this means a lot to her, being 10, and being the type of tween who is ready to snap at the smallest of injustices.

Although, both of my school aged children received student of the week last Friday. Freakishly, they don’t attend the same school and yet I knew of not either, until I cleaned out their bags on Sunday night (oh yeah, festering lunchbox eat your heart out) and found both of the glossy cardboard certificates in their bags. Neither of them had bothered to tell me. I wish I had known or been given a heads up by the teachers so I could have attended (although that would have been a total bad parenting moment with me having to choose who was more worthy of my full attention). Either way, these are the things now, open to me and my new hours.

There are pros and cons. Obvious good bits are that I get to see my kids more and they aren’t at daycare and afterschool care all the time. Plus I save dollars. I get to sit down and take my time with Sams homework and go for a walk with the ten year old when the sun is still shining. The cons are pretty obvious. I have to do more shit around the house.

The thing is, I guess we’ve always worked well the way we did before. We found our groove and we were both happy with our individual household workloads. I’ve always been of the belief that , as we both work, we are both equally responsible for said workload. So tonight, although I had to slam a few pots and pans around to get my point across that, while he had sat on the couch and drunk a beer whilst I made dinner, lunches, put two loads on, hung two loads out and got the kids clean, I think, he eventually, cottoned on to the fact that he still lives in the world of a working parents household. He just needed a little teensy reminder.

But, tomorrow, if you see a woman at the Pirate Park avoiding the chaos at her home, it’s just me, trying to be the last one home.

The Interior Decorators from the 1970’s have a lot to answer for. And they need to answer to me.

Today I spent a vast amount of my time, along with my husbands, steaming wallpaper off the walls in the bedroom my sons share. This has been a long time coming.

We bought this house nearly three years ago. Three years, I’ve been allowing my sons to live in a room, where we found festering mould underneath the lovely retro green lava-lampish designed wallpaper. God only knows if the paint underneath all that is lead based. Presumably, yes.

See this is what we’ve had to do, or more so I guess, what we’ve chosen to do. We could have gone to other suburbs and brought a fairly new house, if not new but no, we went to one where, I guess, at the end of the day, we thought we could make more money in the long run.

And this of course, is nothing new in the world of real estate. Take a house, in a good area, that is, in classic Real Estate speak, in need of a little TLC, give it a bit a paint job, update the bathroom and wooskha – you make a trillion dollars.

Well, at least, make it to the next rung on the property ladder. Actually, we are shite at making plans. All three kids, unplanned (much loved mind, just not planned). Most of our life changing decisions, UNPLANNED. So, this renovation was our first plan. Do this one, do another and another and another and maybe one more and then, ideally, own our own home. Have no mortgage. Except we stalled at the first “another one”.

More than likely, this is mainly because we are just lazy bastards. I’d say it’s a toss up between that and a higher force that is out there just giving us the giant Forks. (Peace sign backwards to all the Gen Y’ers)

So, back to the fact that we still live in a half renovated, teeny house with no storage. Oh, have I mentioned lately that we only have 1 bathroom. Let me rephrase that, we only have ONE TOILET. One toilet, 5 people, you do the math. Not a day goes by that that thing isn’t double booked.
To be honest, we have done a lot. We’ve rendered, we’ve fenced, we roof restored, we’ve done up said bathroom (no small feat and yes, there were a few “emergencies” that went down in the backyard). We’ve ripped up the shagpile and put down timber floors, we’ve built a deck that came in major handy on Christmas day. We have done stuff, yet still, it is still nowhere near ready, and as a result, most nights, right before I go to sleep, I make a mental note of all the stuff we still need to do, and I get very overwhelmed. This was way more massive than we anticipated.
Sometimes, I wish Scott Camm & Shelley Craft would just turn up, send us on some holiday by the sea and return us to a brand new home (and award me a no-strings attached massage for good measure) but alas, there are far worthier couples out there.

When mum got sick, we immediately went into fight or flight mode and decided to build that elusive second bathroom and extra room so Mum could come and live with us. It was kind of always the plan, but I’ve explained to you about our plans. So almost immediately, we drew up floor plans, made arrangements and added three new rooms. I think it became abundantly clear to us very early on, that Mum would need more than a spare room and a bit of cheer from her grandkids to get through her illness. So even though the extra area has continued, it hasn’t really, barrelled along. And yes, as of today, we still only have one toilet and five people. Did I mention that my husband is a plumber? Just checking.

But today, we did make progress, after talking up the wallpaper steamer for quite some time and then listening to my husband’s protest to this tool ("oh, my painter mate from work, says just wet it down and wait") I made him hire one. Made him, as in, I said, “I’m going to Kennards and I’m going to hire a wallpaper steamer”. The threat to his male domain was too much. He left and returned and we steamed. And it was joyous. I made him admit it. Admit how easy it was and admit that, sometimes, even in Bunnings/Hardware related matters, his wife knows best.

So, tomorrow we do the other room and the hallway. And then, well, we get a new toilet. You just know there will be updates on that particular day.
Footnote: My husband is wonderful, in so many ways. On Wednesday, we celebrated our 15th year of being together. Well, we didn't celebrate, we totally forgot, but you know.

So the Federal Government intend to take over the currently State run, health care system.

Good luck with that. Clearly it’s escaped their attention that their own guys, i.e. Labor, have been running the health system for the last umpteen years, and have done nothing but make a big fat, hot mess of it.

Plus the only plan I can really see in place at the moment, is to take money off the states (seeing as they won’t be needing it any more) and to tax the shit out of the general taxpayer to make sure there are more localised committees to oversee everything. More groups of people sitting around discussing the shite state of affairs, why didn’t I think of that?

This is not about the doctors or the nurses. They are well trained, highly educated individuals. Sure, some, maybe 5%, could do with a swift kick up the arse for their bedside manner and attitudes, but that’s in every profession. They, the medical staff, are doing the very best they can, in the situation they are provided with.

And quite frankly, that situation, is why the Health Care and Hospital system in Australia sucks the big one.

In the last 8 months, I have seen quite a bit of the inside of a the local Queensland Public Hospital. And when I say inside, I mean the Emergency Department, the general wards, the paediatric wards, Surgery outpatients, X-ray and Orthopaedic divisions.  So from my point of view, i.e. The carer, or family of a loved one being treated, I can tell you, your communication and data systems suck and are of no use.

The issue is communication and the antiquated system with which our medical professionals are equipped to handle each case with. Often times, messages are written on bits of paper or in notes that no one bothers to flick back through. I cannot understand why there is not a computerised system whereby each Australian citizen is identified by their medicare number and all of their medical history is accessible. Oh wait I can. It’s because there’s not enough money. Really? Really? So this (see picture) 2.5 million dollar “artwork” is paid for by the same government who cannot afford to provide computerised systems ? The same government who just paid a truck load to the performer Pink so she will be the face of a motorcar race? It appears so.

Regardless of state. Regardless of level of medical care i.e. radiology, emergency care, hospital admission, blood cultures and just everyday GP visits, there should be a system that collates this information and makes it available to medical staff at any one time.

To be honest, I hadn’t had a lot to do with Queensland Health as such, until August of last year. That was when my 75 year old mother found out, from seemingly no-where, that she had cancer. And it wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. After many frustrating experiences, I penned this letter to Anna Bligh which you can read here:
http://bernmorley.blogspot.com/2009/09/open-letter-to-qld-premier-anna-bligh.html

It got Annas attention. We spoke and she said she took on board my recommendations of patient managers. (Basically staff that were in charge of a set number of patients. A go-to person if you like, that all staff and family knew to contact to gain information) She said it would be perfect for retired or burnt out paramedics. Then my mother passed away. After that, lets just say, I didn’t have the time, nor the strength to follow her up on her promises. I’m guessing now that the power is about to be wrenched from her grip, Ms Blighs attention to the matter would be somewhat thin at best.

Here is a short list of major incidents that have happened to me or my family that could have been solved or enhanced by a record sharing system.

1. My mother being on one floor of the hospital getting a stent in her bowel (that none of family had been consulted about) and basically being Missing in Action from her general ward for ten hours, because a) no note was made where she was b) the colonoscopy/stent surgical area were not answering their phone (all day) and c) no one could be arsed walking the 6 floors down to double check.

2. Getting three very strongly worded and almost threatening messages from the orthopaedic outpatient receptionist because my 7yo missed an appointment. We missed the appointment because were in their facility, i.e. the hospital. As an inpatient. The information of which, if they had a decent system, they would have been able to access.

3. The reason for the my sons admission into hospital was an infection in a broken arm from the surgery performed at that hospital. When we were discharged, he was prescribed antibiotics to keep the infection at bay. The removal of the wires (source of infection) was to be done earlier than usual as a result of the infection. At a pre-admission appointment, 7 days later, we were asked if he was on any medication. My response was just the antibiotics the hospital i.e. they had prescribed. The nurse, flicked through her file, but still had no idea what I was talking about. Neither did the doctor I saw not 10 minutes later.

4. On the initial admission to the ER after my son shattered his arm at school, a doctor saw him, wrote up some heavy duty pain relief as was in a mountain of pain. He didn’t put it in the correct place, he came back an hour later and realised my son had been in agony for that long because he didn’t file it accordingly.

5. My mother was about to go into for brain surgery when the nurse started quenstioning Mum about how long she'd been a Jehovahs' Witness. Mum was confused. So was I. Mum was an Anglican. I spoke up and asked why she would ask that. The nurse replied because she was down as "no blood transfusion due to religious reasons".
So, if this happens to just one family, in one hospital, what’s going on everywhere else? Does it not make sense to have every doctor, nurse, physiotherapist, dietician, occupational therapist and everyone in between, to own a palm held computer that contains every single patient under that persons care, information with alerts and updates?

Like I said above, I’m well aware, this would not be cheap. But I would be a hell of a lot happier to know my GST, my income tax, my rego, my stamp duty etc, etc was going towards something that would benefit everyone in Australia.

Other ways to improve the system would be to partially fund doctors and nurses education. On the proviso they stay with the public health system for a certain amount of time. (Obviously based on conduct and performance).  Stop Talking Kev because it sounds insincere. I’m not of any particular political persuasion. I’m actually naive enough to wish for a society where we are governed by people who want to do the right thing by its people, and not the person who lines their pocket.

And to be honest, Australia has had enough of you guys sitting in parliament, fighting like petulant children, throwing insults and jibes at each other and achieving zero. If you were children in a classroom, you would be silenced and disciplined. The sad state of affairs here is that no one is there to tell you guys to shut the hell up and just do what’s best for the people of Australia. Because that is where your job starts and ends.

I think today I came the closest I have ever come to the equivalent of a stage mother. Well the equivalent for Netball anyway.

The ten year old came home last week saying she had been selected through school, to represent her school for the Netball regional trials. “Really? I found myself asking. “Like, regionals, like representing your region?” Maddie just shrugged her shoulders and walked off. More than likely to NOT practice netball. I know this may sound like I don’t believe in my ten year old. It’s not that, it’s just it takes me by surprise when a school nominates a girl to represent their school who has barely played a game. It is a Catholic School. Perhaps they just have the faith.

So we headed off this afternoon, and straight away, I knew she was done for. These girls were dressed in sponsored netball dresses for god’s sakes. We were flat out finding a pair of shorts that would fit. Not only that, the mums were seriously pep talking them. I heard, “This is your chance” and “Do not miss the God Damn Ball Carly”. OK then.
My parting words to Mad were “Just have fun mate”. Poor girl was crapping her pants. So much so, she didn’t move. Even when she was Goal Defence. Unless goal defending is done from the side of the court. Next she was Goal Attack. It was like a rabbit jumped in her pants and she attacked alright. Just in the centre of court instead of being anywhere near the goal she was meant to be attacking.
And admittedly, I did feel like yelling out some words of encouragement or just simply “MOVE CHILD!” but hey, she’d figure it out. Or not.

But back to my original observation, netball (i.e. stage) mums.

Sitting in the blazing sun, minding my own business, the epitome of the Netball Mum sits next to me. Like, right next to me. I think I should have given her a “this is your dance space, this is my dance space” dirty dancing lesson. Anyway, weirdly, after about 4 minutes of silence, she says “Hello”. I replied with a Hi and a friendly, “looks like we are going to cop a storm, looking at those dark clouds”. I know, textbook weather small talk, but I get nervous. She responded with a big fat, nothing. I know she heard me because she looked up at the offending clouds. OK then.

Then, then, she starts shouting. Not at me, but at her daughter. “Stop bunching up silly girl!”, “Jump higher!” “What is that crap Alison?” Each time she yelled, I visibly jumped. And she wasn’t the only one. Everywhere I looked, on all sides of the court, were perfectly normal looking mothers, going postal at their children on the courts.

So after 4 attempts, at four different positions, the girls were sat down and if their name was read out, they got to go back on Thursday so the organisers could whittle it down to 11. For the record, "no personal space" woman’s daughter, made the cut. Needless to say, Maddies name didn’t get read out. Her friend from school was devastated when she too, missed out. Maddie just wanted to get the hell home and have her burritos. That’s my girl.

I know, not all mums are like this. In fact a lot aren’t. The ones that are, as far as I can tell, are trying to vicariously live through their child or, just simply want their child to excel. Which I understand. But I also understand if you push a child, they will, eventually, rebel. Encourage, don’t enforce I guess is the message here.

It’s so funny how two people can look at or watch the exact same thing and come up with two completely different opinions.

Straight up, I’m not a massive art appreciator. I mean, I can see a painting or a photo and tell you whether I like it or think it's rubbish. For Instance, this one below won a $10,000 prize this year.

Image: goldcoast.com.au 01 January 2010
The controversial winner of this year's Duke art prize by Melbourne artist Christopher Jones.

What the fuck? Seriously a) this makes absolutely, NO sense and b) it’s just words painted. Probably with a template - hardly art.

I mean, is this the emperor’s new clothes of the art world? If one guy who is respected in the Art World says throwing shit at a blank canvas is brilliant, do the rest of his peers simply agree with him for fear of looking like a an uneducated fool?

I only ask, because today I wrote my take on Tim Burtons Alice in Wonderland. I absolutely loved it. Loved it and to be honest, I really didn’t expect to. I thought it would be crazy bonkers and full-on Tim Burton/Johnny Depp batshit craziness. Plus I'd read reviews like this “a wildly inventive film straight jacketed in conventional narrative...that grows increasingly one-dimensional and simple-minded.'' Or “So let me call it now: Alice in Wonder- land - the most disappointing film of 2010” So polar opposite to me. What does this all mean?

Every Friday night, we go to the video store, ok ok, the DVD store. I know this is very rock star and you are all wildly jealous but it has to happen to someone. You've probably seen us there. The errant family paying $56 in late fees, whilst swatting the 3 year olds grubby kindy fingers away from the Freddo Frogs. Anyway, we (my husband and I) generally get a new release. One for me, one for him. Occasionally there is one we both will watch together. Often I just look for the most violent one I can find for him. Something that has zombies, high violence and naked beetches. Then he’ll go off, watch it and without doubt, walk back in 2 hours later. I will say “So how was it”. His response is ALWAYS “Shit”. Why in the hell did he sit through it then? Because that’s what he does. So he will sit and watch Shit but refuses to sit through PS I Love you, even though it will probably, at the end of the day, be far more entertaining than any of that crap he’s been suffering through.

My idea of a good movie is to be entertained. I don’t expect to find the meaning of life inside a cinema. Great if I learn some new stuff. Fantastic if I walk out with a new resolve to join Yoga or volunteer more. But at the end of the day, I get reality stuffed down my freaking throat 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. I just want to escape.

I find it funny to find some people hated movies I loved or vice versa.

Take Bruno for instance. Recently we discussed this with my brother and his girlfriend, who LOVED it. Texted me to tell me they were watching it and it was hilarious. Phil and I had seen it not long after it came out on DVD and whilst he sat through it (as he does); I got, oh, about 20 minutes before I had had enough.

But on the flipside, Couples Retreat came out recently and I absolutely thought it rocked. It was funny and escapist. It got nailed in the reviews. Barely anyone seemed to like it.

Perhaps it’s me? Actually, reading back, I think it may be. Sometimes I’m a bit of a slow burner. I remember seeing Zoolander for the first time and thinking it was shite. Then I went back a few years later and it cracked me up. I now consider it in my top 10 of favourite movies. Along with Kindergarten Cop, Napoleon Dynamite, 50 First Dates and Juno.

So, now I’m off to go paint my own $10,000 winning canvas. I’m thinking

THE BRAIN DOES
LEECH MARBLES
TRIPPED
THE MONGOOSE

It’s certainly mental enough. Think I've nailed it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Straight up: I’m not that smart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Dear Barry,

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

Love Barry xx."

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

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

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

Got any confessions? Anonymous comments welcome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love Aldi – there I said it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you do start, at least try these:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I checked out the myschool website - http://www.myschool.edu.au/

By the looks of things, my kids better brush up on some armed robbery skillz because they won’t be going to University anytime soon. So poor were the results.

Both schools were below average for years 3, 5 and 7. My first reaction? What the Fuck?

I have two school aged children. One in year 2, one in Year 6.

Sam, in year 2, has Aspergers and luckily he began Prep at a school with a Special Education Unit that is highly regarded on the Gold Coast. As such, a lot of kids at his school need extra attention. Some, like Sam, who is in a main stream classroom, need a teacher aid with them a lot of the time, so they can concentrate, learn their ABCs and 123s and not skiv off to the sandpit and play. Others need no help academically, but need a lot of help behaviour wise. Either way, this school has a very large proportion of children with varying degrees of academic ranges and the majority sat that test.

And they still did better than my daughters school that we pay for.

My daughter who is 11 this year and in grade 6 was part of the year 5 Naplan testing last year at this Catholic Education School. We changed her from her brothers school due to one fact and one fact only. She couldn’t understand her teacher. This particular school is multi-aged, meaning it’s not about what grade you are in, but the stages. Early, Junior, Middle and Senior. It’s a great notion. The kids who are smart, get taught to their ability, not grade, the ones who are struggling, get helped along. So the theory goes.

Maddie is an avid reader. Massive reader. Out reads me. This is not a biased observation, it just is. Her division and overall maths are not so crash hot, nor her presentation of work or her physical education. So when her mid-year Year 4 Report came home and it showed a C for Reading and English, I was a little bit baffled. See, her teacher for that year, and the subsequent year was a male who is from Pakistan. I had had him as a client some years earlier and he got the total shits with me because I couldn’t understand him. So when I realised, by some weird cosmic force, that he was going to be Maddies teacher in year 4, my first thought was “How in the hell will she learn when she can’t understand her teacher?” I told her to tell me if she couldn’t work out what he was saying. She said she would. But she didn’t. Because she didn’t want to leave her friends. Excellent.

So turns out she couldn’t understand him for the majority of year 4. He was a lovely man. He really liked Maddie. He made her the mentor of other wayward children in her class, with the best of intentions, but at the end of the day, the realisation that my child was to be taught by this teacher again in year 5 and possibly not learn, concerned me. We were always going to send her to a Private High School anyway, so figured, Year 5 was as good a time as any to change her to our only affordable option – Catholic Education.

I know, it’s all a matter of prioritising and budgeting and yes I agree. But, we’ve got 3 kids, all of which would be in private schools at the same time, we have extra medical costs associated with Sam and you know what?, I can’t see how the kids are really going to be better off if we are stressed off our heads just so they can go to the “Best private schools” on the Coast.

See, this is the problem. When I was a kid there were private schools on the Gold Coast. Not nearly as many as there are today, but the major ones were there. But it wasn’t an issue. Well it didn’t appear to be. You went to the school you lived the closest to. Or, if you were exceptionally wealthy, you went to one of the private schools. End of story. Even then, everyone was still friends. There certainly didn’t appear to be the same sort of class system. Nor was the awkward conversation at dinner parties “Oh so where does your child go to school?” Fuck, isn’t it hard enough just to exist these days, let alone be judged by what sort of education your child receives? And isn’t it our right, as a taxpayer, as an Australian, for our children to receive the best of education and health regardless of wealth?

And most teachers at state schools are wonderful. My son has had the best teacher for the last 2.5 years I could ever have hoped for. She was wonderful. I truly believe it comes down to what suits your child. Only you, as the parent can make this call.

I can totally see the frustration on both sides of the fence for both pro Naplan testing and anti. Teachers are being raked over the coals for shite results that aren’t directly their fault. Some schools are getting awesome results due to the fact they deliberately wrangled for less academically gifted children to avoid sitting the test.

The thing is, we all just want our children to get a decent education. We don't want to feel ashamed because our children are attending under performing schools. We don’t want special attention or favours. We don’t expect to have sunshine blown up our arses about how good how child is. We do expect however, to get decent, fair and equitable teaching for our children. No matter what school that they attend. No child should get better marks because they have access to more equipment at home to process an assignment. No child should get favoured because they catch up with a certain childs mother from time to time. That crap has to stop.

So this website may eventually help average out the results across the country. If a school is particularly struggling, perhaps a crack team of experts will descend on the school and work out how to help the situation. That to me, would be a positive outcome generated from this site.

Apparently there is a frenzy of parents pulling their children out of under performing schools based on this website but, if you were happy with your childs school before this website went live but now have concerns, back yourself. You know what’s best because no one knows you child quite like you do.

I’ve never had a brand new car. Well until about 2 years ago I hadn’t. We were sick and tired of buying other peoples “bargains”. It

probably came to a head in 35 degree heat, after the air conditioner in my 2000 Daewoo Nubira Wagon completely shit itself. In fact, it not only went on strike, it went on the attack by blowing hot air at me. Around that time, the electric drivers’ window also refused to open. Sometimes, when it wasn’t in a particular mood, it would open and

not shut, but it rarely co-operated in full.

So there I was, 3 kids, 40 degree hot hair blowing directly in my face like a hairdryer, my window steadfastly refusing to budge and a $2000 bill on the cards to fix my $2000 car. A couple of meltdowns that included me rocking in the corner later, and we decided it was time to bite the bullet and get a new car.

As we could only afford so much, or more, as we were being incredibly tight, we decided the smallest car in the Honda range would fit us as a family of 5. The Honda Jazz. Anyway that is a very long path to get to my main goal of telling you I got my very first ever brand new car and then someone crashed into it.

I had been out all day. I had dropped two kids off to school. I had picked Mum up and we had gone to a gazillion different places over the Gold Coast that as per usual, left me no time to go home and vacuum the house on my day off. Shame.

After dropping Mum home, I went back to school and carefully parked my car and walked in to the school to pick up the kidlets. This was only 3 weeks after I had purchased the car so of course, the kids were on a food ban inside it, so too were we having a texta, play doh and Lego embargo. I had washed it every weekend; I had vacuumed it lovingly and gone off my chops when the middle child emptied his sand filled sneakers onto the backseat of the car.

It was early days. Then some bitch ran in to it.

I had packed three kids into it and had driven all the way home before I realised. For some reason I went back out to the car, probably to just stare at it (kidding) and that’s when I realised, the front of the car was seriously fucked. How had I missed this? Could I be that dense that I didn’t hear the noise that would have sounded like a bomb going off when I hit what appears to be a silver pole?

I spent the next 30 minutes crapping myself and offhandedly dropped the bomb to my husband after he got home from work. Fortunately, as well as a plumber, it appears my husband is serious crash investigator because the first thing he said to me was “Nah mate, someone has backed into you”. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

So I was looking down the barrel of an insurance claim that I would have to cop the brunt of, both ratings and monetary wise. Bloody bastards. Not to mention, my car had been deflowered. Do to her what you want people, she is no longer pure.

Some weeks later, I was walking in to pick up Sam and one of the Mum’s I’m friendly with said, “Oh, that’s your car!” I probably looked at her a bit blankly. Blink Blink.

“Do you know how you got that massive dent in the front of it?”

Me: “No, someone ran into it, but don’t know who.

C’s Mum “I do”

She went on to tell me how her and another mum had been walking into the school when, let’s call her Lorena the Moron or LTM for short, had tried to reverse park into a non-existent parking spot between my car and the one behind me. Clearly she didn’t make it as a) she’s not a Polly Pocket and b) there was a massive fucking dent in my car with her paint all over it. C’s Mum then led me to LTM’'s car to show me my paint on her rear, smashed, bumper. What the Hell.

So, being the non-confrontational and peace loving person I am, I left a note on her windshield. You know – “Hey, I believe you smashed into my car a couple of weeks ago and I now need your insurance details to get this fixed”.

Nada

I knew who she was. She was the mum who used to, rather than get off her arse, shout at her son to stop throwing sticks at classroom windows. I knew of her well before she slammed into my car. It was often this “Benjamin, Benjamin! Git ere Benjamin. Put that rock down Benjamin! Don’t hit that boy, that’s not nice Benjamin. Cmmmmeeerre!!!. Um how about this mole, get off you arse, discipline your child and stop him from touching my child.

My car wasn’t the first to meet with LTM either. Another ladies car was backed into and a stationery motorbike was knocked over. Or course, I learned all of this much later.

So, I thought, I’m just going to have to confront her. I really didn’t want to. She was unhinged at the best of times, fairly big Nurofen Plus addiction but she never showed. What I didn’t want was for hew to get anywhere near my vulnerable son, Sam.

I attempted again with the note on the windscreen. More forceful this time. “If you do not contact me by 5pm today, I will have no other choice but to go to the Police”. Then I sat, covert like, around the corner, watched her grab it off her windscreen, scrunch it up, and throw it on the ground. Oh it was on.

So I went to the Police station. Stood in line for over an hour whilst various grievances were aired and people on parole checked in. My turn. Explained my sitch. The young police man grabbed the phone and said “let’s see who owns this car then shall we”. Apparently her boyfriend gave her the car. He was in Melbourne. Awesome.

Look, long story short, the boyfriend tried to get me to say it was him who backed into me – Um NO. I asked him if she was pissed or on drugs. His response

“No, just a very nervous driver”. Well how’s this, I don’t’ want a nervous driver around my kids at school thanks. His next sentence?

“You’re lucky you didn’t confront her actually, she can get quite aggressive”. Um sorry, I’m the one she backed into and then fucked off on and SHE gets aggressive?

I got the details, got my car fixed and constantly got mega death stares from LTM.

But the spell was broken for me and my new car. Our dog scratched the bonnet about 6 months later, badly and I barely cared. No less than 6 trolleys have gone into it in car parks. My stilettos have ripped their way through the carpet in the driver’s seat. Meh. It get’s washed 6 monthly if it’s lucky.

It's sad for my poor Jazz. Innocent victim in the scheme of things. Kind of like me.

OK, so it struck me, whilst my seven year old son was feeding water, via a dropper, to Seabushy (aka weed from the ocean) that he may indeed need an actual pet to care for.

We have, of course, tried this before with other animals but for one reason or another, things just haven’t worked out. But to see a child first prepare a funeral for Seabushy Number 1 then resurrect her as a surly tween, aka Seabushy Mark 2, I quickly realised that this kid needed a pet that at least breathed from time to time.

Seeing as I have placed a self-imposed ban on myself adopting any new animals , and my husband has basically given me this as an option (read ultimatum) “get another animal and I walk out that door and never come back”, I was left with no other choice but get cunning. Well, he said no more animals. He said NOTHING about fish.

So yesterday, on a bit of a whim, I went to the local petshop, picked a very old school fish bowl and three very different fish who apparently live harmoniously together. Yeah, just like my three children do.

Sparkles (Named by the female ten year old) is your everyday run of the mill goldfish. Even though when I left the petstore, and for the entire drive home, Sparkles was happily burning around in her bowl, when I walked through the front door, she was laying on the bowl floor, lifeless. Shit Shit Shit. Could I be that spectacularly crap at owning a pet? Seriously? Did I knock her head when I got the bowl out of the car? Had she gotten wedged under a purple rock and had a heart attack? Just when I was about to shield the kids eyes, she got up, swam to the top and kept on swimming.

Jacob Wills Haunted House (aka Seabushy 3 for short) is a black, bug eyed goldfish. He is the most piggish fish I have ever seen. Blew the other two out of the water when it came to sucking up that fish food. He is currently working tag team with Sparkles to move the rocks in the bowl with their heads – conjoined twin style. The seven year old is in charge of Seabushy 3.

Georgia, the new name for the tiny unidentified fish Hurricane Jack selected, is named after his very serious girlfriend from Kindy

So this is kind of our trial run. If we do OK with Sparkles, Seabushy Mark 3 and Georgia, we can present our case to my husband. And maybe something with fur will be next. Although, this statement from my seven year old is not very encouraging. Right before going to bed tonight he came out, kissed the fish bowl and said “Goodnight Seabushy, I hope you don’t die.”

This from Dave Hughes: (Comedian) “Can Australia Day just calm down a bit. Don't get ahead of yourself mate, you're not Christmas”

But that’s the thing though Dave, it’s better than Christmas. It’s not about a guy who supposedly turns water into a quite a nice drop, it has relevance to everyone in this magnificent country of ours. We still get to eat and drink ourselves stupid, yet there is no stupid overpriced gift giving and more often than not, we spend the day with people we truly want to be around. Oh, and we usually get to play a game of beach cricket with a big fuck-off hat on our heads and swim on big blow up thongs. Better than Christmas? – Um, YEAH!

Apparently it wasn’t until 1994 that the whole country unified to make the 26th of January each year, a public holiday, thus the spirits of all Australians were lifted as one. Ever since, there has been this slow but sure evolution into the event that is Australia Day. Akin to News Years day, plans are made, lamb chops and sausages are purchased and Triple J Hottest 100 is cranked. Even if, like me, you hardly know any of the songs anymore. It’s just tradition. Well, was tradition until Triple J accidently leaked the winner this year pre-countdown. Here’s where I admit I do not know the song that actually took the Number 1 spot. Yep, my Triple J listening days ended somewhere around pushing a basketball sized baby out of my vagina - the same day I had to grow up.

We have a long standing tradition, ok, 3 year tradition, where we meet with a great bunch of people we met when we lived on the Tweed. It started out as a bit of a nothing one day when picking up the kids one day after school. “What are you guys doing on Australia Day?” “Oh nothing much, you?” “Thinking of going down to Jack Evans boat harbour – want to come?”"Sure" And so it happened. Jack was all of 6 weeks old, and the day was unexpectantly awesome. We ate, we drank champagne (yes, yes, after the requisite amount of time after feeding J of course), we played cricket, we swam, we spoke ALOT of shit and then we went home and continued on for another couple of hours. The best thing? – it was easy. Some would go so far as to say it was - Aussie as.

That’s the thing about Aussies, we are easy. Easy in the easy going sense, not the I root everything that breathes kinda sense. That mantle is well and truly held by an American Golfing genius.

The fact that this year the police have a zero tolerance when it comes to drinking in public spaces is understandable but, I’m going to use the word here - it is positively, UnAustralian. I cannot comprehend a game of beach cricket without being able to hold a drink whilst fielding. Or a champagne and orange whilst we cook our Webber bbq breakfast. Looks like we are going to have get tricky and reuse that coke zero can, because we aren’t’ the ones the cops need to worry about. It’s the young guys and few dipshit adults that are decidedly unAustralian. Who cannot get together; have a great day, a few bevvies without it turning into a racist punch-up. If that’s your intention buddy, just stay home and have a wank, because that is clearly what you do best.

So what does being Australian mean? If you have always lived here, how do you know the difference?

Vegemite:  Basically brown yeast. Oh yeah and don’t we Aussies just lap that shit up. Me especially. It goes well on toast with lashings of butter. The outside world, on the other hand, has a different opinion. Cheesymite aka poo in a jar, is a whole other story.

Thongs:  Pretty much the only country using the word everyone else in the world uses for g-string. Makes for some pretty interesting lost in translation moments.

Our flag:  Word of warning though, the Australian Flags on car windows has the chance of going the way of the Frangipani Stickers. Overexposed by bogans. Today in the Harbour town car park I saw the triple threat. Frangipani car seat covers, Australia Day flags off the windows and Crazy Bitch Sticker on the back window. Avoid at all costs.

Our beaches: I don’t have much to draw a comparison to, other than Bali, but from what I have seen in movies, our beaches rock. They are clean, white and apart from when they throw in the odd stinger, are the best ones in the world.

Our Weather: Ok, this is not unique to Australia, but thunderstorms and hearing the crack of thunder on a tin roof whilst drifting off to sleep, pretty much sums up my summers growing up.

Meat Pies: Does it get any more Aus than this? Lara “Where the Bloody Hell are you?” Bingle tweeted this: "Four n Twenty pie @ the cricket mmmm” Now that is Aussie. Sure the whole translation of “Where the Bloody Hell are you?” ad campaign fell flat on its bazookas to the UK audience it was supposed to entice, but really and truly, it’s a stunning girl who’s engaged to a top Australian cricketer who’s enjoying a meat pie at one of our national pastimes. Plus, she’s just had her Aston Martin (not very Aussie) stolen (very Aussie) and found by the cops (Very unusual in any country).

Our accent:  The way I’ve always looked at it. We are speaking correctly, everyone else has an accent or a twang or just a whole other language. Now I realise we are 23 million* in a world of 7 billion* Kind of makes us the minority. So in essence our accent comes across as very abrasive to some. I know it has been pointed out to me lately that I have been saying “ay” when I say something needing confirmation like “This weeks gone really quickly - PAUSE -- ay?” Not the most charming feature for a lady to have.

I am sure there are hundreds of more Aussie things we do. Quirks and ideals we as Australians have that are unique to the lucky Country. Whatever you do on Tuesday, remember our indigenous population who were here before any of us and well before that fateful day in 1788 when the First Fleet landed. Also remember that we are the ones living now. We, our children and our children’s children will be the ones that keep Australia what is considered to be one of the luckiest countries on Earth. So love it, respect it and respect each other. Most importantly Have a fantastic Australia Day.

I do believe there are many of us. And I also believe the level of scared shitless is high.

I am of course talking about those among us who use Google to search for medical problems and symptoms. Dr Google by any other name.

I use the good doctor when I feel anything physically out of the ordinary. Then about 2 minutes later I have myself convinced I have a full blown, life threatening disease. It’s like when I was a teen, there was no such thing as Google and the internet was only for the Trumps. I would be convinced I was pregnant, even though I hadn’t even had proper sex yet. I would hightail it to the nearest QBD and scour the medical book section for “pregnancy symptoms” Sore breast, check, nauseous, check, lack of period, OMG I am pregnant!!!! I never was, but it was my version of Dr. Google.

My 3yo walks on his tippy toes. A lot. We of course noticed it, and have done the whole “get off your tippy toes” about, oh 1000 times. His kindy teacher has pointed it out to us and told us ever so sweetly to “get that shit checked out by a doctor” As his brother before him has been diagnosed with Aspergers we were hyper vigilant to start with, so of course, what better course of action than a diagnosis care of Dr. Google. Here are some of the possible reasons our son may be walking on his tip-toes.

“One other cause for toe walking is tight Achilles tendons at the back of the heels. Sometimes this condition can be corrected by putting the child's feet into a brace for a while or, in the more severe cases, surgery may be necessary” Ok, can deal with that.

“Frequent toe walking can signal several different problems, the most serious of which is cerebral palsy” Holy Shit.

See what I mean, this is worst case scenario stuff. I took the then 2 year old, to the doctor and she told me to basically go home and he will grow out of it as it’s a habit. He’s now 3, still does it and yep, pretty sure it’s just a habit.

I myself recently had cause for concern with a very sore, lump in my breast. This started out much less sinister and due to the fact that my mum was dying and I had zero time to face any more shite news, I ignored it until humanly possible. This of course did not stop me from consulting Dr. Google. In which time I read some very re-assuring pages “painful lumps are rarely a problem” to some very disturbing ones “These masses have a good chance of malignancy”. So, of course being as difficult as humanly possible I decided I needed this checked during the Christmas/New Years period. The hardest and longest period of time during the year to get any concrete evidence.

So ensued a litany of tests, some of which were very invasive and all of which sucked the life out of our bank balance. The kicker is of course when the doctor asks you “can you afford these tests?” "Well as a matter of fact no, but I don't want to look like a complete scab, so yes, of course, hit me up" I mean, who the fuck can afford $1,000 right after Christmas? That aside, it is necessary at any cost.

Anyway, it’s all good. Just a fibroidenoma : The typical case is the presence of a painless, firm, solitary, mobile, slowly growing lump in the breast of a woman of childbearing years. Either way, before I got the pathology results after a very anxious 2 week wait, I had myself contemplating my life, my children’s’ future and the injustice of it all. And Dr Google didn’t help. In fact it hindered and scared the living shit out of me.

So, can I suggest something? Perhaps, the next time you have an ache in your hip or a throbbing in your temple, go to a real life doctor and see what they have to say. It won’t be conclusive straight away and it won’t make you feel comfortable, but at least it’s real.

So the kids go back to school on Wednesday. And you know what? They still aren’t particularly keen to get on board that particular groove train.

Oh I’m sorry. 8 weeks holiday not long enough for you sunshine?

This time of year always catches me by surprise, even though I get plenty of warning. I mean how do prepare for a six - eight week period every year where the kids are in freefall. No more routine, no more hot devon lunches (my child requests these, please do not think I would enforce Devon on ANYBODY) and no homework.

And it should be a time to get loose I guess. They’ve worked hard now haven’t they? They’ve had to endure countless stolen HB pencil incidents, fights in the schoolyard over whose handball they should use and let’s not forget the tough and gruelling fun run on the beach where my daughter consumed 5 sausage sandwiches. Ahh the hard knock life.

But now it’s all over, I returned to work on Monday which as always was a nice change after having absolutely no structure or point to my days for four weeks. On the downside, it put a stop to wine o’clock each arvo.

My office shuts down for four weeks over Christmas/New Year. My husbands’ work for two. We used to take the entire four weeks off together. This year that idea was sidelined due to two major problems. Number one, we were eating air sandwiches come Australia Day due to lack of funds and number two, my husband and I were ready to stage a WWF Smackdown versing each other by week 3. To Mr and Mrs being together 24 hours a day /7 days a week – Computer Says No.

On the brightside, the hot x buns are already a daily special at Woolworths and the chocolate eggs on the shelves. Won't be long until the kids will be downing tools again. When I grow up, I want to be a kid....

Oh on a sidenote, today, after 3 weeks of the most prime swimming weather ever, Jack got his casts off his broken arms, and finally, got to have a glorious swim, carefree down the Broadwater.

Our grand plan was this: Buy a house, renovate it, sell it for a motza and then do again - five more times. I pictured us; mortgage free, equity rich, able to relax in our late forties and dining out regularly on our brilliant idea.

Sadly, we are shit at it.

This is not our first renovation. But it is the most major.

We just totally underestimated the scale of the renovation. To be honest, I had just had a baby, the house was dazzling us with its orange shag pile carpet and the vicinity to the Broadwater gave us the type of false sense of security that we could live in a tent as long as we stayed close to the water. Naive' or stupid? You be the judge.

I have just had 3 weeks “holiday”. Apart from the previously mentioned hellish and repeated visits to the hospital with the 3 year old shit magnet, we have also, most every day, either performed the renovating, or visited warehouses and factories to get the stuff required for said renovation.

I liken the process to getting married. OK, bear with me.

From the moment we set a date for our wedding, it was on. And I mean fucking – on. Every Saturday and Sunday was taken up with visits to bridal shops, venues, churches, travel agents, wedding expos, cake makers, balloon shops and yeah, you get the picture, it was weddings a go go.

Then the wedding came and went. It had been a full scale military exercise to bring that day together, not to mention, squeeze into my dress and then, poof, it was over. I was bereft and cast adrift on my Saturdays. What now? Spend actual time with my new husband?

And money, Jesus don’t get me started on the so called “budget”. Please read that and make the stupid quotation marks as you do, because the sentence above is pure bullshit. The thing is, my husband actually does a hell of a lot of this himself and we are still leaking money like a kid with gastro. Plus we just have such different ideas on what needs to be done and at what cost.

Tip for would-be renovators: unless you freakishly agree on everything in your lives, you can expect at least one conversation when you tell your partner to shove a particular tool up their arse. It is almost guaranteed.

So my analogy of marriage and renovating a house I guess is this: Every single spare moment we have at the moment is taken up with our new project, renovating the unrenovatable. The project has changed, but it still requires the same amount of passion and input as a wedding does.

I mean, what will we do when the house is complete? I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We will make the word renovation a swear word in my household, never to be mentioned again. Oh and live happily ever after.

So I am on holidays at the moment. As such, I have zero motivation to cook. So we’ve been indulging in the restaurant culture perhaps more so than we usually would. As such, we are getting to see many facets of this service industry.

When I say restaurant culture, the playground and surrounding tables at McDonalds get a Guernsey here right? Totally kidding. Mostly.

No, really, we have been out particularly to places nearby, read: within walking distance that Mum and Dad can still have a bevvie and take the kids home via foot. But lately two places have stood out. And not for the same reasons.

First example:

Stats: Lunchtime

People: 4 Adults, 3 Children.

Place: Restaurant Juliana’s. Paradise Point, QLD. Mostly services Sovereign Island, one of the most expensive real estate sections in Queensland.

Ok, so it wasn’t the food, which was adequate, nor the service, which was semi-fast, it was the attitude we received. I queried the bill. She had in fact overcharged us $50. I knew it. No apology, in fact she told me it was because it was written down wrong on the bill – like it was my fault. I don’t think I am adequately telling you what was wrong here. Out and out, the owner and the one who ended up processing our bill, was just incredibly rude. She was spewing because I was using EFTPOS. She was spewing that we were asking for Take away coffees to be included in the bill we were paying. And this was not my first shite experience. She once told me, when having breakfast and reading the Sunday paper by myself, with not one other customer in the joint, that I would have to move because I was taking up a table for 4. Why did we eat there again? Fuck only knows.

Second example:

Stats: Dinnertime

People: 2 Adults, 3 children

Place: Restaurant Clink, Southport, QLD, Restaurant in a Hotel with a Comedy Club

Last night, we went out for dinner. Even though it was way past the 3 year olds bed time and
even though this usually equates to hell, we gave it a go. Surprisingly it was awesome.

We were greeted with enthusiasm. We were sat at a table that suited us. In short, this restaurant, which is essentially a pub restaurant, gave 5 star service and 6 star food. We asked once, we got it. The food was consumed by every single child and Mum and Dad went home and just passed out (sure fire sign of a fantastic and filling meal). Plus I just happened to indulge in a baileys/vanilla bean panna cotta at the end which kind of sealed the deal.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that, in these economic times, and even these times of just being a bit skint cause it’s after Christmas and we’ve all had a few days off, it’s not often we get to go out and actually indulge. So if we do, we expect to enjoy it.

And look, we are pretty easy going diners. I don’t even send back glasses with obvious lipstick marks on the wine glass.
But rude people shit me.

10 Things I need my husband to stop doing sooner rather than later:

• Putting a wad of wet clothing at the bottom of the washing basket, then dropping his dry, yet repulsive work clothes on top, and then leaving it to fester.
• Drinking all the Cordial
• Eating all the Timtams
• Bringing out his dirty filthy lunchbox from the day before AFTER I have finished doing the dishes.
• Denying me a pet.
• Shaving his head like a thug.
• Shaving our sons head like a thug without consulting me first.
• Play wrestling with the kids until he makes one cry.
• Worrying about nothing.
• Compulsively farting.

10 Things I need my husband to never stop doing – Ever

• Loving his kids like he does.
• Feeling like getting up and going to work each day.
• Play wrestling with the kids on our bed. (Yes even though it invariably ends in tears)
• Laughing at stupid stuff I say.
• Playing endless games of tetherball with every member of the family.
• Wanting to go and get me the paper every weekend.
• Having the desire to turn up to violin/choir/recorder etc etc recitals even though they are often more painful than childbirth.
• Being chief Wheelie Bin operator.
• Taking hold of my hand when we cross the road.
• Loving me.

Got any to add?

“The lotto numbers – don’t forget to ask them for the lotto numbers!” That line from one very sceptical neighbour when we announced we were off to see a psychic at the Psychic Expo yesterday at The Southport RSL.

I was, am not now, a virgin when it came to this kind of stuff. Apart from messing around with tarot cards with my girlfriends when we were young, I knew nothing.

But yesterday definitely popped my cherry. And it didn’t hurt a bit.

I was so nervous going in there. I mean what was I worried about? Well, actually I was scared she would be able to look inside me and see every thought, nice, negative, odd, lovely and absurd that I was having at that very moment. What if she could tell I had made an observation whilst waiting my turn that I thought she should have gotten her roots done before this big expo? Did she know I’d drunk a bottle of wine the night before and was feeling like particular shit? And what if she just ended up being all kinds of wrong and I was wasting my $25. Mind you that’s $25 for 15 minutes. $100 an hour for using her extra-sensory perceptive powers. Wow, wish I were psychic.

I was offered a recording of my reading for $5 but realised, that um, I don’t own a tape player any more. These guys need to get with the times.

So sitting there, waiting for Donna my guru, to finish up with a middle-aged woman who looked particularly ticked off, I couldn’t help but listen to psychic number 5, Esmeralda.

A lady who was at least 85 in the shade, sat supported by her walker with Esmeralda. I didn’t hear her question but I heard the answer. “No darling, you aren’t going anywhere, anytime soon.” Immediately I felt a lot of affection for Esmeralda. I mean, she could have seen that this old duck was not going to last past next Tuesday, but she wasn’t about to tell her that. I suddenly got what all this was about. About reaffirming stuff, making you feel better and if they happen to hit upon some real issues, then all well and good, otherwise, if it just gives you a reason to keep going, well what’s the harm? Esmeralda went on to ask a series of questions and make predictions to which the old lady refuted. Didn’t matter, the old lady was satisfied and even gave Esmeralda a kiss on her way out.

Enough of others, it was my turn.

I sat down and Donna looked into my eyes and kept staring for what felt like an eternity and then said “Um, I need your ticket before I can start love” Oh shit, right, so after rummaging around my sinkhole of a handbag, I finally found it and we got to start properly.

Immediately she told me I had a very creative aura. “You need to use your talent – you are a communicator, or an artist, no definitely a writer. You don’t do that for a living, but I see you writing columns. You need to write a novel”. OK, fucking hell, pretty good.

“You need to keep with the writing and stop blocking yourself” A lot along these lines and then I got to pick 11 tarot cards. I watched the lady before me do this and she seemed to almost hover over them trying to get a feel for them. I felt nothing so was just picking them randomly. She started laying them down and then she started asking me about my husband.

“Has he been somewhat restless of late? a bit scattered?” Ooooh not that I know of. Then this

“I sense an addiction with your husband, is he addicted to something?” Um, unless he has an underground crack addiction I haven’t picked up on, then no.

Then it hit me. Yes he surely does have an addiction. Its name is BUNNINGS. Spot on the money. I didn’t tell Donna this; I didn’t get a chance because she told me “You will go through great disappointment with your husband for a couple of months. This could be to do with a property, you may want to do something he doesn’t, but it will all work out, just don’t push things”. Plus,

“A lot about the choices you make this year will take care of things financially”. Way to put the pressure on me Donna.

She also touched on 2009 and how it was a year of a lot of waiting and no being settled. True dat.

Then it was over. 15 minutes were up and she was ready for her next sucker - ahem - client.

My friend also said she got quite the amazing reading. Hers was spot on with her job and kids. Hers even gave her a hug at the end. Donna clearly picked up my reluctance to touch strangers.
I guess I thought, with my mum so recently passing away, that Donna would tell me Mum was telling her to tell me stuff from beyond the grave. You know like that she’s not impressed that I’ve given up on ironing all together or that I should stop yelling at her grandkids so much. But nada.

So am I a believer? After yesterday, call me a sucker, but yeah, I kinda think I am.

I can’t always watch Find My Family and if I do, it’s not without tears. Damn you Jack Thompson and you’re calming words of sorrow, loss and eventual happiness. You bring it too close to home.

I am adopted. My brother is adopted. No, we are not real brother and sister which is often asked. I used to think that a stupid question. Like, did people think Mum and Dad got us from a baby making duo who just made Les, handed him over and 2.5 years later, handed me over as well? But now I realise people thought we came as a package, that Mum and Dad took on the two of us, me at birth and Les as a toddler. I get that now.

But no, my brother has his own story and I mine.

In 1974, my mother got pregnant to her boyfriend and being the “good Catholic girl” that she was, had me in June 1975 and immediately put me up for adoption. From what I gather, it was a given she would adopt me out. She wasn’t married, she was barely 19 and had parents who would have it no other way.

I wonder what it must have been like. To feel me kicking inside her, to go into I’m guessing what was a painful labour, and then to hand me over to the nurses without even being granted a glance at the baby she had borne. I feel so incredibly sad for her. After having given birth to three babies myself, I cannot even begin to imagine how she would ever get over her grief and pain.

But life goes on. Hers, mine, my parents, everyone’s.

My childhood was a typical Australian one. It involved being forced into playing cricket with a blackmailing older brother, riding bikes, playing in the local creek, recycling cans for pocket money and all different variations of this.

I grew up, stuff went down as it does with all families, but one thing I remember vividly was that Mum was extremely open about our being adopted. She made no secret about it and I guess that’s why it never felt like a massive deal to me. Well until I hit 18 that is.

I got this sudden urge to find my real mother. This wasn’t because I suddenly didn’t want Betty as my Mum any more or love her any less, it was because I wanted to know why I looked like I look. Curiosity. But you know what they say about curiosity don’t you? Yep and I didn’t even have a cat to kill. As it turned out, it certainly was not the right reason to disturb someone’s established life and luckily I was counselled out of going any further before I did. I truly am grateful for this. I did get identifying information which gave me some details about my mother and father such as, they were Caucasian, their eye colours and builds. I also learnt some medical history (double mastectomy in grandmother – eek) that is terribly important. I can’t tell you over my life how many times a doctor has asked me if anyone in my family has say for instance, a heart condition, and I’ve just had to say “I don’t know, I’m adopted”.

When I was about 19, I received the following letter from Lyn, my biological mother;

"Hi,

Wish I knew a name to call you, I don’t feel I have the right to call you daughter. I have thought often of writing but didn’t know where to start.

I often think of how you are, my biggest worry has been that you have been safe and happy.

It’s funny when I fell pregnant with you I was still so incredibly naive and went through it all in a blur. Ian, your father, and I , had been going out for years but it’s funny, I just never thought of marrying him. I haven’t seen him for a long, long time but I hear that he became a wanderer and isn’t married now.

I’ve been married to a great guy, Rod for 14 years now. He knows about you and has been at me for years to contact you. We have 3 beautiful boys, who do their share of fighting. Ryan is 12, Luke, 10 and Joshua is 6. I guess I’ve been punished in a way because we would dearly love a girl but..

My family, my parents mainly, never spoke of you. I had the apple of my father’s eye and it took many years before he spoke to me again – Good Catholics!
I’ve gone back to work after twelve years and so far am really enjoying it.

Belinda, that’s what I named you at birth, I hope with all my heart that you have had a happy life and forgive me for giving you up. I still believe in my heart it was the best for you.

Hope this finds you well and happy,

Lyn"

Ok firstly, what in the fuck is a wanderer? Secondly, I have no idea why, but I was never interested in finding out who my father was. This I cannot explain.

After that I had no questions. It was like I was full. Suddenly I had no reason to find out more. Sure, I found it interesting to know I had three half brothers out there somewhere and yes I did wonder about them for some time. But time passes, I have my own family to care for and to be honest, I have a mother and a brother. And they were the best that anyone could ask for. Love was on tap - what more do you need?

I recently found this letter after going through my mums stuff (after she passed away). My brother and I agreed. It’s like we were puppy’s in a pet store. Plus I cost 5 bucks. Bargain.

It reads:

"Dear Mr. and Mrs. Clarke,

There is now a baby girl born 21st June, 19XX available for adoption. The baby weighed 8lbs 4 ozs at birth.

The mother of the child is a single girl aged 19, a Student Nurse by occupation with Junior standard education. She has brown hair, blue eyes, fair complexion, is 5' 7" in height and of medium build. She is of Australian nationality.

The father of the child is aged 22, single, a motor mechanic by occupation with Junior standard education. He has blond hair, blue eyes, fair complexion, is 5' 8" in height and of slim build. He is of Australian nationality.

If you would like to see this baby, would both journey to Brisbane as soon as possible. Please call this office between 9am - 2:30pm on any week day so that the necessary authority to see the child may be given to you.

If you do not wish to see the infant, kindly communicate with me immediately so that I may offer her to someone else."

Would I be different today had I been raised by Lyn? Hard to say. Nature over nurture? Would I still be me but with different friends and family? In a different job? Who knows? All I do know is that I wouldn’t change a thing.

Is this it? Please tell me it is? So, I last left you on New Years day, safe in the knowledge that the world is still turning yet still slowing down to throw the Morleys off at the 1st FUCK YOU stop on the itinerary.

Last night, I was having the best sleep I’d had in a long time. So deep in sleep was I that I didn’t realise the deep base coming from Kid Rocks Sweet Home Alabama rip-off was actually coming from down the street and not from a bogan nightmare. See the fuckstick neighbours who I have blogged about before, didn’t actually move. Well they did, but just one house further down the street and merged with another group of dipshits. So now they have just become one gigantic home of dumb arses living in the one house. I honestly didn’t think they could cohabitate and not blow themselves up, but 6 months on it’s all still standing, so there you go.

Anyway, back to last night. I had spent a good part of yesterday, back at the Emergency department of the Hospital getting our 3yo’s second hand put in a cast. Oh yeah. Apparently it is a good idea to check the ENTIRE kid out when he falls from his fathers 6ft shoulders. Hey, I know I’m not a doctor by profession but seriously, how hard is it? So the little man is home, seriously zonked after some painkillers, two arms in casts, looking like he’s done a few rounds with the ear biter Tyson and he is finally having a serious nights sleep only to be woken by these tossers who turn on the shittiest song in the world on their sub-woofers in their van, at 2am in the morning.

Obviously I just lost it. I have seen the stupid girl who lives there get out of a taxi and I have screamed at her “Tell you’re stupid fucking friends to turn off that music before I called the cops you dumbshit”. She ran. Fast. And the music was off within about 30 seconds. Apparently a 34 year old woman screaming like a banshee and clearly on the edge is enough to scare stupid people. Take note.

3yo woke up this morning and hurled. Not a big one. Just enough to let us know “hey guys, just because I’ve got two casts on my arms doesn’t mean I’ve finished with you yet” A few high temps, a failed attempt to take him to the “after hours” doctor and we are here. Home, on high alert.

So I know, in the scheme of the world, the above is not the worst that could befall us this new year. I get that, but I just want a little break from the roller coaster ride. Just for a little bit.

I love how we, as humans, believe the changing of clock hand from one year to the next, will be our saviour. Be our fortune change. I am as guilty of this as the next person. I want to believe it so bad, that when something shitfull happens in the newest year, I get a sense of disappointment tan amount to that of the realisation that I didn’t win the $32 million in Saturday nights lotto. Again.

And to be honest, 2009 was probably the hardest, so far, in my life. My mother got diagnosed with cancer and just as quickly it seemed, was taken by it. I know that’s life and I recognise the fact that the older I get, that more shite stuff is inevitable.

So we are into another year and any chances of thinking this was going to be a tops year has already been shattered. We spent New years Day in the ER at the Hospital getting Jack’s arm cast that he has broken. Broken 2 days ago when he fell off dad’s shoulders after a fantastic day fishing with his uncles and cousins. Yep a 3 year old vs the concrete footpath from a height of 6ft does not end well. Just one of those things. Just so happened at the exact same time I was at a doctors surgery awaiting test results from the doctor and therefore, a million miles away from the two children still stuck at the boat ramp freaking out, and the one that was on his way in the ambulance, to the hospital. We Morley’s are genuine shit magnets.

Can we really blame a number? Is that an intelligent and realistic way to look at life? No, but we, as adults, can no longer believe in any of the make believe stuff. No more Easter bunny or Santa for us. No sirree, we have hard cold reality to face and if we believe, even for a couple of days, that the moons or the stars or whatever the hell we wish to stake a big fat mallet through, will be shining in our favour in the new year, even if it’s temporary, then let us have it.

And for all the bad stuff, there is equal parts great stuff. Personally, in 2009, I reconnected with friends and family again, albeit because of sad times, but we did. We’ve made some fantastic new friends this year and gotten closer to the ones we already had. We made inroads into the money pit and even added a half finished 2nd toilet. The days of being busted in on mid-number 2’s is almost over. We have seen our seven year old son come along in leaps and bounds with his education and his abilities. We’ve seen the ten year old mature and start to become a lovely young lady and received a lot of sleepy hugs and kisses from a very feisty 3 year old. Work has been steady, fun and challenging. I have found my outlet with this blog and Phil has found his outlet with cricket and his golden ducks.

The thing is, no one knows where we will all be this time in 2011. No doubt people will have come and gone, promises to ourselves about our weight, our habits and our dreams will have been kept and invariably, broken.

One thing I can promise you, life will go on and life will take you for the ride. Expect no less and oh - Happy New Year.

I remember my mother threatening us with chemical castration (Ok, just the belt) if she heard that word come out of my mouth one more time when we were kids. Usually it was a double laden threat. She knew the only reason I would possibly be whining that word, was because my older brother was tormenting me. And by tormenting, I mean usually physically hurting me. As you do.

I remember it was a nightly event in our household. Either he or I were on for it. Sometimes we were eerily in sync and like the perfect storm, we would just begin with multiple flying kicks off the bunk beds.

Now, if Mum were here, I would like to tell her, SORRY for being such a shit. And I guess the reap what you sow chestnut is oh so true.

The word ‘DON’T’ squealed at full volume whilst dragged across young vocal cords may well be what does me in. I can handle most all the words I hear come from my children’s mouths. I can take - Stop it, I know you are you said you are, Get out of my room (10yr old) and the old chestnut “I’m dobbing” but ‘Don’t’ does my head in.

My brothers and I’s fights usually consisted of some pinching to start us off. Then we would start the bed wrestling. Sometimes when were being friendly, we played the “put the pillow on the other ones’ face until they scream and then let them up but don’t actually take the pillow off when they scream stop” game. That was generally the first DON’T of the night. Then there was the time we used Mum and Dad’s bed as a high jump mat but didn’t count on the steel legs bending under with the force. There was no DON’T’s that night, but the very disappointed look from our mother and the vision of my wafer thin father trying to bend them back out with his bare hands. It was generally all over for the night when I brought out the big guns, which meant my heel was brought down in a crushing fashion into the middle of my brothers spine. The scream of pain usually got us sent to bed pretty quickly.

What I don’t understand is why we went back and did it all again the next night. The fact that my brother walks today and actually talks to me shows that this is just normal sibling behaviour. Although, to be honest, we didn’t really like each other until we were in our early twenties.

I sit sometimes and wonder about my three. Their birth orders, their sexes and what all this will mean when they are adults. If anything. I have a friend who had an older sister. Her most vivid memory was chasing her sister into the toilet and kicking a hole hastily shut door in a fit of anger. So, sex is irrelevant. Maybe intensified? My brother in law once stabbed one of his brothers with a butter knife and my own husband threw a shoe at his brothers head and split it open just in time for his 21st birthday.

I think my 10 year old and 7 year old would actually get along ok and they seem to when it’s just them two. Add hurricane, epitome of a third child, Jack, the newly 3 year old, and all hell breaks loose.

I keep getting told that I am too harsh on Jack. That he’s a normal little 3 year old boy who is just cheeky. Um, no I’ve had two before this and not one of them has shit themselves and rubbed it into the very porous wallpaper whilst simultaneously having a taste. Nor have they taken pot shots at animals when they think I'm not watching or opened up a friends Christmas presents – the night before Christmas. And don’t get me wrong. We try it all. We discipline, we try and talk calmly and we try time outs. All I can think is that one day, we look back and laugh at his nightly meltdown and claims of having a bad toff (cough) to buy more time before bed.

One thing is certain though, we have a good 20 years to see how it all pans out. 

Sometimes I just have genius moments. Like the time I told my husband to grout the new tiles with white grout after he’d spent a day doing them in grey. I conceded about 4 days later, that he was probably right, white sucks and it shows up all the dirt. The love I could seeing growing in his eyes that day, well, let’s just say, it was a sight to see.

So too, my plan to allow the kids to try and get the special “Santa Key” (you know the one, the master key you leave out for Santa for access into houses with no chimney) into the lock to see if they had the same special powers as Santa. Turns out they don’t. They do however; have the ability to screw up the barrel of the lock with the magical Santa Key. Oh yeah, my husband could not get enough of me that year.

My most genius plan though is Christmas Eve. I only started this last year, but this plan has legs.

My plan is to do something so knackering that the kids will be passed out by at the very latest, 7pm. This plan just has to get up mainly because in another light bulb moment, I usually secure an item that requires some heavy duty assembling for Christmas day. Last year it was a 14ft trampoline. The love I saw emanating from him after he snapped the last of the 240 springs into place in the pissing down rain, just blew me away.

I’ve been kind this year, just two bikes. Easy peasy. I shall supervise from the wrapping section of the lounge room. I believe there will be beers.

Last year we took the kids to White Water World and the day panned out beautifully. A day when the sun feels like its 3 feet away from your skull and minimal queues. Oh and we cashed in frequent flyer points so it was free. Unless of course you count the cost of 80,000 points. So ok, it cost $80,000 last year but meh, semantics. We stayed for about 5 hours, the kids were putting themselves to bed by 7:30, even the biggest one.

This year started a little different. Let's just say, we had a minor crisis where the dog we are dogsitting who is old and completely deaf, went missing for a small amount of time which involved silent patrols of the street (not being able to yell out to a deaf dog and all) and a long visit to the pound, only to find her safe and well inside her own house following around the cleaner. Right where she should, be but Miss 10 forgot to tell us about returning her after a particularly fretful night the night before. Note to Nick and Jen - she is 100% OK although we thought Christmas was going to suck for a while there.

So Crisis over. Looks like we’ll be going to a theme park after all. I had the dodgy not for re-sale 50% discount from eBay for either White Water World or Dreamworld. The plan was White Water World, but the day looked dubious and the numbers had it for Dreamworld.

Unsure why it took, and I am not kidding, 30 minutes to get through the ticket booth when we only had 4 people in front of us. It could have something to do with the cashiers being ALL TRAINEES or the fact that the first lady brought some crap Internet printout that meant nothing to nobody. 10 minutes there. Then there were the group who consisted of 8. They decided to pay for each ticket individually, each ticket being paid for by a combination of cash, credit and then, savings. I shit you not. Then the next guy decided to work out when he got to the cashier if he was going to take them up on the second day and then deliberated with the other 5 people in his group. Nope, not going to take it today, but could we speak to the manager about the length of time it’s taken today. No dickhead, it’s taken this amount of time because tossers like you, just don’t get tickets, pay for them and move the fuck on.

Then we were in.

Nothing dramatic happened from then on in. We did the usual stuff a party of 5 do at a Gold Coast Theme Park. Spend ridiculous amounts of money on hotdogs, bottled water and photos of us being humiliated on vomit inducing rides.

Dreamworld was fun and tiring and to be honest, fairly quiet. Not many people about and I don’t really want the word to get out there, but apparently it is the best day of the year to go. People are too busy losing their minds in woollies to get to the theme parks.

So right now, after enduring the cyclone ride where my 10 year old literally wet herself in fear, to the ball pit where my husband was chastised by staff for machine gunning foam balls at 5 year old children, we have one child down for the count (after quite the substantial meltdown) and the other two not far behind.

We have the beer on the table as an offering to Santa (clearly Santa is blind by the time he makes it to Greenland) Tim Tams (random selection from the 10yo but let me tell ya, “Santa” is rather happy about this decision) and cherry tomatoes for the reindeer's. (I wasn’t on the ball with the carrot situation this year).

Some brain surgeon decided to put the Carols by Candlelight on at 8:30pm on Xmas Eve. Um 6:30 would be helpful. No really, you programmers clearly don’t have young children you need to have knocked out for the present preparation to begin.

So, as soon as the fat man arrives on Carols, the two eldest will be packed off, Phil will mysteriously disappear to the shed and I will bring him beer and Tim Tams 20 minutes after that. Sure it will be a long night, but the love in his eyes whilst wrestling with those rubber tyres will make it all worth it......

I attempted to shop like a man. I really did. I had a list, I had a purpose and I had a time limit.

I tried and I failed.

I am a woman and like any good one, I shop spectacularly. Meaning I browse, I compare prices and I will walk the concourse of the biggest shopping centre in Australia, only to double back if the item I want is $5 cheaper at Point A.

This Christmas is a little different. Usually I am fairly organised. I, by this time of the year, would normally have stashed an amazing amount of presents in the shed, had a food list ready, purchased and refrigerated and be sitting around just waiting for the day to roll around. Wait, no I wouldn’t. I’m crap at that stuff.

I wish I was a person who could say that. “Oh I hit the midyear Target toy sale hard and got everything for an absolute bargain and now just have to perfect my signature Brandy Eggnog Snap Rocket Juice and I’ll be good to go”. But I’m not. Now’s a good time to recognise this goal will never be realised,

So once again, I find myself in the position, 5 days out from Christmas with feck all food in the house, 10% of presents secured and limited time up my sleeve.

When I’m not working, I have three kids with me. One in a perpetual sulk mode, one who will not stop talking about the word manoeuvre and one who is just working on a plan to firebomb the local shopping centre so he never has to return. Needless to say, shopping with kids this close to the big day is outski.

All I can say is thank Jebus for late night shopping. It is my saviour. So, if you a spot a curly haired, dishevelled woman, possibly talking to herself and wearing inappropriate shopping shoes wandering around on Christmas Eve, don’t be alarmed, it’s just me.

This time next week, it will all be over for another year. The kids will be as wrecked as the new remote control monster truck on the bedroom floor and we, the parents, will be putting the last dregs of prawns and beer into the wheelie bin.

And then someone will crack a joke about there being 364 days until we have to do it all again. And whilst no one will find this remotely funny, we will all laugh and quietly wish a particularly harsh gastro bug upon that person.

Happy Shopping! Oh, and Merry Christmas.

I got sent this today and thought it was so very true.

POSITION : Mum, Mummy, Mama, Ma Dad, Daddy, Dada, Pa, Pop
JOB DESCRIPTION : Long term, team players needed, for challenging, permanent work in an often chaotic environment. Candidates must possess excellent communication and organisational skills and be willing to work variable hours, which will include evenings and weekends and frequent 24 hour shifts on call. Some overnight travel required, including trips to primitive camping sites on rainy weekends and endless sports tournaments in far away cities! Travel expenses not reimbursed. Extensive courier duties also required.

RESPONSIBILITIES : The rest of your life. Must be willing to be hated, at least temporarily, until someone needs $5. Must be willing to bite tongue repeatedly. Also, must possess the physical stamina of a pack mule and be able to go from zero to 60 mph in three seconds flat in case, this time, the screams from the backyard are not someone just crying wolf. Must be willing to face stimulating technical challenges, such as small gadget repair, mysteriously sluggish toilets and stuck zippers. Must screen phone calls, maintain calendars and coordinate production of multiple homework projects. Must have ability to plan and organize social gatherings for clients of all ages and mental outlooks. Must be a willing to be indispensable one minute, an embarrassment the next. Must handle assembly and product safety testing of a half million cheap, plastic toys, and battery operated devices. Must always hope for the best but be prepared for the worst. Must assume final, complete accountability for the quality of the end product. Responsibilities also include floor maintenance and janitorial work throughout the facility.

POSSIBILITY FOR ADVANCEMENT & PROMOTION : None. Your job is to remain in the same position for years, without complaining, constantly retraining and updating your skills, so that those in your charge can ultimately surpass you

PREVIOUS EXPERIENCE : None required unfortunately. On-the-job training offered on a continually exhausting basis.

WAGES AND COMPENSATION : Get this! You pay them! Offering frequent raises and bonuses. A balloon payment is due when they turn 18 because of the assumption that college will help them become financially independent. When you die, you give them whatever is left. The oddest thing about this reverse-salary scheme is that you actually enjoy it and wish you could only do more..

BENEFITS : While no health or dental insurance, no pension, no tuition reimbursement, no paid holidays and no stock options are offered; this job supplies limitless opportunities for personal growth, unconditional love, and free hugs and kisses for life if you play your cards right.

Here I would like to add, just personally I need to be able to read a crystal ball to work out what the fuck is up with my 10 year old any any given moment, to be a walking Human thesaurus for my 7yo's constant barrage of wanting to know the meaning of every single 2 Syllable word he hears and a ninja in training to outsmart the already very cunning 3 year old.

Any more to add?

How many more sleeps? Do you know? Til Christmas I mean. Well I’m not going to be exact because quite frankly all that will do is scare the bejebus out of me. I have still done zero shopping. Zero.

Today, after I suggested it, we decided to take photos of the 7 grandchildren to then transfer onto a canvas for a lovely Christmas Gift for the Grandparents. Great in theory. Not so much in practice.

I’m sure my two sisters in laws were probably thinking I was insane to start with, but seeing as I’ve been a big fragile of late, decided to let the crazy lady have her way.

The problem being, none of the kids particularly wanted to take photos. It was hot as all shit and a stray kid from another family would just. Not. Piss. Off.

So in a lot of the photos is a suspicious looking Indian kid and seven children failing spectacularly to look and smile at the camera in unison.

How do professional photographers get this process so right? Do they have a substance that is to children what catnip is to pussycats? I tried the bribes of jellybeans and candy canes. That only gets you so far i.e. not far at all.

I had visions of free flowing white dresses fluttering behind the girls whilst they danced down the wooden planks onto the beach. There would be impromptu butterflies descending upon their noses while they Eskimo kissed and the boys would sit and man hug. All in glorious black and white montages that would copy gloriously onto to canvas.

Reality: We didn’t make it past the playground due to hot as shit day and my two boys who if weren’t wrestling, were busy trying to take each other out on the slippery dip. My nephew did not want one bar of our stupid “idea” and resolutely refused to get in any of the photos. I think in toddler speak he told me to shove my candy canes up my arse.

To top it all off, a guy dressed like Santa up top, i.e. Hat and beard and like a patriotic Warwick Capper down below, that is green and gold dicktogs, walked past the kids pushing a wheelbarrow of empty stubbies, presumably from the Surf Club. Disturbing, but probably not as disturbing as when my 3 year repeats the same sentence to the kindy teacher tomorrow morning. That is “Why Santa not wearing shorts today mum?”

All I can say is thank god for photoshop.

There are the obvious differences between man and woman. You know, one has a penis, one has a vagina. And then there’s the not so obvious ones. The ones like the use of common sense.

For instance, my husband has his Christmas party this Friday. Now he’s a plumber and in years past, Christmas parties have generally involved, beer boobs and chraginas. The last word has been altered to make it more appropriate for the Christmas season. If you’re still struggling, I’m referring to naked strippers and their bits. Par for the course at a tradesmans Christmas Party. Hey, he may as well cop an eyeful there because I certainly cannot provide that sort of entertainment at home.

This upcoming one however is at a big establishment and it has, wait for it, a motivational speaker. What in the fuck do plumbers want with a motivational speaker? A plumber turned professional football player motivational speaker to boot. Hey, but who am I to judge, perhaps there’s a whole heap of plumbers who need a little pep talk with regards to installing that cistern in a more understanding, passionate and Anthony Robbins inspired way.

So this hasn’t really demonstrated the difference between man and woman yet though has it. Well I asked dear husband, what time his party starts. His response “I don’t know”. I then went on to ask him “Is it casual dress?” His answer – “Don’t know”. “Is it day or night, will you need me to pick you up?” I don’t know. It was like when I ask my seven year old what he did at school today – “dunno”. “Who did you play with today?” - Dunno. Fantastic, I’ll keep sending you to school and paying money so you can learn fucking nothing and speak to no-one.

Back to the older man of the house though, I just don’t understand how he doesn’t know these important details. When a woman is going to a party/event we know the date, the time and the dress code. We will then go on to shop for said dress code and exchange stories regarding this outfit. Why is so hard for him to ask his mate “Mate you wearing jeans or pants?” Does he think that is too intimate?

Is his not knowing ignorance or ambivalence? I think it just comes down to a lack of, and this a technical term, giving a shit.

Today we set up a large blow up pool for the kids to cool down in. Of course last year, we blew this up with our mouths but this method apparently is no longer good enough. An air compressor would have to be engaged. And seeing as we didn’t own one, Bunnings, his lover, would be receiving a well earned booty call.

That wasn't the man vs. woman issue. No the actual placement of the pool was.

In my mind, placing the pool on the grass was the safest option. His idea was to place it on the concrete pad as he wanted to mow (didn’t happen) and it would burn the grass (we already have crop circles in our turf anyway) Clearly my idea was never going to get a look in. I got home from picking up the one child still at school to basically a carnival in our back yard – on the concrete, right next to the shiny slippery tiles. I could see the near concussion before it happened. And of course, it happened. The 3yo, after nearly being accidently suffocated by his brother staggered out of the pool, slipped on the tiles and cracked his head. Awesome. I told you so was never uttered. It didn't need to be.

What about the old chestnut that is – Sex. We are genetically designed, and this is a generalisation, to want it either more (guys) or less (the women) than the other. Guys don’t get why we don’t want it every 5 minutes, Girls don’t get why guys need it so often and consistently. This of course, I relate to a married or long term couple, not that new, let’s go at it like rabbits, kind of couple.

The telltale sign in our household is when my husband is languishing on the couch beside me at 11pm patiently watching the bachelor and not, I repeat, not giving in to his immense tiredness. He’s doing the hang.

I know we just think different and I know there has been study upon report upon thesis with evidence and documentation as to why. Wonder if there’s been any studies done on how many times the woman has been committed with frustration over the men in their lives.

Oh, when someone nearly gets killed AT that funeral

Yep, Mum’s funeral was today. And it was lovely. It was sad and devastating and lovely and fitting all at once.

So it went to plan, I did a eulogy which I wasn’t ever 100% sure I would get through and I nearly made it without losing it. Nearly.

Sam sat beside me and pretty much made it impossible for all behind to keep their eyes dry with his sobbing. I thought he might be ok as for days he spoke about "not being able to wait for Grandmas funeral", but the minute he started to really concentrate on the casket, it was curtains for him.

We had a lovely poem and reflection from Bec that was truly beautiful and heartfelt. A lovely DVD with photos and accompanying song and then it was pretty much over.

Time for refreshments and sandwiches on the alfresco deck area. That’s where things went pear shaped. Within 3 minutes of everyone (over 50 people) on the deck, the outdoor fan fell from the ceiling directly onto a lovely ladies head. Miss C’s mum’s head to be exact. My sister in law was cut on the shoulder and thankfully she wasn’t holding her 1 year old on the other hip. I just keep thinking of how totally devastating that scene could have been.

Now if it had have been someone Mum wasn’t particularly fond of we all could have sworn she’s taken a pot shot, but lovely Sonya had never met mum and therefore, shoddy building practices and unbelievably bad fucking timing was at play.

After that, I spoke to one friend who said this was only his second funeral and the first one he had stood next to a guest who had a heart attack. Tom, it’s time you stopped attending funerals buddy. It was truly awful but thankfully Sonya appeared to be OK.

As is always the way, you see people you haven’t seen in 20 years and lament how much it's terrible that these catch ups are usually always for such a sad occasion.

I guess more emphasis should be put on get-togethers for no particular reason at all. We rush to book flights for funerals which we may or may not be able to particularly afford all to mourn and show our respects for someone we can no longer have a conversation with. We all say it but we never follow through. Let's make it a priority in 2010.

And of course it's not long before reality kicks back in. After driving home after picking up Jack from kindy (Hurricane Jack did not attend), we turned to see Sam hiding behind Jack's car seat whilst making Grandma’s funeral picture talk and say to Jack "I am your Grandmother Jack, now drop and give me 20", Phil and I lost it, but in a good way. And I don’t reckon Mum would want the day to end any other way.

So for something more, upbeat.

We are staying in Surfers Paradise. In the second week of Schoolies Week. Yep, let’s just say I’m a brain surgeon in the making.

This is day 5 and to be honest, it hasn’t been that bad. Sure getting into the lift on the first day where someone had spewed the contents of their stomachs onto the lift floor wasn't pleasant. This also lead to the children analysing the situation for the next 3 hours. “Was that ALCOHOL MUMMY?” “Did they just LEAVE IT there for someone else to clean up?" Roger that kids. And that’s nothing.

Day two, after coming back from work, I got into the lift alongside about 8 schoolie boys. Their first question? “Are you single?” My response? “Um, boy’s I’m old enough to be your mother”. “So you wanna come for a party? To which I slowly turned, looked at their carton of midori splices and said “um, no I don’t drink girly drinks”. Not perturbed, the one closest to me whispered into my ear “seen one of these before” to which he showed me his pubescent nipple. I replied "yeah actually I have, I have a 2 year old” and with that, we hit the 24th floor and out I popped.

What else? Well there is a fair bit of screaming, whistling and I’m embarrassed to say it, but almost choreographed chants going on outside. Jesus, did they the practice this shit before they got here?

Most important to note though is that being at schoolies gives the boy’s balls.

Standing at the traffic lights waiting to cross the road, I heard the following:
Two boy schoolies (no shirts – because they can) “Hey, check out these two”. I immediately spy the two “ones” they are talking about. Two girls, short short shorts, blond, pretty and usually, not a chance in hell of them getting lucky with. I didn’t hear the initial line. I believe it was something to do with their phones. Well played boys - hit em where they care. Next thing you know they are discussing where they went to school, where they are staying and the parties they are going to attend that night.

See what I mean. Usually two good looking girls walking down the beach at Surfers would get lots of looks but no actual hits. That’s because extra super big balls aren’t gifted out in any other week during the year. But on schoolies week, these kids feel like they’ve got nothing to lose, everything to gain and their fear disappears.

If I wasn’t sure we were living the dream – from the balcony this morning, directly below us, we viewed all of the sun lounges, fashioned into the unmistakable shape of dick and balls. Shooting shall we say. Well done kids, some good old penis humour clearly spans the generations.

If I have one criticism it’s the fact that none of the punks move out of your way. They just stand. In packs. Blocking everybody. Um guys and gals, I’m pretty sure you were taught manners and respect during the last 13 years. Demonstrate it. Other than that, enjoy your time, get loose, get ready and suck down those midoris, because come next week, life begins and those balls, well, they return to normal.

Thursday of last week started normal enough. Kids were packed off to school and kindy in the morning, I went to work and then back to pick up Maddie and go visit Mum. Same as most days. Except this wasn’t like most days.

As soon as we walked in the room I realised something wasn’t right. The nurses seem to be in multiples and they were setting up a CD player next to her ear. One nurse in particular greeted me with “I’m glad you’ve arrived, your mum’s breathing has changed, I’m afraid she may not have long”.

See I’d heard this before, a fair bit to be honest, but even I knew, by looking and listening that this was a different situation. Mum literally did not breathe for 20 seconds. Then she would restart what really wouldn’t even be considered breathing, more like gasping for breath. 9 times she would attempt to breathe, then she would not breathe again for 20 seconds and then repeat.

I completely believe though, that Mum was no longer with her body. Call me a whack job, but prior to that day, we had always got a response. Even if it were just a slight moan. She didn’t respond to my hand, in fact she was cold and clammy and it was like someone had flicked the switch and her body was on autopilot. I think she was already gone.

So the nurses got my daughter and I set up in beds with hot milo and put the Arias on as background noise. Mum continued in autopilot mode with me counting the patterns and listening to the fluid that had obviously started to flood her lungs.

I had been told time and time again, “Oh it’s such a peaceful, lovely way to go” and “they just slip away”. Um no they fucking don’t. They (people with terminal cancer that require morphine to sustain the pain relief) basically drown in their own fluids. Sorry if that’s confronting, but it’s the truth. So luckily, Mad fell asleep and after nearly 9 hours of Mum struggling, she finally gave in. She got her wish; she had us with her when she finally passed on.

So now begins organising and making DVDs with pictures of her life to music. A week of bizarre conversations about cremation procedures and buying clothes that will now fit my withered and tiny mothers body. It begins the many many phone calls to people I barely know and the ones I know all too well.

The saddest for me was to watch my son, Sam, deal with the news. Instantly he burst into tears. It was horrific. He cried for 2 straight hours and cradled photos of her whilst begging for her to “just come back to us grandma”. His heart is too little to be broken.

Thank you to all who have left me messages of love and support. I do genuinely appreciate them all. Amazing the love that comes out of places I never even imagined existed.

So it’s that time of year again. You know, the one where kids of around 17 years of age finish their, depending on state, 12th or 13th year at school and descend on Surfers Paradise to go batshit.

As I am clearly insane, I have booked a week in a lovely high rise, smack bang in the middle of the action, 2nd week in. The week where all the NSW and Victorian school kids take their turn at vomiting in bushes and pashing randoms.

In my defence, I didn't do my research and I "won" this particular holiday on eBay for only $255. Cheap! Cheap until I find a log floating in the ginormous communal pool.

But has it really changed since we were school leavers? Um, irrevocably – yes.
I, *clears throat* went on schoolies nearly 20 years ago but like all good women in their thirties, I still consider myself to be pretty hip and with it. Ok, so saying hip and with it is probably sending the Gen Y’ers into flurry of "ZOMG’s she’s so old", but let me say this, we still remember what goes on. And it’s changed, and not for the better.

Myself and two girlfriends who are still my best girlfriends to this day, went off to Byron Bay where we stayed in a backpackers, took roughly 15 casks of the world renowned $6 St Bernadinos goon, $150 and had the time of our lives. And to be honest, during that week, I hadn’t given much thought to my future or what I would do once that week ended (which coincidentaly coincided with me having zero cash and a block of cheese to my name).
Sure we drank. Sure we got very loose with some French, German and American backpackers (no - not that loose) and sure, we lit illegal bonfires down the beach, but we went for the sole purpose of celebration. To celebrate the end of a very significant era. The era that in hindsight, were the easiest days of our lives. We just didn’t know that yet.

Schoolies still happened in Surfers, but it wasn’t the event it is now. Houseboats were hired, people took off to Noosa or Byron or they simply stayed home and went into Surfers at night. And it wasn’t a shambles. Hey it wasn’t perfect, and the same amount of underage drinking and debauchery still went on, but we weren’t just being ratbags in general society because it was almost expected.

The government is in full lock down on underage drinking and there are massive ad campaigns which air constantly showing the effects of getting blind, yet this 2 week event is staged and partially funded by that same government.

Hey, perhaps I will be pleasantly surprised and these kids will be singing kumbaya in a circle whilst drinking diet cokes and regaling stories about their volunteer job bathing the elderly. I'll be sure to update.

I’m not saying there should no schoolies week, but changes need to be made. Preferably before my daughter hits the golden age of 17.

This won't be a long post.

Have spent the last 2 hours sifting through Mum's Photos because today the nurse asked me to organise a funeral home.

I knew it was coming, I'm not delusional, but I don't know, I guess I just thought I could deal with that some other time.

Mum is in a monumental amount of pain and to be honest, society doesn't let a dog go through unnecessary pain, yet I guess to play God with medication and humans, still has a way to go.

Mum's only words in the last two days have been "I don't want to die alone". So while we take it turns in being by her side, all I can hope for is a peaceful end to this horrible horrible disease.

I'm not religious but I believe there is something in the afterlife and I can't wait for her to see her Mum, (who died when she was 4) her dad, her brother and even her wayward husband. And of course I know only good things await because eventually, good things happen to good people.

So does he rub your back and play with your hair til you fall asleep? In Guy Sebastian world, that means he’s the only one who can Love you like that. He clearly hasn’t been married for 10 years and cleaned up his bodyweight in spew on a particularly bad night with a 3 year old. He needs to change the lyrics to include platitudes about helping find towels, spare bedding and the spray and wipe.

Gotta say but, after 10 years of marriage and 14 years of actual time spent together, getting my husband to rub my back til I fell asleep would require him some sort of mutual pay-off. Just sayin.

So how do you keep the spark alive? Well don’t ask me, I’ve got three kids, a job and a rabid house to control. All I know is that there has to be a lot of give and take. That and the ability to fall in love over and over and over again. And hey, I am no expert in that and can be known to be on absolute mole patrol for no good reason at any given time.

If you’re reading this and you are newly in love, you probably won’t believe this, but it - it being madly infatuated with each other - doesn’t last forever. Unless you’re Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. And they believe in aliens.

So then, seeing as the rate of divorce is horrendous and the rate of separation is an unknown, how do you get the princess treatment forever? Short answer is – you don’t. Not going to happen. But it must be noted, you, the woman, will not be treating your man as a prince either.

Because here’s what happens. The fact that you tell them copious amounts of time the plans for the upcoming weeks and you relay to him the serious nature of the parent-teacher on Friday, he will not be able to commit this to memory. Nor will he hold high in regard, the fact that colours need to be discussed before they are painted onto your walls. And these minor occurrences will start to shit you. Slowly at first. Then it will build and build until there is a monumental blow-up and somehow or another, you turn into Brittany Spears on a head shaving rampage. And then you will be left, three days later, wondering what in the fuck just happened and in despair. Once it was all about mini-breaks and shagging. Now it’s about home insurance and cleaning dogshit off the carpet. How and when did it get to this?

Well from my experience, it’s cyclic. I reckon any couple that is 100% happy 100% of the time is either lying or insane.

One week ago today, the nurse stopped me from entering my Mum’s hospital room, took me to the side and looked truly awful.

My gut dropped. She obviously sensed this and hastened to assure me Mum was still OK. But then she asked, were there any family members who would like to see Mum before, she, you know, passed away. I was in a kind of haze. I had been in not one day before and although Mum had been in a mountain of pain, she’d still be semi-Ok.

She then went on to tell me that she would recommend I contact any relatives within the next 24 hours. Holy Shit. My brother was working up in Townsville for the week. I called him to come home immediately.

I walked in and it shook me up. She was basically unconscious, with no dentures in, leaving her face morphed, gaunt and making it almost unrecognizable. She was on heavy duty morphine to stop the pain in her arm. Google morphine to treat terminal cancer and you’ll get my gist.

So I basically prepared myself for the worst. She could barely moan when we talked to her. Her hand was unresponsive and she wasn’t eating or drinking. The doctor told me to basically discontinue looking for an aged care facility. The cards were on the table.

My brother got back in time to see her, although she barely recognised him and if she did rouse, she often got most cranky with him. In fact, he got there the next morning and the nurses passed on the message that Mum was apparently adamant she wanted relayed to him “I forgive you”. Of course this sent my brother into a spin and wondering what in the fuck he could have possibly done that would possess her to say this. I assured him, nothing, probably something he did when he was 15 and like all teenagers, he was being an insolent little a-hole.

So to walk in to her room on Sunday and for her to wake up and basically act normal was both lovely and bizarre.

I did the normal kiss on the head, “Hi Mum” and she opened her eyes and looked directly at me and said “Who’s dead?” and then she started to cry. Apparently she had been having dreams under the veil of Morphine, that she had killed someone or someone was trying to kill her. To be exact, my best friend was trying to kill her. Sure, fits the profile. (Kidding Bon)

So once we assured her a) no one is trying to kill her, b) no one was dead and c) she hadn’t killed anyone, she settled down.

She wanted to know where she was, why she was here. I told her she had a sore arm. No need to revisit the whole aggressive cancer issue. She then went on to tell me she was going to take us all on a big holiday, her shout, as soon as she, and I quote “stopped fiddle farting” around and got out of the hospital. She was positive, lovely and the best I have seen her since this whole horrible sickness started. It lasted 4 hours. And to my brother and I, it was life changing. And I don’t say that to be naff. It truly was wonderful.

She told us stories about the rumours back in the day about the lady she owned a shop with and how the town thought they were lesbians. She laughed, we laughed and we learned her favourite’s singer is Johnny Farnham. Note the Johnny. Old school Johnny. She told me she never wants to see custard or yogurt for another 12 months after having it forced into her so much. I hope I’m there to see her get reacquainted.

Since Sunday, she’s been up and about more, but not quite as with it mentally. One of her nurses who hasn’t seen her since Friday was amazed at the change. Obviously she thought she was going to be greeted with an empty bed, not a giggly 76 year old with tales of homicide.

So that’s what’s happening with Mum at the moment. It could all change tomorrow but we’ve had this weekend. We’ve had this time.

Last night I ended up at a bar. It was kind of planned. I guess it was always a given considering it was the only place left to go once the restaurant closed.

A smarter version of me would have bid them all adieu at this point, (my husband included) and gone and relished some time alone. I mean we were staying a 5 star resort, with no kids, fully paid for. I doubt it acutally gets much better. But to leave would have been rude and to be honest, the drinks were sinking oh so easily.

So we all (14 of us) continued on. The joint was packed. Live music, lots and lots of pretty young thangs (both male and female) and one particularly loose girl in our party who got told she would no longer be served within 10 minutes of arriving.

One thing I had forgotten about was the bar service dance. See, the last time I had to do that, I was probably a good 11 years younger, had less gray hairs and didn’t have glasses that made me look like a mono-browed Nana Mouskouri. I also hadn’t at that point, pushed 3 kidlets out of my loins and therefore didn’t take people out when I walked by them with my hips.

In fact, last time I had to go the bar amid 56 other people desperate for a vodka lemon and lime, I was in my early 20’s and more than likely had my tits pushed up and out within an inch of their lives plus had the confidence that comes with knowing you are going to get noticed. I think I now know how all those guys felt when they used to be ignored, whilst we got immediate service. Shithouse and indignant.

So it comes as no surprise that I wasn’t the darling of the bar scene last night. For one I wasn’t wearing a Lycra, leopard print bodysuit, with holes cut out of the back, which apparently is the Cougars fashion statement of choice these days. They (the cougars) were kind of out in force and doing quite nicely with the big headed steroid abusers who were hanging off of them.
But to stand at the bar and be passed over 5 times, it all became very apparent that I am now Demis Rousses’ twin. Just give me my Mumu so I can get on with it.

Luckily I only had to do the drink run once yet somehow I constantly had a drink in my hand. Just as all the guys were crying with laughter at something none of us women could understand, the ugly lights went on, the security guards descended and suddenly, it was all over.

The night made me realise that a) I am happy to sit at home most nights, having a little shandy on the couch or on the deck where I can hear what’s being said to me and I can serve myself without fear of rejection, b) the best night out is rarely worth the vomit inducing hangover it causes the next day and c) kids will not care that you are practically dying from self-inflicted sickness. They will still want to be fed every 20 minutes, have a DVD changed every 14 minutes and have a new question regarding an ant’s thorax that must be answered satisfactorily until they will leave you alone.

Now, Berocca, Paracetamol and a shitload of water are about to have a party in my stomach...

So it’s roughly 43 sleeps till Christmas. Two words – Holy Shit.

Divide that by 7 (Bare with me while I find the computer calculator – yes I agree, it is truly scary my day job involves numbers) and we have roughly 6 pay days (if you’re paid weekly – like me).

Basically we’re fucked.

I mean, I heard the Little Drummer boy in Myer last week and I outwardly cursed the stupid conglomerate. I mean it’s barely November and already the incessant cheeriness is being rammed down my throat whilst shopping for push-up bras and ginormous knickers.

The tinsel has made it’s way to the forefront of all Kmart stores and I even, (gag) brought a $2 Best of Christmas CD from Crazy Clarks after an unnatural insistence from the two year old to possess it. Mind you, once I was in the clear, it made it’s way to the CD pile of death alongside Human Nature and the the Best of Dannii Minogue.

Don’t get me wrong. I love Christmas. I love the magic for the kids and I love spoiling the bejebus out of them. Yeah yeah, I know it’s just stuff and when they get too much, they don’t appreciate blah blah blah.

But it makes me happy to make them happy.

And I refuse to give that up yet. There's plenty of years left for it to be just a day that Aunty Maria* gets blind and insults the whole family after overstaying her welcome and shitting on the toilet seat. Plenty.

In a perfect world, I would have lay-by’d the kids presents at an awesome toy sale, gotten them off before the threat of death Lay-by letter, got them safely tucked away in an awesome hiding spot (that I may or may not have forgotten the exact whereabouts of by Christmas Eve) and have them wrapped and ready for the big day.

But as we all know, this is not a perfect world. And I am not a perfect Mum. My housewife status leaves a lot to be desired too.

So this year, I’m going to the shopping centre, and I don’t care where it is, that has the 24 shopping going on. And I am going to shop my arse off. With a list and my husbands 4x4 to haul them home in. One hit. Shop like a man. Get in and get the fuck out.

This disappoints me somewhat because I am a shopper. I love to shop and I love the copious amounts of coffee that gets consumed whilst shopping.

So friends who read this blog, if you receive a heinous present this year, like the Fish that sings “Don’t worry be Happy” or Size 16 knickers, you know I shopped for you last. Sorry about that in advance.

*Aunty Maria is a generic name for any one person in any one family. There's always one.

Waiting in line at Target yesterday I overheard the following conversation between the checkout chick and the customer.

CHECKOUT CHICK: Would you like to buy a 10 cent bag today?
CUSTOMER: No, I’d like a free one.
CHECKOUT CHICK: We don’t have free bags anymore, they are 10 cents.
CUSTOMER: Well then I guess I don’t have a choice, Do I?
CHECKOUT CHICK: Would you like a large or a small one?
CUSTOMER: I think I made it pretty clear I’ve never bought one before; therefore I have no idea of the size difference. Show me one.
CHECKOUT CHICK: *shows her both sizes
CUSTOMER: How ridiculous is this? Paying for a bag. You people are incredible. Just forget it, I'm not giving you another cent.

All the while the customer, a woman, sort of danced around adjusting her fake bejangers and touched up her lip-gloss. The little Checkout girl was shitting herself, obviously not liking the conflict and clearly not used to stupid bitches being so incredibly rude to her about a ten cent bag.

Um, it’s 10 cents you heinous critter. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

That’s what I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to tap her on the shoulder and ask her if she gets a thrill out of being such a stuck-up mole. Or making young girls, just doing their jobs, have a shit day, just because she’d never been taught any manners.

But I didn’t. Because I’m chicken shit. And I hate confrontation. But it wasn’t right and all I could do was give my best evil-eye look to the back of the dipshits bleached head and my best solidarity smile to the checkout girl. I think she understood. Either that or, with my off tap, crazy hair that day, she just thought I was an escaped mental patient with bizarre facial tics.

Next time but, I am going to calmly tell a woman like that to be nicer and more respectful to other people. And when that doesn’t work. I will speak to her in the language she seems to understand. Bitch speak.

Today Mum spoke about my brothers bag hanging on the bathroom door and how he must have left it behind. Then she told me she would start cooking the sausages in the pan, not the BBQ, because that was just as easy.

In between telling me these things, she got her Catheter changed, got a sponge bath and cried silently whilst being turned on her side to have her back washed.

The dramatic change in Mum has both caught me by surprise and frightened me all at the same time.

Not less than a week ago, although in extreme agony with neuropathic pain in her arm, she could still relay her days events. She could still get up and go to the bathroom when required. Could still request and drink a cup of tea without jerkily spilling it all over herself.

Of course the majority of this change has taken place due to medication. Medication that has to be taken or else she cannot bear the pain of her arm which she basically described as burning “toothache” type pain in arm all the time. So she is in a catch 22 situation. No medication - she is lucid and knows what the hell is going on and is in a mountain of pain. Medication - she’s not really aware of her situation, but her pain is somewhat relieved. What’s better? Well for her, honestly I just want her comfortable. But it is so truly sad, I no longer think there is a better situation.

When I look at Mum, I see an infant in a woman's body if that makes any sense. She has lily white skin, marked with yellow bruises from the myriad of injections she is constantly jabbed with. She looks like a slightly tainted, tiny porcelain doll that is at rest. And it breaks my heart.

Prior to this, she has been somewhat cranky. I’ve spoken of this before about how, although she’s my Mum and in severe pain, she has been difficult, angry, awful and I haven't always been the most understanding daughter. But now, I just feeling incredibly sorry and sad for being like this.

It’s fair to say Mum was somewhat independent. She has lived alone for many, many years and would begrudgingly accept help only when absolutely necessary. So, you can imagine how massive this change has been for her. One day she was sitting at home looking after her grandson, the next, she’s having an adult sized nappy strapped to her so she doesn’t wet the bed.

I think the severity hit me today when visiting her, as I do most every day, and I could tell she was having trouble with something on her face. Since the radiation, she has lost 70% of her hair. Today she had put her hand in her hair and with it had come little pieces of hair. I glanced at her hair brush, full of fallen hair. I so wanted to pick it up and give her hair a brush. But I couldn’t. Because I just knew I’d lose it. And right now, that’s not an option. Because I think if I start, I won’t stop.

As John Lennon said – “All you need is Love” If he were alive today, I’d like to propose an addendum “ All you need is Love, oh and a cure for Cancer.

With each of my pregnancies I was hideously tired and continually nauseous and pretty much doling out mini spews, up until the 16th week.

Then miraculously, it would just disappear and make way for my body to just go and get fire hazard fat.

And it was awful. The nauseous bit I mean. I could be anywhere, anytime and it would come upon me. And what’s with the “morning” sickness bullshit. It should just be renamed - all day, all night, just all the freaking time sick.

Once, when driving our very new car, I had to pull over mid drive and hurl into an abandoned lot. Abandoned but still very visible from the road. If only I’d had a few of these nifty and high class numbers: A Morning Chicness Bag. No I did not spell that wrong.

I could have co-ordinated my Labour of Love spew bag with those days I felt predominately romantic. Because we all know how we just can’t get enough of our partners during that morning sickness phase.

Or the bambooboo bag when I meditating with my guru and discovering the meaning of life. Hey, we all still need a micro spew even when being enlightened. Lucky for us, we have a model demonstrating the correct way to spew into these bags.

Let’s face it, all of these bags would have been appropriate for so many situations. How I managed to get through three pregnancies without a Morning Chicness bag saddens me. I feel jipped. Not only that, I need to reevaluate. Clearly I am not the klarsy mother I thought I was.

We all know how men just LOVE going to the doctor. How they roll up every 6 months to double check everything is just hunky dory. That there are no problems with their blood sugar or cholesterol. What’s that you say? Not any male you know? Me neither.

My husband, this Friday, after my insistence, is going in, for what I like to call, the 30,000km service.

Last year, I had my first 30,000km service which basically involved some blood tests and the 2 yearly “lady” test. When I got the call because the “doc wants to talk to you about your results” it was immediately, in my head, worst case scenario stuff. Already I had myself dying of cervical cancer, or breast cancer or else my cholesterol was going to be through the roof and I was a heart attack candidate. 5 days to sweat it out until I could get an appointment. Turns out I need more iron. YOU COULDN’T HAVE TOLD ME THIS OVER THE PHONE? But at least now I had a benchmark.

So now, it’s dear husbands turn. And he is shitting himself. Scared about the finger up the bum bit. You know, the test for checking your prostate. Trying to make light of the situation, I asked him he’s scared he’ll enjoy it too much. That’s when he revealed, he is genuinely horrified at the thought of a stranger doing *that* to him. Um, hello. I have a cold metal crocodile shaped object stuck up my clacker every two years to check me for cervical cancer. It’s what I do to SURVIVE, not to relive my first trip on a merry-go-round.

So that sorted, it really is a major topic that I’m betting most men, under 50 and not in the “high” risk category, really don't want to think about or act upon. But if there is a family history or you are over 50, and you have never had a test, now is the time. Between the ages of 60 and 69, you need to know it is the second most common cancer in men. After 70, the most common. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen before that.

Most guys don’t even know what the prostate does. Neither did I til I used the power of google. Guys- basically it helps your boys (sperm) to get out and to it’s destination. It produces the nutritional (hellloooo ladies) fluid that accompanies the sperm and gives it projection. Without it, basically the general population would not exist.

If you have had failure to launch (hard to get a pee started), been getting up at night to pee or have had pain with ejaculation, you should get checked. These are not the only symptoms, but the ones I bet you would notice first. Nine times out of ten it’s not cancer, just a benign enlargement, but wouldn’t you rather be sure? Get it before it gets you?

So, now you know you’ve got to go, what happens?

1st test- Index finger to the rectum. From what I understand it feels like doing a poo. Let’s face it, the amount of time you boys spend on there, this is clearly something you usually enjoy doing. The rectal exam is a short procedure that is over before you know it. It’s usually done at the end of the consultation so you don’t have to worry too much about eye contact if it still makes you uncomfortable.

If a problem is found...

2nd test – blood test

If there are still doubts...

A Biopsy. Involves a spring loaded needle to be inserted into the rectum to gain some tissue for testing. Sure, it’s not going to be pretty, but neither is chemo for advanced cancer.

So have I persuaded anyone?

I hope so. My mum has advanced bowel cancer, which her brother passed away from nearly 2 years ago. I asked Mum, knowing her family history, why she didn’t get a bowel scan kit and test herself. Her answer, “oh no way, far too embarrassing”. Let me tell you, after what I’ve seen her go through in the last 2 months, I bet she’s rethinking the meaning of embarrassing.

Just go boys, it can't be any worse than having read this.

For more info visit http://www.prostate.org.au/

Ikea

If marriage was legal to it – I’d do it.

I love that joint and I am NOT alone.

It makes me want to transplant all of those rooms, exactly as they, into my house. And not pay.

Sadly though, each time we go, we walk out with nothing we need and everything we don’t. Like 6 suctioned dish brushes or a $3.99 glass salad bowl.

Well Ok I do need both those things, but it’s not what we went for. Today we started our trip earlyish.
First we had to pick up the 10yo up from a sleepover, from which included a school disco the night before. Apparently all went well. No bitch fights, no smackdowns. I asked her if her “crush” Ben was there. Her answer? It was too dark, couldn’t tell. She better sharpen those skillz before her nightclubbing years.

Her friends mum and dad Robyn and Steve, told me of their Ikea tale. Yes, they, like all of us, have a tale. I particularly however, like theirs. One Saturday, they got their two girls especially babysat from 8am. They then did the 45 minute drive to Ikea and had breakfast in the cafe. If you’ve never been to Ikea, then don’t talk to me. I’m kidding. If you’ve never been, then you’ve never seen the massive cafe they have selling food ALL DAY. For fuck all. Seriously, it’s probably cheaper to feed the family there than feed them at home for a week. The food is a bit on the bizarre side – prawn and egg sandwich anyone? Or some Hällakaka? Maybe some oinshka boinshka? (ok I made the last one up) but the menu has a distinct Swedish meatball feeling to it.

Anyway, Robyn and her husband Steve, then went and shopped the first level. At leisure. I know at this point if you have no kids, the previous sentence will mean nothing. Because you can do whatever you want, whenever you want, completely at you leisure. Oh how I fondly remember those days.

So back to their Ikea tale, they got to explore a mock room, sit on the couch, imagine it being their own TV room without a 2 year old bolting for the unplumbed toilet to pee in the bowl. They looked, they, *gasp*, discussed ideas UNINTERRUPTED and they made plans for their purchases.
They then went and had lunch and the Ikea cafe. Probably kransky and mash or something like that. Next on the agenda, the second level. Which took them up to just on dinner time and the return to their home and children. So this wasn’t a trip to Melbourne to see Acca Dacca or an all day Winery Tour sans children, which I imagine most would constitute a fabulous outing but to me, it sounded like bliss.

Today though did not mirror this.

Jack, our ever loving (read hurricane on a stick) 2 year old decided today was the day he would like to be a skeleton. So dressed like that, he basically addressed every single person we went past with a “Hello lady/man” Cute huh? Until they don’t answer him back and he would shout at the top of his lungs, “howrible laby said NUFFING to me" Growled loudly and did what can only be described a slightly mental stomping dance.

Between that and him and his elder brother thinking the flat pack trolley was a rally car whilst dodging the 80 thousand other (un)happy punters there, we didn’t stay all that long.

Specifically today we were there to check out and preferably buy a vanity unit and basin for the new bathroom. We walked out with a big arse cubed bookshelf and 3 suction dish brushes. Oh and two shark puppets.

Sadly, my lovely husband got, oh 10 minutes in until he started competing in the Ikea Logan half marathon. “Let’s just keep moving” and “Nah, we don’t need any of that shit” were often muttered whilst we sprinted through the arrowed aisles barely looking at ANYTHING. Sure, when we lost the 2yo only to find him spinning in a covered pod chair, I myself agreed it was time to go.

The thing is, the place is awesome. It’s often way more expensive than what you initially think because if you need one part, you often need another and another. But the ideas you start to conjure and the dreams of a life of total order it makes you believe in, makes it worth the mini nervous breakdown it often induces.

That and the 50 cent ice-cream cones.

EBAY – You across it? If the answer is no the next question is WHAT ROCK TO LIVE UNDER?

I first stumbled across eBay many years ago, on a particularly late night at work, when I had nothing much to do other than scour the Internet for shit. And I hit the shit jackpot. But the reality is, eBay is not shit, it is a veritable haven to compulsive shoppers like myself. This particular night I came across Fred Bare overalls for my son for the bargain price of $8.00. They were only situated up the road and after such an easy transaction I was instantly hooked. eBay became my drug. Like Bobby and Whitney to a crack pipe, I was drawn to its endless possibilities.

Why yes, I do need 7 nights in a luxury apartment in Penang for $137.98. What a bargain. Oh and the kids CANNOT live without that gigantic pool slippery dip we have no pool for. But it’s only $120 and that is just too good to go past. However the most addictive part of EBAY is not so much the bargain price, but the thrill of the chase and securing the win. Basically ego takes over and it becomes more about winning than the price you are paying. By any other name, it’s gambling. And like any good gambler, there is post play regret. You win something you know you don’t need, that you now have to make arrangements to pay for and it all starts to feel dirty. And if winning was dirty, I was basically caked in dirt after lounging in a mud bath for weeks on end.

Time for a self-imposed EBAY ban. I was banned from opening the page, even to browse. Because browsing leads to gaining interest and interest leads to bidding and bidding, well, often in my case, usually lead to winning. i.e. buying. With real dollars. Dollars we were fast running out of.

So how better to get dollars than to sell stuff? Where better place to sell stuff than EBAY? Ban lifted!

I started with my daughters clothes and after selling off everything that wasn’t nailed down, I started to study the site like a wall street trader.

Guess what was making the big bucks? Surfboards. Guess what we had in spades in the garage? Surfboards. Guess who would rather his balls run over by a tilt train than give up even one surfboard? Yep, that’s right, the surfboards rightful owners - my husband. But seriously, how many surfboards could he ride at any one time? His comeback? How many shoes can you wear at any one time? Touche’ my friend, touche’.

New plan of action, buy clothes from the Op shops and car boot sales and sell them on eBay for a humongous profits. Mambo loud shirts were a MASSIVE seller. I would pay max $5 and sell them for $80 plus. Apparently the shirts were what all the big blokes liked to wear, drinking beer, shooting shit at summer BBQ’s. Whatever dudes, just show me the cashola. This continued to work for just over a year at which point the Salvos cottoned on to what I, and a lot of other *cough* entrepreneurs were up to. Hence they started structuring their prices aimed more at your James Packers (pre-flushing good money down Las Vegas Casino venture JP) than the average Joe on the street. That coupled with the momentous effort in uploading photos and listing of items made me lose my eBay selling mojo.

So now I'm considered a casual user. In control. Mostly.

Currently I am bidding on some mini breaks and DS games from Hong Kong, hoping to score a bargain. I feel now I know my limits and know (mostly) when to walk away. I guess the relationship eBay and I have now is similar to the one Warwick Capper has with old gold meter maid undies. I can get through most of my weeks without having to take a look, but there will always be those certain times, I can’t resist a peek.

So Surfers Paradise has been getting a flogging lately. Both figuratively and literally.

The Gold Coast Bulletin has started a campaign to save it from itself and even the A1 cars won't be seen dead there. (Side note - A quick congratulations to the QLD Government for their researching prowess this year)

But in all honesty, has it really ever been any different?

The reporter from the GC Bulletin went in to Surfers undercover like for the night and wrote of sighting a big orange “spew” at the entrance to McDonalds and the accompanying pictures showed young girls wandering around, heels in hand or being piggy backed. Really? That’s the best you got? More goes on behind Richard Wilkins head at the live New Years Eve broadcast.

Then they interviewed a couple who are staying in Surfers with their young children saying they cannot go out past 9pm. Um, hello, shouldn’t the kidlets be safely tucked up in bed by then anyway?

I remember as a kid, only going into Surfers Paradise to meet our Victorian relatives when they came up for a holiday. It was a wonderland for me. Grundy’s and the massive waterslide. OK not massive but I was 8 and everything looked big. Walking past Charlies and indulging in Porky’s Spare Ribs the small pleasures. I vividly remember waiting at the bus stop across from Bombay Rock watching all the “young hooligans” as my mother referred to them, skipping in front of cars on their way in to watch a band. Probably a band like Kids in the Kitchen or INXS.

That was the Mid 80’s. By the Mid 90’s that was me. Drunk, stupid and having an awesome time occasionally spewing in a garden beside Hungry Jacks. It was what was done. It’s what is still done. Drug of choice well may have changed so too the way the boys carefully coiffe their hair within an inch of its life but the main aim of getting loose, dancing and hooking up with a random backpacker? Not so much.

Sure, something needs to be done with Surfers Paradise. Clean up the cigarette butts for a start. Stop the smoking in the mall. Strolling thru Cavill Avenue feels like you've sucked down a pack of Winnie blues, and that's just during the daytime. Finish building the Hilton. Bring in zero tolerance for jerkoffs with heads bigger than their overinflated, steroid enhanced chests. All a start. But take away the nightclubs? Good luck with that.

So what will my kids be doing come their 18th birthday. If they are anything like me, they will be there well before they turn that age. The amount of times we told Mum we were going out to “dinner” and meanwhile we were standing around shitfaced sucking down cocktails at Bensons was ridiculous. And no doubt all the clubs will have changed names 10 times over by the time she is venturing into the seedy Orchid Avenue strip, but the main aim will still be the same. Am I OK with that? I’d like to think so. Get back to me in 2017.

The second picture illustrates the end result of a massive day for a 2 year old after attending a fellow kindy mates birthday party at Hungry Jacks .

I spent the best part of Saturday at the local HJ’s watching my 2.9 year old getting loose in a pirate costume refusing to partake in ANY of the festivities.

Luckily he wasn’t alone. The birthday boy also wanted NONE of it. NONE. He did however want to blow people away with the fake pilgrim pirate gun my son brought along to the party. Jack of course was happy with this as he got to play along using a crayon as weapon of choice.

It was a lovely thought, don’t get me wrong, for the parents to invite his wee friends from kindy and it was fantastic bribe material for a whole week. You know the kind “If you don’t eat your peas, no party on Saturday” “Right, if you don’t pick up every piece of lego in this room, no party on Saturday” Repeat .

So we went shopping for the gift. Mini fishing rod purchased, eye patch sought and we were good to go.

Of course, the bigger two kids wanted to come just because it’s at Hungry Jacks and apparently that place is a mystical wonderland. That or it’s a great excuse to come along and have HJ’s for lunch.

Within 10 minutes of being there, Jack is down to his undies. I shit you not.

Stupid me did not dress him in civvies under his glorious (self-imposed) pirate costume and so almost immediately the six pack abs that comes as part of the costume, gives him the shits. It’s off. So too the bandanna and eye patch. We are down to a very dodgy robe and his undies. To their credit, none of the other parents (few of which I’ve met before) are showing me disdain directly to my face.

The big two were hungry. Jack wouldn't stay in the party room without me. So we went and ordered and when we come back, there was a silent game of pass the parcel going on. It was so bizarre. I swear I was the only one in the room who couldn’t hear the music to the game. The parcel was being passed, no music, and then it stopped at a particular kid and then all the rest of the room cheered. What the fuck? Is this some sort of exclusive pass the parcel club I am yet to become a member of? The silent game and music continued for two more turns before the food came.

And so, we come to the part where Jack teaches the birthday boy to blow away every car that came through the drive-thru with their guns (In Jack’s case, the one he fashioned from a yellow crayon) This is the point where he go got down to his undies. OH yeah, tell me I’m not going to be hot topic at the PTA meeting next week.

The cake was consumed, the birthday boy lost his shit on the party room floor and the Bacon Deluxe burger I ordered sat untouched in the paper bag in the corner.

I make this day sound, I guess, somewhat more terrible than it was, but, I must say, my child wasn’t the most violent in the slippery dip of death, nor did he kick anyone else in the head or squeal repeatedly. He just got loose. What every 3 year old kid should be doing on a Saturday as far as I’m concerned.

Hands up if you’ve never been stressed. What? All hands firmly down? Oh, wait all except Paris Hiltons’ of course. Being stressed would require her to give a fuck. And let’s be honest, unless it involves someone blocking her access to those braided headbands she wears around her forehead, life isn’t going to get too complicated for that vacuous blond piece of fluff.

The subject of stress led a friend and I to talk about 2009 and to how, quite frankly, a fair bit of it has sucked. She was talking about how my mother being sick, was the most stressful thing and that she ought to stop whinging about her woes.

But stress is stress. It's all relative.

Be it her husband having trouble securing a job as often he is “overqualified” and the threat of their 6 person family losing everything, to our other girlfriend who’s business is going through some very tough times , we all go through a period or periods when the big “S” is inevitable.

How you deal with it depends solely on the person.

Like the lovely Miss C I work with.

A little history about Miss C – At age 20, she and her boyfriend who we shall refer to as Cock, were in the process of building a house when he whisked her off to Hamilton Island and proposed. Big fuckoff engagement ring, boozy days drink-driving the golf carts and excessive consumption of champagne induced sunstroke were to be had.

Consequently our workplace doubled as a wedding planning office. We researched venues, we helped choose colours for bridesmaids, the songs were being chosen. It was all systems go.

One weekend on their way to taste wedding cakes, Cock and Miss C had a minor bingle in his new ute with a young woman we shall forever refer to as Mantrapper. Unbeknown est to Miss C, Cock and Mantrapper were swapping more than insurance details if you get my gist.

Right well, so Miss C gets a text (Oh yeah, all class) about a week before Valentines Day, approximately 5 months after he proposed to her, saying “I can’t do this anymore, I want you to move out”. Seemingly from nothing. No fight, no discussion. Nada.

Clearly Miss C was shattered. Having said that, she came to work everyday and although obviously upset, was professional to all the clients and with her work.

Within 3 months Cock was exposed for the cheating toss that he is. He’d been getting it on with Mantrapper, who already had 2 children from a previous relationship, since the week after their minor car accident. Bigger news, she was pregnant again – To Cock.

What about the house they were in the middle of building? The one he was meant to contribute half the repayments into? Well he no longer kept up those payments. Apparently three children and one skanky hoe cost LOTS of money.

So Miss C, not even 21, was working 2 jobs, living at home with her mum all to keep the banks off her arse and ruining her credit rating. All the while, Cock would not agree to selling the house, nor would he help with insurance, rates, repayments and all the other lovely expenses that come along with moving into your own new home. The only way out, for Miss C was to refinance the house so she could pay for it herself. Which she worked out how to do. But then Cock wouldn’t sign the transfer papers. Just this week, he asked to know what Miss C's Super is worth. He wants a slice. 2 years after the fact, he, through no fault of Miss C's, is still in her life and still stressing her the fuck out.

I am by no means a violent person. Lover not a hater, but how this guy hasn’t been bazookered Damir Dokic style is beyond me. Even I want the guy to go down or at least give him a taste of my egging services.

For one person who should be superstressed, Miss C amazes me everyday how having been through such a shitful time in the last couple of years, she can be so unbelievably mature and the fact that she has not lost her bundle, I mean really lost her shit, is a testament to her as a fabulous young lady.

So point is, if there is one, is that I’m learning we can’t just get off the roller coaster when it suits us, but I’m hoping the unseen button pusher is going to ease up just a little, just for a bit. Holy shit, hope it's not Paris Hilton.

"Mum, what is Wacky Tobaccy?"

This from my seven year old Sam. I’ve mentioned before that Sam has Aspergers. As such, Sam tends to take things literally. If he overhears someone saying they are going to whip their butt, he genuinely wonders where the hell they are going to get the whip from.

Of late, he’s been asking me, regularly, what certain words mean. “What does neck and neck mean?” “What does maniac mean?” “What does drink-driving mean?” He has just this minute, said to me that something was freaking scary. No son, don’t say that. And we go into a description of what is a good describing word and how freaky is OK, but freaking is not.

But what started it off was this: “Mum, is prick a bad word?”. Um yes son, prick is a VERY bad word. Cue the tears. He clams up. I cannot get out of him who he’s heard the word from. Sure my husband and I swear and quite honestly it only takes one read of my posts to work out I am partial to a bit of colourful language to get my point across, but rarely do we do so in front of the kids. Or so I thought. Obviously we are not saints and the “It’s not Sunday dickhead, do the speed limit” comes out whilst driving from time to time, but we both try our hardest to limit it.

So I was racking my brain. Have I called someone a prick of late? Maybe I did one of those ‘say it under my breath but it was loud enough to hear’ things when annoyed at hubby. Nope, no name calling of late.

I sat him down and asked him why he was asking me about the word Prick. He cried, he attempted to tell me about 4 times and in the end, after confirming over and over I would not get angry at him, he told me he had said in the playground in school. Horrified, I asked him who he was naming. The answer – “No one. I just said to Owen* prick your bum”. Total 7yo bottom humour. But not for Owen. Owen threatened what no 7year old boy wants to hear. "I’m telling the teacher on you for swearing".

My son, who is basically the worlds police, shat his pants. What. Telling the teacher. That means I’m basically going to Year 1 jail. The threats continued for 3 days before Sam cracked under the pressure.

Hence the question about the word and all his questions from that day forward.

I had had enough of the continuous questioning after oh, 2 days. So I sat him down and although this will not earn me any mother of the year nominations, I decided to tell him the words he needed to avoid. “Sam, look I’m going to lay it out for you buddy” To which he thought I was going to physically lay myself down on the ground in front of him. Take two. “Right Sam, these are the really bad words – Shit, Fuck, Bitch, Arsehole and dickhead” I figured that was enough to start with. His eyes were bigger than dinner plates. “I don’t EVER want to hear you repeat those words, but now you know, pretty much everything else is Ok to say”. He nodded and digested. He didn’t move for a good 3 minutes and then wandered off to play in his room.

About an hour later, he wandered out and asked me “What does lesbian mean?” Holy shit, where is his kid getting these words from? I explained it is when instead of a man and lady liking each other, a lady and a lady like each other. His response?

“So lesbians could go on a trip around Australia in their lego campervan OK?” Sure babes, can't see why not.

*Owen not the real little kids name.

Side note: My big girl turns 10 tomorrow. Life for us forever changed that early morning 10 years ago. For the better. I look forward to the next ten. (And the bonus teen angst we will no doubt get to be a part of) Love ya Maddie Happy Birthday Beautiful x

It is oh so cute to see a two year old play make believe by themselves. Rare occurrence in my household.

Jack seems almost incapable of amusing himself. Some kids do some kids don’t, so when I noticed him huddled in the corner and overheard him saying “You sit here wif me awewight or I'll get vewy angwy”, I had to have a covert look.

I thought, I was sure to find him with two power rangers having words over a misused sword or possibly even, two of his elder sisters bratz getting a stern talking to about their skanky behaviour the previous night. Not so.

What I found was far more sinister and frankly, hilarious.

It started a couple of days before when I saw Jack, the human tornado, line up a dead Christmas beetle and roll over it with the front tyre of his trike. Took the head clean off. Unbeknownst to me, he then went and hid this lovely treasure. Clearly he had plans for the headless one.

We found another Christmas beetle which was on it’s last legs on the weekend . It had just enough kick in it to grab your finger with it’s prickly legs. This scared the bejesus out of Jack, so of course my husband thought it was freaking hilarious to continue placing it on his neck. All fun and games until the 2 year old learns the power of “accidently” headbutting you in the goolies.

So to keep him appeased, Jack and I did a special ops mission and delivered the half-dead beetle safely back to the garden. Or so I thought.

Huddled in the corner, sitting on a barbie dolls lounge chair, were both the headless beetle and the half dead beetle. And clearly headless had been up to no good from the tone of Jack’s voice. I’m not sure what barely alive could have been getting cross with headless for. Losing his mind? Not turning up to the Sunday Roast? And what could she possibly be threatening headless with. Death? Too late sunshine.

This continued for a while and I went away, had a giggle to myself and wondered what this meant. Is he going to be deranged? A dictator? Would he grow up to work with less fortunate? No, I think he's just simply, a normal little boy.

Hey, When I was a kid, I used to make pencils get together to make nuclear famlies and have family meetings. I clearly have no right to judge.

And anyway, it sure beats the day I snuck up on him and he’d pulled the poo out of his undies to paint me a picture on the wall. Actually most anything beats that day.

So here’s what no one tells you when your mother gets sick.

She will turn in to someone you don’t want to be around.

Awful. Truly awful I know.
But I guess what I’m trying to say is that, in a normal day, when someone says something awful to someone, things get said, things get processed, things might get said in retaliation and then, either immediately or in time, things continue on.

But when someone gets sick, really sick. Sick enough that you honestly don’t think they will see their grandchildren hit their next birthdays, you say nothing. Because you can’t. Because what if they are the last words you say to each other and they are awful?

If you are a regular reader, you know my mum has aggressive cancer. She’s 76.

She’s currently riding the wild ride of surgery, drugs, depression, cancer pain, more drugs, stents, losing her home of 20 years, radiation, severe nausea and a whole heap of tears. It sucks to be sure.

So when I turn up to visit Mum each afternoon, more often than not I am confronted with a very upset, often incredibly cranky woman who has no one to take it out on but me.

Please don't get me wrong, I love my Mum and it breaks my heart to see her fading away and her getting so frustrated at the now incapacitated position she finds herself in.

When we found out Mum had cancer it sucked, but I guess I just thought, well OK, we’ll just get it treated and get on with it. Not so. It’s like walking the Kokoda track with no preparation or guidance. You’ve just got to hope you are at least fit enough to do the walking part and then have the sound mind to handle the uphill climb.

Today though, after being there to see her once again talk down to the nurses and refute everything they said, when all they were trying to do was help her, angered me. And the last thing I want to do is be angry with her.

I just wanted to shout at her and say exactly this “ You make my visits here miserable. I bring my daughter here after a long day at school, whilst my husband does double duty at home cooking, cleaning, looking after the 2 youngest, only to be told off on a regular basis and to hear nothing but negative"

But I can’t and won’t and I shouldn’t.
I think I need to remind myself I get to go home at the end of each visit. To do as I please and kiss my kids when I feel like it.
Time for me to cut her some slack and hope I can direct her in a more positive direction.
Perspective. I think I just got some.

So the crappy neighbours have moved out. And I didn’t even know it.

If only they had applied such stealth in the way they lived their lives to how they moved house.

Let’s call the couple who lived next door, Dazza and Shazza. Or D & S for short. D & S moved in around a year ago to the highset rental house next to us. A young couple in their very early 20’s we didn’t have the pleasure of getting to know them which was more than likely caused by the very first night of their stay.

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

Next day when they were still recreating the night be fore’s hilarity on their veranda, my husband toddled over and politely said “that’s not going to happen again is it?” half asking but mostly instructing. Shazza shook her head and implored to him that it was a one off. Shazza isn’t so good with maths as it turns out, because they had no less than 15 events Corey Worthington would be happy to put his name to, in the next 6 months.

I became Mrs Mangel on a rampage. I found out who managed the house, I wrote to the owners direct, I called the cops (who by the way said unless someone was being hurt, nothing they could do). The agent instructed me they were living cleanly and she had never heard a party. Um no dickhead, unless you are doing drivebys at 4am, of course you won’t see anything.

It got to the point where I was so stressed out, I was imagining ways to make their lives 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 no doubt they got up, walked down the stairs and wondered how in the fuck a whole egg got there. Passive Aggressiveness is my speciality. Clandestine egging is not.

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

So to be honest it kind of saddens me now, because they were just getting the idea of being normal members or society and respecting 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.

My mistake. I took three children to Robina Town Centre, week two of the school holidays with no quality bribes. No lollipops, no jumpys, no matchbox cars, nothing that would scream: forward thinking.

But then again, I didn’t think I’d get stuck behind the worst ATM user ever. Ever. No, I don’t think you understand.

By my calculations you should need to press 8 buttons, 10 max to get some cashola from the Automatic Teller Machine.

It should consist of the following:

4 presses - Pin number. Pretty. Fucking. Simple. People. You got given a 4 digit number that needs to be memorised (if this is too hard, pick a number you remember, like the amount of times you forgot your allocated pin number in the first place).

1 press – What you are there for? Seriously, are you there to withdraw, check your balance or deposit. That’s it. Don’t use it as your own personal banker and start trading currency. People are waiting.

1 jab – Assuming this is a withdrawal, let’s say it is, press WITHDRAWAL. I assume 90% of the
time you are there for this and not to get a medicare refund or a cheeseburger, however the length of time it takes for some people to decide this, makes me believe otherwise. This button push is to select the amount. Just do it.

last hit – Do you want a receipt – yes or no. Yes or no. Get it on the screen if you don’t want the paper. I do.

Righteo, money comes out, you move the fuck away from the ATM and put said money in your wallet.

So why is it that I can stand behind someone, at first very patiently, that seems to press no less than 36 buttons, all to walk away with nothing. No cash. Not even a stinking receipt.

What in the fuck, are they doing? Dialling China?

I understand some people are old and new to this technology. I give them a break.

The guy in the flannel today though, that nearly lost his card due to 2 incorrect pin entries, then checked his balance 3 times only to swear at the screen (which sadly stayed silent) and then took his card out only to RE-ENTER it so he could confirm his stupidity and repeat this again, I do not give you a break. All I can give you is my perfected “Hurry up or I will stab you” look.

This coupled with the 2 year old going batshit in the stroller ready to tip backwards with the ridiculously heavy, fuck knows what’s in it handbag strapped to the back, and the other two older children moonwalking in front of the masses, I thought my head would spontaneously combust. But then he magically whisked out his 20 dollar note , studied the receipt in FRONT OF THE MACHINE and then wandered off oblivious to the danger that was behind him.

ATM Rage is alive and well. Don’t underestimate it.

I realised the other day that none of my 3 children do any extracurricular activities. None. They go to school, after school care, come home, do homework, vedge, eat, vedge and go to bed. In that order.

Saturdays and Sunday are made up just of the eat, vedge, eat, vedge, sleep bits.

Not from lack of trying mind you. In the space of ten years we have tried:

Swimming: Child one, we were the chirpy parents down at the pool every Saturday morning, taking turns getting in the pool, doing the Monkey monkey and generally doling out $10 a pop willy nilly. Then child number 2 came and it all got a bit too hard.

Karate: We decided in the way all good decisions are made, on a whim, that Sam, our lovely yet bit vague 7 year old, could do with the discipline that is Karate. Or Jujitsu. I wasn’t real diligent on the research. So off he and Dad went to the local community hall and he lasted, oh, one class. Not because he wasn’t a black belt in the making. No what stopped us from continuing our potential ninja was the dramatic Tony Award winning curtsy he gave at the end instead of the subtle head nod. Yeah, we got told ever so politely that “perhaps he’s just not quite ready yet” (or ever was kind of inflected)

Soccer: I decided along with another mum at school, that my 7yo at the time, daughter, needed to get active. We went to the netball sign on day. We didn’t sign on. It could have been the fact that they wanted just under a million dollars for fees and uniform or the fact that they looked like they wanted to devour our children because, as they kept repeating zombie like, they are “very tall”. Whatever it was, we happened across mixed soccer. Which well, she sucked at. Maddison was often spotted having a good chat with her friend on the field or bitching about “how unfair it is that the boys just hog it all the time, like oh my god” It was equally fun for me too, getting up in the fricken freezing cold, having rampaging morning sickness and intermittently spewing behind the trees for all the hot soccer dads to witness. Let’s just say we made HEAPS of friends. We did soccer for a season.

NIPPERS: Aussie tradition. I’ve always lived on the Gold Coast but as kids, we never had any surf training. Our parents used to just let us run wild on the beach, swim out as far as we pleased and get 2nd degree burns that resulted in us having the “who can peel off the biggest piece of skin of their back” competition. Again, clearly I was little demented when I was pregnant, because I decided every Sunday of my third trimester would be best spent, hot as fuck, at Cudgen Beach, watching our kids chase sticks and eat their body weight in sausages on bread. Left after one season.

GYMNASTICS: Sam has low muscle tone. We have been told the best way to get this strengthened is gymnastics. Which he did and he loved. But I think I need to find a less, shall we say, intense gym class for him than the one we attended. Sam has little regard for personal space and often forgets to line up. This coupled together makes him look like a creepy pusher-inner. And then well, the term ended, I got a shocker flu and we just never went back.

I think you’re getting the gist here. We try stuff; we just don’t stick it out. I want to stick it out. I want us as a family, to be a member of a club where a dad dresses up as a dodgy Santa and hands out presents at Christmas time. I got to experience this. As kids, we were members of the local footy club and most Sundays we collected cans, drank coke and played pacman, all whilst the parents got tanked and watched the football from their car bonnets. None of us actually played football but it didn't matter.

So this summer, I will attempt again. Maddison, after doing netball at school, wants to join a club for realz. Jack the juvenile delinquent will be put into a swim school. I have a feeling he may model himself on Michael Phelps - the ADHD, bong smoking side. So I might try and head that off by wearing him the fuck out. Swimming seems a good way to do this. Sam, well Sam may revisit some of his past attempts. Hey, Ralph Macchio had a lot of practice at wax on, wax off before he found his groove. I just need to find his Mr Miyagi.

So Vegemate never made the grade. And I mean, why would it? Clearly I’m not hip or cool enough. I wasn't aiming my pitch it at the right generation apparently.

Well guess what Kraft, you unAustralian owned company. I buy for the next generation because at the moment, unless child slave labour makes a comeback, they don’t have the coin to go grocery shopping and choose the spreads in this household. Sure, this may sound like a bitter attack just because our awesome name, Vegemate (see it was so clever because we kept the Vege part, but put mate in it, all Australian like) arggh forget it. Clearly it sucked.

What about the new jingle for this new Vegemite related product?

Will it go like this?

(Sing this to the Vegemite Jingle) “We’re happy little iSnack2.0 mites as cool and edgy as can be. We all enjoy our iSnack2.0 for breakfast but that’s about it because now it’s got cream cheese with it, it’s not longer fat free”

The name iSnack2.0 just weird’s me out. It sounds like a robot. I totally understand its reference to all iPod and iphone related gadgets. I also get the cool factor of all things Apple. It is my equivalent of how rad I thought the Commodore 64 was in the mid 80’s. I also thought teasing the bejesus out of my fringe and wearing a midriff top with a massive YES emblazoned across the front in fluorescent pink was an awesome idea too. Not so much.

And let’s face it, if this unnecessary vegemite half-cast is anything like the iphone, it will need an upgrade in 2 months, explode in a random persons eye for no good reason and then have to be released as iSnack3.0 in a year’s time with tons more features and leave all of those who bought a 12 month supply of the original version with a bad taste in their mouth.

My beauty routine goes something like this:

Brush Teeth

Granted I will not make the New Weekly’s page for Beauty Tips this week and sure I will never make Who’s most beautiful list. One thing I will make is Ordinary woman’s least high maintenance list.

See I notice the wrinkles and I despair. And I go and buy an anti-aging product which I productively use for say oh, one whole week. Then I, to be blatantly honest, can’t be bothered anymore.

I look at my feet. They would scare even the little Asian ladies who do the mass pedicures in the shopping centres for a living. I bought a ped-egg. You know the one. The object shaped like an egg, flogged on late night TV and basically grates dead skin off your feet. Oh how we ridiculed this at work. Laughing at the ads on YouTube. But then I tried it and sweet Jesus, I was reborn. I had baby soft heals. I no longer ripped up the sheets when I went to bed each night. My husband wasn’t physically repulsed by my feet on his lap watching TV. But then I get lazy and right now, let’s just say you wouldn’t want to be standing behind me on an escalator and view these suckers up close.

My fingernails, well they just don’t even rate a mention. Sure I could go pay for someone to give me some awesome French tips and I would look like I deserved to rock up to the Versace buffet on any given night, but within 3 days I know I would either chip them, lose them in the potato salad or just be unable to type come work on Monday.

My makeup regime too, leads much to be desired. Sometimes I wear foundation to work. More often than not though I don’t get a chance to apply it in the morning. What between cleaning up the spilt weetbix and finding poo nuggets left on a Hansel and Gretel styled trail down the hallway, it just doesn't get done. Lipstick doesn't last longer than 2 cups of coffee. ie. past 8am. I wear glasses (and no I hardly ever wear contacts) and therefore I don’t wear mascara. Or eye shadow.

Last but not least and most important is my hair. I have hair that can only be described as Ronald McDonald on Crack.

Ok, maybe that’s overboard but my hair is curly, frizzy and if it were orange I could don big red clown shoes and sit on that that park bench in Maccas and kids would gleefully sit on my lap (or try and punch me in the guts depending on said child).

I colour the continuous greys with hair dye from the supermarket. I have had my hair coloured once on a holiday in Melbourne. They charged $280 for some streaks that I couldn’t see. Mad experience sure, but think I got the gist of further treatments to come.

I didn’t grow up with a beauty regime. Perhaps if I did the above admissions would disgust me, however Mum wasn’t a big talker when it came to makeup or perfume or being girly. So sure I could have wigged out and went apeshit on the blush as a teen but I just didn’t get the chance.

So I now think, heading towards 35 it’s time for me to slowly but surely start taking care of myself. Starting with some beauty sleep...

Mum went home today, just for a couple of hours whilst we cleaned out her house. It gave her the opportunity to stop pretending she will be returning there.

Mum to date, will have lost at least 12 kilos. Not much left when you only start at 65kgs. She gets exhausted walking from the lounge room to the washing line. Which of course, she insisted on doing while she was back home. Washing all her clothes, hanging them out, making herself a cup of tea (the total amount she ingested all day) and pulling palm fronds off the palm tree out the back.

No amount of “sit down and relax” would subdue her. We were warned about taking her home to her house. About the effect it may have on her.

We knew this but she wanted to go. She wanted to have her last bath in the bathroom that has been her home for the last 20 years. She wanted to make her last cup of tea and look out the window at the same view that has been hers for as long as she could remember.

But even she admitted today, she could not have come home and been independent. And that must have really hurt.

And, as far as I can tell, Mum has given up. I kind of knew this, but after a discussion today with her nurse, one who I see a lot and is very caring, I started to admit to myself that the mind is the ultimate downfall.

After enquiring about the fact that mum is no longer eating, she said to me very matter of factly “Well, you’re mother is giving up”.

I don’t want her to. I want her to be hearty and full of willfulness and just well, enjoy the time she has left.

Our family has had a bit to do with depression in the last couple of years. It’s hit extremely close to home. Too close.

I think I’ve always been the “suck it up” variety of person. I’ve often said I don’t have the luxury of being depressed and not able to “get on with it”.

When you break your finger you go to a doctor and they fix it. When you split your head open, you go get stitches. That sort of illness I can see. That sort I can believe.

What happens when your mind is no longer well? It is so incredibly frustrating not being able to fix something that doesn’t appear, on the outside, to be broken.

My husband, some years ago, totally out of the blue, told me he was incredibly sad. Then he started to cry. And he cried. And cried. And I went inward, motherbear like. I had two children. I had to think of us. He told me he was depressed and nothing much meant anything to him.

I just couldn’t fathom why a strong, lovely man with two healthy children, a wife who loved him, who had a house, a job, friends and no financial struggles (more than any other young family with a modest mortgage) would suddenly feel he could no longer go on.

It made me angry. It made me want to run. It made me turn into a mother bear where all I cared about were my children and what was best for them.

I like most people not touched by mental illness or ignorant to it, just couldn’t or didn’t want to understand.

But I had to. And I had to understand fast. See there appeared to be no catalyst as to this change. We didn’t have any tragedies. We weren’t suddenly faced with a challenge to life as he knew it.

What he did do though was take some pills to stop his untested stomach complaint. Which, upon further investigation, we discovered, wipes out the bad stuff, ie the bad bug in his stomach but also pretty much zapped his serotonin. I was about to realise serotonin was pretty important in life. It ‘s your happiness. And his was gone.

That coupled with saving a complete stranger who was knocked out by his surfboard, whilst being the only guy surfing with him one early morning, culminated in this, what can only be described as a maker or breaker or our marriage.

The surfer survived, was a paraplegic and went back to teaching, but has never once contacted my husband to thank him. My husband didn’t want a ticket tape parade, he didn’t want anything. But I did and I would like to think that if someone saved my life, I’d at least have them over for a BBQ to say thanks.

Long story short (really? It’s been pretty fucking long so far, I hear you saying) we worked through it. It took years. I had to regain my respect for him. I know that’s not right or fair, but that’s the way it was. I still flinch when I hear the word depression. I still associate bad times with depression. We have two more close associations with Depression in the last two years. For one person, it appeared to be from nothing. For one, it was from losing everything. What I was though was more understanding. I hope it appeared so anyway.

So what does this have to do with my mother dying of cancer? Everything.

Your mind is so important. If you don’t have it, you have so very little. Even though her body was failing on her, I guess I thought she as a person would remain the same.

My mother has never been one to dwell on stuff. If shit happens, her motto was “you get over it and stop whining” This is not an ideal way to live life, not by any stretch, but sometimes self-pity and pandering is also a waste of time.

So I guess the happy medium is to have compassion. To try to understand depression and don’t be too hard on yourself if you can’t.

As far as mum goes, all we can do is tell her we love her, we want her around and to keep going. We still need her yet.

It’s fair to say I do a fair bit of driving on the good old Gold Coast. Gone are the days of coasting down Smith Street alone, unflanked by a wanker in WRX but alas, time moves on and we are now a city approaching 600,000.

Often, we hear that Queenslanders, Gold Coasters in particular are the worst drivers.

Well if the people on our roads who don’t indicate, cut people off and don’t know how to use a roundabout are from Queensland then yes, that is true. But they aren’t. In fact the majority of our population weren’t born here. They were more than likely conceived here though (being a great place to get loose and all).

So driving to 2 schools, a kindy and workplace each day I often encounter the following:

· People who straddle two lanes going through a roundabout. For gods sakes. Choose your lane and stick to it. I am in a little Honda Jazz with a family of 5. We are just waiting to be crushed under your Prado dipshit. Granted, to select a Honda Jazz with 5 people plus at the time Golden retriever in the family, not my mensa moment. That however, does not give vague 4WD drivers a right to sidewipe me off the road. And yes, our other car is a 4WD, so this is not a 4WD hatefest.

· The vague couple who go slow, then speed up, then look around, then have a chat, all whilst driving their Volvo in front of me on my way to school. 1. You have no particular reason to be out in peak hour. 2. Pay attention. Because when you do 40 up to lights then gun it and leave me behind at the red light, it does not make for a good start to the day.

· People who don’t indicate. See as I haven’t activated my crystal fucking ball yet, I don’t know which way you intend to turn. Why do people not indicate? Are they too lazy? It doesn’t get much easier people. It’s a flick of the wrist. Really. Is it because they are above indicating? Do you not have the brain capacity? I simply do not understand this lack of courtesy and this in turn makes me want to ram people. Clearly in my Jazz I would come off second best, but it would almost be worth it.

· It’s a Bus Lane. Not a Wanker Lane. Seriously, It says BL. It’s for Bus’s (and taxi’s) not for tools who are in a hurry. Newsflash dickhead, we’re all in a hurry. We’ve all got to wait our turn. I make it my mission in life to straddle those bus lanes with my car when I see them coming in my rear-view mirror. Sure, it often leads to a douches in a 911’s giving me the finger, but that’s the price you pay.

· Cars so low they can’t get over a speedbump. We’ve all seen them. They lower the bejesus out of their commodore ute and then have to take the speedbumps at an angle. Well I’ll let you in on a secret. You look like a fuckstik. Harsh I know, but if you are scared of your car going into a pothole because it will rip off the front bumper, it is only a matter of time before the QLD Police defect your car, genius.

· Last but not least, people who don’t thank you for letting them in. I make a conscious effort to let people in. Whether it be letting them in after coming from the Servo or out of the shopping centre driveway. When people don’t acknowledge my courtesy I usually think a) they are an ungracious bastard and b) makes me want to jump out and scream in their windows telling them as much.

And in all honesty, I am generally a calm, easygoing person. Inside my car bubble though I turn
into Judge Judy on heat.

So if nothing else, I hope this makes people stop and think, geez, maybe she’s talking about me. But then again, that would mean these people can read and articulate.

It’s been a while since I caught up with Neighbours. No, not the real life ones. The ones that grace our televisions for half an hour every weeknight at 6:30pm on channel 10. Those neighbours who become good friends.

Which is a bullshit premise really. I mean how many of these murdering, scheming, sometime bogan emos who live in each others back pockets are actually good friends?

See Ramsay street is action packed. I’ve lived in a few different streets in my time and sure, I’ve heard gunshots, seen nudists and had our roof used for personal driving range practice, but never, ever have I been invited to a wedding where Angry Anderson sang “suddenly” whilst Kylie Minogue walked down the aisle to a waiting Jason Donovan donning a heavy duty mullet.

So, not seeing it, I’ve missed such plots that included the Brown family who named their boys after the Beatles. I shit you not. I could not make that stuff up, nor would I try to. The premise being that, all of the Brown boys were named George, John, Ringo and Paul. Christ. I don’t know why, nor do I care why the writers of this show would dream up this shit, but they are also the ones who produced the actor who went on to do this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=trfYjucLGj0&feature=PlayList&p=FF2A066B74D0908F&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=28

So, as you can see, Neighours is music fest. It’s really all about the music. A place, if you will, to launch yourself into bigger and better things and frankly, just never look the fuck back.

Let me name you a few.

Natalie Bassingthwaite - The Bass. Her character, Izzy in the show was kind of mental but even I tuned in to see her back then. Now days, she is the Eddie McGuire of Channel 10. Wherever you look, there she is. Although having said that, she has talent and is lovely to look at, so really the only thing she has in common with the Edman is overexposure.

Kylie Minogue – No explanation needed. Well other than she really came to Australia’s attention when she rocked out to “Sisters are doing it for themselves” on Young Talent Time. She totally took the spotlight from the then, more well known, sister Dannii. (Note the double i) I notice she never returned the favour to her sis and got her a guest spot on neighbours. Oh no, Dannii went on to be an early day emo on Home and Away. Kylie Minogue went to the UK, where they are much kinder to our soap stars and went on to be massive. Not in stature but in celebrity status.
Delta Goodrem – Well Delta was born to try. Try she does. Look, she seems lovely. She’s been dealt a cruel hand in the sickness department with cancer some years back. My biggest gripe with Delta is her fling with Mark Philippoussis and the song she wrote and sang for him. You know the one “Out of the Blue” Watch it here.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d9Z7gXCBpic

Remember it? Her on the beach, playing the piano kind of sideways? He then left her for Paris the whorebag Hilton and she pretended it was never intended for him. She is now with Brian McFadden and keeping busy.

Natalie Imbruglia – Easy to forget she started as a little tomboy (tried and true storyline) on neighbours. Best known for marrying Daniel Johns, lead singer of Silverchair and then divorcing lead singer of Silverchair, Daniel Johns. Another Ex-pat. Again the UK treated her better than we ever could.

Let’s not forget - Craig McLaughlin - Where to start. Mona. One word. If you don’t know the song, see it here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e2ZW_uTlhEQ

This song sucked, yet it gets me oddly nostalgic for being a careless teen. I actually think CM is tops. He doesn’t take himself too seriously and although he was a shitty stand up comic, he will continue to be actor that pops up in each and every Australian made production in the future.

Musicians have also reversed the trend to appear on neighbours after already being successful musicians include Andre Rieu (could care less) and Lilly Allen.

Of note lately though is not the appearance of the musician, but the song accompanying the passing away of Bridget Parker, Didge to her mates. You know, the tomboy teen who was on with Declan, had his baby and died after a seemingly harmless car accident. See when she died, there were many trailers leading up to this. I clearly paid zero attention to this. My nine year old, however, did. Because when I played the Kate Miller Heidke song “Last day on earth” to my daughter in the car today, she said, yeah that’s the song they played when Bridget died. So it was.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WHSxzkEodMo

Well played Channel 10. Well done.

I once did a total Nanna thing and wrote a letter to the editor of our local paper here regarding the absolute waste of money and space that are personalised number plates. You know, the $3,000+ plates that say such fabulous things as BMWX5 (Really, really? Didn’t you just spend over $100,000 for a car that has that very thing stated on a badge on the car?) Or SMINE (Yes it’s yours, who the fuck else’s is it?)

The reaction wasn’t all that overwhelming; in fact I only got one response. And it was a karate Sensei. Is that what they are? Karate Master? A pretty radical karate dude anyway. His numberplate is KARATE. His argument was that he increased business because his already very obviously plastered car that had his business name XXXKarate all over the doors, bonnet and boot, generated more business because his $3,000 (coincidentally, depreciable on his income tax) numberplate. Sure dude. What evs. Although due to my lack of self-defence skills, I of course would never say that to his face.

I live quite close to Sovereign Island. Which if there were a mini-Olympics for the most ridiculous and pompous personalised number plates, it would win hands down.

I dare you to sit at Paradise Point on any given Sunday afternoon, face the street have a coffee and watch the parade of wankers go by. I bet you would see some variant of the following:

DEEVA – Obviously she was never Spelling Bee champion and clearly high maintenance.

WAZ HIS – He cheated on her. So, she’s taken him for everything, including his shitty Commodore and then got a numberplate more expensive than the actual car is worth, as revenge. Money well spent dipshit.

$110,000 – The amount of money spent on the fake boobs, lips, thighs, hair, eyebrows etc etc, that is ensconced in car displaying said tacky numberplate.

SEXY1 – Really? Let’s hope to god when he/she steps out of that beema, they are freaking hot. If not, foolish is about to get a new image in the dictionary.

IM 2 HOT – Small Penis on board

OWZATT – Warney. Avoid if you are female.

GOODGRL – Doubtful

LMFAO – What exactly are you laughing your fucking arse off at? The fact that you just gave the state gov another three thousand bucks you didn’t have to?

The good news is, BIARTCH, at time of writing is still available. So hop to it Queenslanders.

Get in there and give the government more of your hard earned dollars to show everyone else how truly great you are.

NOT MY JOB

Taking out the bin was never meant to be my job.

Nor was taking rubbish bag to said bin.

It was an unspoken rule from day one. He Tarzan, me Jane.

But lately there’s been a shift. See there are only so many fruit bar packets and apple cores you can shove into a flip top bin. I can’t tell you exactly how many that is, but if you're me and you push it, it's somewhere in the vicinity of a shitload. And I have no choice of late but to get off my fat arrse and take it out myself.

I make lunches 5 nights a week which I DETEST. I do it. As Mr Harts housekeeper used to say, “I no complain”

I wash the clothes, I dry the clothes, I change the beds, I vacuum the floors, I mop the floors and I clean the toilet that sees action from 3 males on a regular basis.

But the bins get to me. Can’t tell you why. I will now go play myself the worlds smallest violin and get over my first world problem.

So an update of Mum and her hospital saga.

With some fantastic support from friends, both on the internet and “in real life” Anna Bligh has requested a meeting to discuss my letter. Fantastic step in the right direction and very impressive. I will let you know how that goes.

The other positive step was, after making a not harsh, but strongly worded phone call to the surgeon, we were granted a meeting that afternoon with the doctor, the physio, the Occupational therapist and social worker. Mum, probably got no further than hearing she would more than likely have to give up her house, which has devastated her, but my brother and I got a lot of answers to a lot of questions.

Like what’s next. Like what are Mum’s care options. Like where we go to from here.

The system is still having major suckage issues.

Like how prior to her operation, the nurse wanted to double check that she definitely didn’t want a blood transfusion should she need one during surgery. Um, no Mum never said that. How in the fuck do you get something like so wrong? What if we weren’t there with her? What if someone couldn’t respond?

Like why mum was being given anti-depressants that included a sleeping table component (which wasn’t made known to us) first thing in the morning, which in turn made her very sleepy all day and basically, off her face.

When I came to visit her on Saturday morning, she was both sleepy and disorientated. She said the social worker had been to visit the day before but she was still confused and didn’t take a lot of it in. No fucking wonder. She was off her head.

After asking the nurse about this, they agreed that the doctor should have prescribed them for night time. HELLO geniuses.

In our previous family meeting, the doctor had advised there would be no reason to do an invasive colonoscopy after getting all the test results needed from the brain tumour.

But then, I turn up Saturday, Colonoscopy prep written on her board. No information regarding this was or has been passed on. Keeping in mind we only just found out her stent has been put in tonight. I imagine this is fairly major. We (my brother and I) have had no information relating to this matter.
Basically jelly and soup since Saturday morning until Sunday then nil by mouth until tomorrow. Tomorrow.

Today they took her from the ward at lunch time but didn’t do the colonoscopy and the stent until 4pm. 4 hours whilst 10 people went in before her. When Mum had the “gall” to ask why she was being overlooked, she was reduced to tears when a nurse said to her, “You’re lucky you don’t have to pay for this Mrs Clarke. Do you have any idea how much this equipment costs?” I Shit you not.

Mum then, in tears, scrambled to tell the nurse she will make a donation. Needless to say, I cannot begin to tell you my anger right now. Um hello bitchface, she did pay for this equipment. It’s called 50 years of working and paying taxes.

As do I. As does her son.

When I spoke to her an hour ago, she still hadn’t eaten nor was she allowed to until tomorrow morning. Not even a cup of tea.

So when I do get to see Anna Bligh, I’m going to remind her about her boss’s promise. It went like this - if the states couldn’t fix the health system by mid 2009, he would. So come on K Rudd. As you said, the buck stops with you. Fix this shambles.

40 or 50 years ago if your child got a cold, the following problem would not have been an issue.

See our 7 year old is still sick. It’s Sunday evening and there is no chance he’ll be good to go come Monday morning.

Last Thursday he had a special athletics day at Griffith Uni and although he’d been looking a little pasty, I still packed him, smothered him in sunscreen and sent him on his way to the all day event. Phil went to pick him up from after school care that afternoon and before he could even ask about the medal tally, S greeted him with a technicolour spew at the front door.

So, off we go to the doctor again. Yes the SAME doctor who has seen the myriad of black eyes, school sores and bum boils that have presented themselves to him on at least one of my children in the last three weeks. This time it’s tonsilitus, ear infections and conjunctivitis. Cool.

Which Chinaman have we run over? Any big stories I’ve been too busy cleaning up vomit to catch on TV?

So, now we do the mum/dad dance. And it’s not the fun dance Dad likes to do most. No it’s the “Who stays home with the sick child Dance”

If my husband and I don’t work, we don’t get paid. So when it comes to who stays home with the sick child, who, well, stays home? Well more often than not - me. But seeing as our family is seeing more medical action than the Home and Away hospital of late, we are at a crossroads.

After a bit of discussion and seeing as it feels as if I haven’t had a full days’ work in three weeks, husband is staying home with S. He did the advising to his boss and then sat down and said “geez it sucks I feel so bad having a day off”. We both know our respective bosses are very cool and very generous when it comes to family, but it doesn’t mean we feel better about doing it.

I know, I’ll go get out my own violins.

It’s funny because I guess 40 or 50 years ago, they had bigger issues. Like whether the simple virus would turn into something far worse. Yet they still had more of the one thing we all want but can’t buy at the shops – more quality time with our family.

Thank Christ.

See my dear husband is off right now, at his end of Season Cricket function slash drinks slash getting so blotto he will more than likely be refused entry to the bedroom tonight. This also means I cannot be sure he’ll be up to bacon and eggs at the lovely cafe up the road in the morning for Fathers Day.

I’m totally cool with this end of year deal. I mean, he’s played 8 full Sundays under gruelling conditions, blistering heat, treacherous rain and oh who am I kidding? They just played cricket in winter and talked bloke stuff. Like how my husband got three golden ducks in a row. Fourth was a duck, but not a golden. Shit – they talk it.

We are one of the those modern fan dangled families that share parental and domestic duties. I’ve always worked and therefore, he’s been on afternoon pick up since we had kids. I do the mornings, which often leaves the house looking like we’ve set off a nail bomb and bolted. For that I have no excuses other than I am more worried about getting a late slip than I am of leaving vegemite toast wedged into the couch.

Priorities – I think I need to work on mine.

Friends say I’m lucky I have a husband that helps out and whilst I’ll admit that is true - they are his kids too. Just because I’ve given myself perpetual incontinence birthing 3 of the suckers, doesn’t mean all duties relating to them are mine.

Three nights a week, he cooks dinner as he’s home first. Most days of the week, he cleans up after the kids. At least once a week, he gets angry enough to discipline.

On top of all that, he’s a great dad. He’s the fun half. He’s the one they wrestle on the ground. He’s the one who chases the kids through the house pretending he’s Casper the Angry ghost. He’s also the one who doesn’t know when to stop and more often than not, these activities end in tears. That’s where I come in. Whinge whinge, nag nag, “you never know when to stop” nag some more.

At the end of the day, my husband is a simple man. He doesn’t ask or want for much. He likes a beer with his mates, loves his kids beyond belief and I’m pretty sure I’m still his favourite gal despite his on the side floozy, Bunnings. If you met him, you’d say he’s a good bloke.

So even though my computer illiterate husband will never read this, not even read it if I print it out, We loves you Honey. Happy Fathers Day Xxxx

P.S. I reserve the right to amend this should I require copious amounts of Spray and Wipe at 0200 hours.

Today was the low point in my mother’s Queensland Hospital Experience.

Today she was let down by Queensland Health.

My Mum, not three weeks ago was living a normal life. Unbelievable as it sounds, my 75 year old mother, apart from having limited sight due to macular degeneration, has barely had a sick day – she was as happy and healthy as a clam.

Then she lost strength in her hand. The grim news of a secondary tumour in her brain that had spread from cancer in the colon, liver and lungs caught us all by surprise

The speed of admission into hospital was to be admired. It was immediate. What a great start to our Queensland Health experience.

Please know from the outset, this is not a letter of criticism about the nurses, the doctors or support staff. This is a plea to you, the politician, who in all honesty will never experience a day as a patient in a public hospital, to listen and to fix the overcomplicated system.

A hypothetical if you will...

Imagine your mum, being 75, gets the most devastating news of her life. In lightening speed her normal old life of hanging out at home babysitting her grandson once a week and going down to the local shops, is no longer a reality.

Instead she is incredibly frightened and fearful for her future. Imagine now she is given no details regarding the course of action that is imminent. Instead, she is admitted to a hospital ward, fed 3 meals a day, shares a ward with not one but two violent junkies and sits around and waits.

With me Anna? Next, imagine, you as her family, after repeated requests to be kept in the loop, hear nothing.

Next imagine Anna your mother is advised she requires a major brain operation to remove a large tumour. You as her family, as her child have still been told NOTHING. You are not even allowed to stay with her the hour before her operation. The operation she is, to be blunt, scared out of her fucking mind about. Think about it Anna, this might be the last time you may speak to your mother or she to you, ever again.

So now imagine your mother has come out the other side, is in ICU and finally, the surgeon is telling you that you will now be supplied with a meeting with all specialist doctors involved to discuss the future and what services will be available. Imagine your relief that you are finally getting some answers and that you mother is alive and relatively well.

I need to you concentrate now Anna because this is where the system that is QLD Health is redundant.

Imagine now, your mother goes back to the general ward and she is seeing a doctor daily. Fantastic you think. Not so. See, being the recipient of a major brain operation, she cannot retain the information that is being delivered to her. You, as her child, still cannot make sense of what the outcome of her operation is nor what her future holds, because no one will tell you anything.

Imagine then Anna, your mother wakes up during the night, two days after having her operation and she cannot stop crying. She can’t tell you why. A rational person Anna, understands this is depression and is perfectly normal. Imagine then Anna, being her daughter arriving to visit and your mother sobbing and not being able to stop and your hopelessness at the whole situation. Imagine your frustration after 3 repeated requests for a social worker to see your mother, she still is being left alone to sob at night.

The worst though is still to come. See today the rehabilitation worker comes. Something your mum is looking forward to as she is expecting to receive some exercises instructing her how to improve that hand that has regressed since the surgery. Imagine now, how she feels after the rehab worker tells your mother, alone, with no support to understand her words, that there is “no point” working on her hand and basically giving her no hope.

Thirty minutes later, your mother is addressed by the oncologist.

Keeping in mind, your mother is almost blind, cannot now move by herself and has been basically told to give up and is sobbing, once again alone. At this point she is told she will have to have a colonoscopy and could she "possibly" tell her usual doctor next time she sees him?

So a 75 year neurologically compromised patient of QLD Health who is basically blind is being told to pass on a message, she may not remember, to a doctor she cannot see . A very important message that will ultimately make a huge difference in her cancer treatment.

Did I mention your mother is still crying at the drop of hat, has been given zero incentive to be positive and was given the devastating news of possible life expectancy ALONE due to a lack of a simple phone call to you, her only family?

I’m well aware the hypothetical above means nothing to you. You would get the best care. You would not be dicked around with bureaucracy and the hierarchy of a public hospital.

But see, our frustrations stem from the lack of communication. The lack of courtesy. We are not numbers. Our mother is not simply nothing just because she is older and has advanced cancer. Your duty of care is to do the very best you can. You are failing.

If Queensland Health were my own personal business and it was consistently failing to provide the services I was offering and the complaints were outweighing the praise, I would either be arrogant, ignorant or just plain stupid to not try and find the fundamental faults in my system and change these.

When you read this Anna, I expect your first reaction will be to fob this off to your Health Minister and his general area. I don’t know his or her name and I don’t care. I expect there will be a generic response generated that generally appeases the minions.

But see when you put your hand up to be Premier of Queensland; you took the healthcare of all Queenslanders in your hands. If you think of it any other way, then you shouldn’t be the Premier of Queensland.

What I do expect as a federal and state and local tax and medicare levy payer is for you to organise and delegate qualified staff to fix the Health Care and its archaic systems

Myself, my family and my mother have the right to this “free” service. At no time should we feel as if we are mooching off a system because we, the people of Queensland deserve equal service for what we have paid for indirectly for all of our working years.

A system needs to be set up that informs patients and family of vital information. Information to resources and available services both in and outside of the hospital.

At the end of the day, what I want for you is to stop the bullshit.

Create a system where the mountain of red tape is removed. A system that creates a circle of care.

A system where I can ask once and I get a response to my request. At the very least.

I know your answer will be that the hospitals are understaffed and under resourced. FIX IT. I would rather our sinking ship of a state be in debt due to you fully subsidising the education of nurses and health professionals than a new footbridge or another motorcar race.