I'll Think of a Title Later

Hey Stellaaaaaaaaaa, I Have a Giveaway....

2012-01-30T07:30:00.002+10:30

Hey Stellaaaaaaa...
Sorry, couldn't resist. But this post has nothing to do with Marlon Brando or any streetcars named Desire.

The Stella in question is Stella Sparks, one of the main characters in the lovely Lisa Heidke's new book, Stella Makes Good. Following on from the success of Lisa's earlier novels (Lucy Springer Gets Even, What Kate Did Next, Claudia's Big Break) and released earlier this month, it is a sometimes funny, sometimes sad, always honest look at a handful of women, their relationships and families, and how they interract; the secrets they keep, the lies they tell not only to each other, but to themselves too.

Stella and her friends Jesse and Carly are all facing certain crises in their lives; lack of confidence and loss of identity, marriage separation, problems with children and extended family, anxieties and obsessions, fears of infidelity, and an overall uncertainty about the future.

A girl's night out which goes off the rails sets off a chain of events in their lives and it becomes clear things are about to change for all of them. But for the better or worse? Add to the mix a few handsome doctors and Jesse's sister Louisa who has a bombshell of her own, and what you have is a thoroughly entertaining read, not to mention some hot desk sex. And of course then there's all the nappies, dummies and dog collars, with not a baby or a canine in sight. Intrigued? Rightly so.

It raises questions .... What would you do if you knew a secret which could dramatically alter a friend's life? Would you tell, or would you keep it to yourself? And how would you react to threats to keep your mouth shut? Would you cower under the pressure, or would it embolden you to speak up? And what if revealing the secret meant you had to disclose some embarrassments of your own? And why am I now looking at ordinary suburban houses differently, wondering where my local neighbourhood sex parties are being held? And why did that lead me to checking out the new lingerie line by Dita Von Teese? Okay, I may be going off track here...

Anyway, I laughed, I nodded, I went "ooooooh", I sighed, I wanted to slap some characters, hug some others, and I may have even welled up a bit at one point. And no, it wasn't during the desk sex.

To celebrate the release, the gorgeous Lisa (pictured, right) would love to give away ONE copy of Stella Makes Good to a lucky reader. All you have to do is make sure you are following or subscribing to this blog, leave a comment below (make sure I have your contact details) and one name will be drawn at random on February 7th at 10am my time. (which is Australian Central Something-or-other)

Good luck, and watch out for Lisa soon appearing in my hard-hitting *cough* Interview Series.

Mission Possible: Wine Protocol

2012-01-26T18:50:00.008+10:30

Our mission today, if we chose to accept it, was to drink this entire bottle of 1999 Shiraz, all 6 litres of it. We accepted. Mission accomplished.
Our livers will self-destruct in 5, 4, 3........

But wait, there's more to drink....

The Interview Series: Myself

2012-01-23T07:00:00.006+10:30

I have a series of interviews lined up in the coming weeks... okay, by series, I mean two... so I decided to first test the format on someone who doesn't really matter. Myself.

I plan to give all my future victims... err, I mean, interviewees... yes, all two of them (hopefully more at some point)... the same list to complete. I hope they find me less ridiculous than I do.

Finish these sentences.

My first words were… probably met with disappointment.

My first words should have been… get me out of this nuthouse.

My last words will probably be… get me out of this nuthouse.

When I was an innocent child I thought… every family lived in a nuthouse.

My teachers probably remember me as… having a different name.

I’ve always wished… I was taller. I'm too short for my weight.

If I could swap hairstyles with someone for a day, I would choose… Jennifer Aniston or Angelina Jolie. Tough decision. Now I know how Brad Pitt felt.

I almost peed my pants when… Lance Armstrong followed me on Twitter, accepted my dinner invitation, and DMed me to ask for my address. I guess that's 3 near-pees.

The most memorable laugh I got was… when I was doing Michael Jackson-esque dance moves at a Christmas party, squealed a high-pitched "wooh" and grabbed my crotch. My friend laughed so much she actually did pee.

If I had George Clooney’s phone number… Lance Armstrong would breathe a sigh of relief.

The weirdest thing I’ve done for my work/art/partner (pick one) is… ask my mother if my husband could wear one of her dresses. I won't explain, I'll just let you ponder that.

One moment I’d like to forget is… only one? A party where there may have been plentiful wine, then vodka skolling contests, before some shirt-lifting and dancing in front of a window, followed by rolling of an ankle and falling over in the garden.

I cannot leave home without… reminding myself to NOT participate in drinking contests.

I’m embarrassed that I don’t know how to… upload photos from my dumbphone to any sites. Yes, I am the dick who still pulls out a digital camera when the candles are being blown out.

The personality trait most useful in my life is… my sense of humour. See my answers to the first four questions. Enough said.

My favourite Muppet is… Beaker. He talked gibberish nobody understood. After drinking contests, I can totally relate.

In the movie of my life story, I would be played by… Kate Winslet. She's worked with a merkin before.

When in doubt… blame the dog.

And finally…

Leggings as pants. Discuss.

LEGGINGS ARE NOT PANTS. Sorry for yelling.

Thanks for playing, me.
No worries, me.

The Girls With The Draggin' Title Pages

2012-01-17T11:40:00.001+10:30

I know, the title of this blog post makes very little sense right now, but it will all become clear. And it's not about either the Swedish movie, nor the Hollywood copycat version with Daniel Craig.
And before you get carried away, I don't mean these girls...

... I mean these girls...

... the lovely Lisa Heidke's novel Stella Makes Good, and the gorgeous Lia Weston's novel The Fortunes Of Ruby White.
The Girls were draggin' around with me on my recent holiday and I decided to share what they and their somewhat bedraggled and sand-encrusted title pages got up to.

A convoy of vehicles (two cars) packed to the hilt with 4 humans, 2 dogs and beach paraphernalia (as well as jumpers, ugg boots and umbrellas - the forecasted weather was awful) headed south of Adelaide for the 4 hour drive to the lovely seaside town of Robe.
Luckily for my bladder, the dogs needed as many breaks as I did, and the lactose-challenged drivers needed their iced coffee hits, which unfortunately led to a windy evening, but that's another story.
Lunch at Meningie was a shivering affair. The dogs crapped everywhere and The Girls refused to get out of the car, lest their (at that stage) pristine pages get ripped to shreds in the biting wind. (the real kind of wind, not the flatulence kind, that came later).
Eventually, The Girls couldn't hold their chapters closed any longer and needed a wee break at Kingston so I decided to let them out to paraphrase on the grass under the Big Lobster.

Please excuse the stoopid man photobombing The Girls, he followed me around all week.

When the convoy arrived at the holiday house (possibly bigger than my own home, in fact the main walk-in-wardrobe could've housed a small-statured family quite comfortably), The Girls quickly checked out the fabulous kitchen and declared they would do all the cooking.

Unfortunately, this plan evaporated when it was found that cooking can be difficult when you are an inanimate object with a paper back and no thumbs. Damn. Fish'n'chips for the win.
Spent a f-f-f-f-f-freezing day sightseeing at Beachport. By sightseeing, I mean sheltering from the wind and eating copious amounts of food, followed by hot cinnamon donuts for which we had no room in our guts. But we made room.
The Girls found a sheltered spot down by the jetty...

...while I scoped out my next holiday home purchase... (I wish)...

And don't be fooled by the blue skies and sunshine, the warmest day was when it finally hit 21C but the wind was still coming straight from the South Pole. (not to be confused with the cinnamon-scented wind coming from over-full arses)

The Girls visited The Obelisk at Robe...

...and had a great view of the mighty Southern Ocean. I didn't. Bloody hair.

The Girls were fondled gently in the evenings by the other girls... Wait, am I still talking about the books...?

The Girls were becoming more than a handful... ahem... and I decided they needed some discipline in their spines, so I took them to the old gaol/jail ruins where they frolicked their little paragraphs out in the exercise yard...

... before sneaking off to the gaoler's rooms to offer him a 'synopsis' in return for their freedom...

... before getting their endsheets slammed back into the cells.

After a hard day of flashing their text around, The Girls relaxed in the sun...

By the way, I think it's quite unfair that I got burnt and am now peeling, whilst The Girls managed to keep their pretty covers intact. Bloody publishers and their glossy cosmetic makeovers.
Anyway, we had a BIG day of boogie boarding and The Girls managed to keep all their conjugations dry, though somewhat gritty. I tell you, that sand gets in every semi-colon, doesn't it?

One last evening of relaxing on the back deck with a drink... what? You can't see The Girls' drinks?.... Oh, yeah, I swallowed them. Can't have them getting drunk and putting their apostrophes where they don't belong. They might damage their hyphens.

I may not have a book out, but I do have a coffee mug inspired by me, so it posed with The Girls for one last shot before heading home...

The End.

I had thoughts of this being a review, but I was so tired from being The Girls' tour guide, social director and chaperone all week, that I did not read one single page of either book. Sorry Lia & Lisa. Next week....

Boobs, Pavs, Pink Rubber Gloves and The Adventures Of Hubert Squirrel - Christmas 2011

2012-01-05T10:23:00.000+10:30

Just photos today.

No words.

Some of these photos need no explanation anyway.

And some of them defy explanation.

Note: There may have been some alcohol involved.

And then we were all knucking fackered.

The end.

Not Another Bloody Christmas Tree Photo...

2011-12-23T17:59:00.002+10:30

Yeah... sorry.

May you all receive the gift of enough joy, love, peace, wisdom and well-timed sarcasm to get you through another year.

Love, me.
xx

The Annual Christmas Letter Everyone Loves To Hate

2011-12-15T09:45:00.000+10:30

BTW, this is almost how many cats we've had in 24 years. Almost. Okay, so we're on #9.

To those of you who have been reading my blog, my tweets and my Facebook updates this year, you will already know most of this, you nosy fuckers. To newbies, this is my Annual Christmas letter sent to friends, a recap of our year. Otherwise known as the "Look How Exciting My Life Is" letter. If only life felt as good as it sounds when condensed to two pages. Read on.

This is almost the exact letter sent out to friends, only the names have been changed to protect my poor, demented family and anyone who may wish to befriend us. Or move in next door.

Ho Ho Ho, fa la la la la and all that.

Firstly, I apologise, I did not send cards last year at all, and my catch-up letter was done in January. What can I say, I live in Procrastinatia (thank you for that term, Janet Pretsell, I used to call it Procrastination Land, but yours is better) and by the time I get around to it, the optimum moment has passed.

So, in a nutshell… this year has been nuts.

Son (19) has completed his 1st year of Uni, and let’s just say his 3 year course will probably take another 3 years. Husband is betting on 5. He has not been very studious and isn’t overly passionate about the course, but is plugging away and it at least gets him out of the house for a while every week. Not long enough though. However, his sleeping and Call of Duty skills have been mastered this year, as has his ability to regularly fill my family room with teenage boys. I guess that’s what happens when you have a big family room with comfy sofas, live 10 mins from the city, 10 mins from the beach, 2 mins from the soccer stadium, 2 mins from a great reserve with tennis courts, basketball ring, oval, etc etc. We are Grand Central Station, with the added bonus of a Subway, chicken shop, café and great pizza joint down the corner. At least I don’t have to cook for them.

Daughter (almost 17) has completed Year 11. Haven’t got the results yet, only know she’s getting an A for English because her teacher rang me one day. While I’m on that, you really don’t want the phone ringing at 9am and to hear “It’s So’n’So from Adelaide High, I’m Daughter’s English teacher..” just days after the exam. All I could think was “Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck, what’s she done now…” (she does have prior convictions along these lines). Thankfully only good news. She’ll be doing an odd mix of Biology, Psychology, German & English next year in Year 12. No idea where that will lead her, but it’s what she likes. She has a boyfriend, a hairy Greek whom she gave waxing strips when she drew him in a Kris Kringle/Secret Santa thing her group of friends do. Apparently ‘sense of humour’ is a strong bond between them. He went lingerie shopping with her & her girlfriends. He’s a keeper.

Husband started his new job in Feb and his feet have hardly touched the ground since. Well, not in Adelaide anyway. He jets all over the place, mostly from Mon to Fri, and comes home on weekends. Has only missed a few weekends when he’s been on long two week stints. He’s mostly been in Sydney, but also Melbourne, Brisbane, Cairns, Newcastle, Hunter Valley, Perth, Hong Kong, Singapore, and Auckland. So far he’s really enjoying it, and I don’t mind snore-free nights. Though I do miss him putting out the rubbish and pooper-scooping. Poor bastard touches down on Friday nights and gets an immediate rundown on everything that he/we have to do on the weekend.

I have adjusted to being sole parent Mon to Fri without too many problems, although the day the dishwasher blew up and the power went off and the dog ate my favourite shoes was a testing one. Thank goodness for wine, though 10am was probably a tad early, even for my low standards. I wrote a manuscript this year, just for fun. It’s a novel about a mid-forties wife and mother of teenagers who’s deciding whether or not she may be an alcoholic. SHUT UP, IT’S FICTION. I also became a pink-wearing, housewife-socialite fundraiser in October, holding a Girl’s Night In for the Cancer Council. Raised $1450 for them and raised the roof with my karaoke version of Love Shack. Next year, I’m thinking Bohemian Rhapsody…

And yes, we have another dog. We rescued a 13 month old beagle called Bella. At first we couldn’t understand how she’d had two owners before us, I mean, who would give up such a lovely dog? Reality bites. On 14 pairs of shoes so far. And a laptop, several clothing items, a multitude of toilet paper rolls, an electric shaver and a bag of potatoes. Among other things. Many, many other things. And she is scared of unknown males. And of noises. And voices. And the doorbell. And the cat. And of my karaoke singing (but who wasn’t?). And she has pissed on every surface in every room. She has ‘issues’. But, god help us, we love her. Not sure what that says about us really.

The last few weeks have been mad with social stuff. Have had an engagement, a 50th, Elton John concert, three dinners, 36er games, blah blah blah and more of the same coming up. Looking forward to a relaxing few days in Robe in January, just to wind down and escape from it all. Husband is having five weeks off, so it will be interesting to see how we all go with him back in the house 24/7. Especially the dog, who sleeps on his side of the bed while he’s away. Oh well, as long as he takes out the rubbish, I’ll be happy.

Enjoy your festive season everybody.

Love to you all

xx

Things You Find Behind A Chest Of Drawers...

2011-12-07T17:00:00.002+10:30

Things you find in the Daughter's room, behind a chest of drawers which has not been moved for more than 7 years...

Dust. And not just layered. But clumped. Balls of it. Great big fistfuls. Chunks big enough to play nerf baseball with. And to cause catastrophic sneezing and associated back spasms.
Tissues. Please don't ask me if they were used, I tried not to look as I retrieved them with my long-handled barbecue tongs.
A shirred tank top. Well, it was once shirred. The elastic has withered away and the top now just... hangs. And it doesn't hang well enough for my liking, I think her boobs outgrew it in 2008.
One sock. This won't help me make a huge dent into finally clearing my odd sock basket, currently holding steady at 17 lonely socks, but it's a start.
The removable straps of a long ago grown-out-of summer top which we could never find the straps to, which I almost went back to the store to complain about never receiving.
Wrappers. All sorts. Previously containing chips, sweets, gum, chocolate and... umm... feminine hygiene products. I am going to attach a flashing neon sign to her rubbish bin as she apparently has trouble finding it.
Two pairs of dust-encrusted shorts, children's size 6. Been there a while. She now wears ladies size 8/10.
An Eiffel Tower keyring. Neither myself nor my Daughter have ever been to France so I assume it was a gift from one of her jetsetting friends. Or a fake.
A half-filled bottle of Impulse body spray. To go with the other six half-filled bottles scattered around the room.
Lego bits. And not just any old Lego. Belville Castle pieces which cost us two arms, a leg and a kidney for her 5th birthday and was permanently residing back in its box by her 8th birthday. She's almost 17. Why do we still have it? Because it was expensive, dammit, I'm going to make her and her friends play with it at her 18th.
A thoroughly destroyed cover and shredded inner leaflet of a CD of The Saddle Club. She received this as a gift from a relative many years ago and was never really into the Saddle Club, so I suspect, strongly, it may be the one item behind the drawers which ended up there deliberately.
Two pencils, a pen, a wad of Bluetack, a pencil sharpener, two paper clips and three rubber bands. Of course. Don't you all keep your stationery hidden behind a chest of drawers so nobody else can pilfer it?
A Harry Potter poster. I'm stunned she hadn't missed it, she only has about 73 other assorted movie, rockstar, witch, wizard, vampire and werewolf posters up on her walls...
A stain. It appears that at some point, long ago, perhaps a can of Coke sitting on top of the drawers was knocked over, causing a small amount of its contents to trickle down the wall and onto the skirting board, leaving an intricate pattern. Oh don't worry, I didn't clean it. It's just getting covered up again. Duh.

Oh. Crap. The sock doesn't match any of the other lonely souls.

18.

Why I don't watch daytime television...

2011-11-21T08:45:00.006+10:30

I don't watch daytime television because...

It might distract me from important housebitch chores.

BWAHAHAHAHAHA Okay, I'll start this again.

I don't watch daytime television because...

It tells me constantly that I am going to die in a tragic accident or of some hideous disease any day now and my family will be screwed because I don't have a funeral plan.

It leads me to having nightmares about my Daughter appearing on the next commercial for Good Riddance Funeral Homes saying "Mum spent all her money on shoes and didn't put any aside for her funeral. I had to pawn my iPod to pay for her casket. Hope the bitch rots in cardboard hell."

All sorts of doctors on several channels seem to confirm the hideous disease aspect of my not-too-distant future. And why do they wear scrubs and white coats when hosting a TV show? Do they think they're going to do emergency surgery on an audience member?

Furthermore, I learned 1 in 3 women aged over 45 will develop osteoporosis. My two BFFs who are older than me don't have it yet, so I guess I'm it. I didn't want to know that I'm going to get shorter than I already am. I need to buy more high-heeled shoes. At least my casket will be smaller.

I am led to believe I am a bad housebitch because I did not start paying for a Christmas Hamper last January.

I have seen every episode of Law & Order: Criminal Intent so I already know whodunnit. And Goren gets kinda fat.

Speaking of which, I already eat too much food, I don't need to be taught how to cook even more to get fatter, and then sit through commercials about weight loss aids which tell me if I drink nothing but TastesLikeShit slimming shakes, I will lose 57 kilos in 8 days. Probably from vomiting and dehydration.

That Elizabeth woman on The View makes drowning in TastesLikeShit shakes a preferable option to listening to her whiney voice.

I keep getting told that the energy companies are ripping us off. All of them. I already know this, but until someone can work out how to turn my Dog's farts into electricity, I have to use one of them.

And they tell me to save energy, I have to turn off the beer fridge. This will never happen. It also contains my wine and vodka.

Judge Judy scares me.

I have no desire to watch replays of the crappy shows I refused to watch the night before.

I am pounded with promises that every insurance company wants to put my needs first. This I know to be bullshit. Do not bullshit me. Please. Just tell us you are out to bleed us dry and dispute any claims. This I will believe.

I don't need to see what 12 years of foot neglect looks like while I'm eating lunch.

Maury Povich and Jerry Springer. Enough said.

I feel pressured that in order to be really cool, live an exciting lifestyle and traverse dry creek beds, we need to upgrade our car. Even though we've only had it 6 months. And there are no dry creek beds in our suburb. And I don't even drive.

According to a bunch of really attractive actors, I shouldn't have married the Husband 24 years ago, but should have waited to find my perfect match online. Because he's out there, waiting to talk to me right now, y'know.

Channel 7 midday movies. I have seen that teenage boy dive off Clausen's Pier and become a quadriplegic approximately six times already. And Lindsay Wagner seems to have gone from the Bionic Woman to the Hallmark Corny Telemovie Woman.

Screaming American audiences. Seriously, do the producers hand out Ecstasy and Red Bull to them as they line up outside the studios? Besides, I can watch Ellen at 10pm when I've had a few wines and am more likely to find the screaming hilarious.

Yumi Stynes. I'm sure she's lovely, but Robbie Williams gave her an almighty pash when she was working on Channel V many years ago and I've never forgiven her for it.

I get overwhelmed by the inventiveness of the names chosen for TV shows in the morning, like... The Morning Show.

Charlie Sheen is no funnier at 9am than he is at 8pm. Which is not at all.

Sesame Street is often the most intelligent show I can find.

It tells me I need to spend hundreds of dollars on makeup so I can get the 'natural' look. And if I'm one of the first 100 callers I can get bonus gifts of another layer of makeup to look even more natural. Apparently their idea of 'natural' differs a whole fucking lot to mine.

According to shampoo commercials, I should risk permanent neck and brain damage by swishing my hair back and forth more often, or I'm some sort of haircare loser.

I'm tired of hearing that there's something special for everyone in every single store this Christmas. There isn't. Some people just want cash. Show me the money.

Infomercials. I curse the day some American TV executive came up with the format. As Stephen King says in his book On Writing... "I don't want to speak too disparagingly of my generation... actually I do, we had a chance to change the world and opted for the Home Shopping Network instead."

The ridiculous smiles on the faces of the morons demonstrating the Ab-Circle Pro Version 2.0. Nobody smiles while they exercise. Nobody normal anyway. Haven't they watched Biggest Loser? People sweat and vomit while they exercise. I want to see that.

Our TV shows get all their Hollywood gossip from gay men in Hollywood who wear more 'natural' makeup and hair products than I do. I bet they swish more too.

Lack of loyalty. Rumour has it, Kerri-Anne Kennerley is being pushed aside. Who will we make fun of for stunts like this?...

Disclosure: I had to watch daytime television for two days to research this post and remind myself why I don't watch daytime television. My IQ and general wellbeing are going to take a month to recover. I hope you're happy.

Eight Weeks

2011-11-09T10:10:00.001+10:30

When I look back over the course of this year, my life seems to have been divided up into cycles lasting approximately eight weeks. (if only my other cycle was eight weeks and I could be an emotional, clumsy, stabby person for half the days I am now, tsk). Eight weeks can be a long time, or it can go fast. It's 16 days less than Kim Kardashian was married. But probably 5 weeks longer than she spent choosing her husband. It's way longer than Ben Elton's last attempt at a TV career. And 7 weeks, 6 days and 19 hours longer than Lindsay Lohan's latest jailtime.

The first eight weeks of the year were all about holidays, saying goodbye to long-standing comfort zones, and preparing for new beginnings. The Husband got a promotion to travel around the country and left his old job after working with the same core group of people for over ten years; the Son said goodbye to his High School friends over the holidays and prepared for a new life as a Call of Duty expert... err, sorry, I mean Uni student; the Daughter turned 16 and apparently grew up (and OUT... quite a few bra sizes bigger now) overnight as she prepared to enter her final, and most important, two years of gossiping... sorry, I mean school; and I prepared to say goodbye to not only sleepless nights caused by the Husband's snores and bed-hogging, but to having somebody around Monday-Friday to answer the phone when his Mother rang, change light globes, take the rubbish bins out and... well... do other stuff.

The second eight week period revolved around adjustment. The Husband adjusting to new faces and new places, business class plane travel, living out of a suitcase, fancy motel rooms, stealing soaps and shampoos, restaurant meals every night and zero responsibility outside work hours. Hmmm. The Son adjusting to an almost non-existent schedule of Uni contact hours, sleeping more than I thought humanly possible, and working out his mates' schedules so they could all be online playing Call of Duty at the same time. Hmmm. The Daughter adjusting to doing even less homework than she did last year, thereby allowing more time for socialising with friends. Hmmm. And me? Okay, so adjusting to the lack of snoring and bed-hogging was the upside. The downside was adjusting to not having anyone to thump at 3am and grunt at to let the cat in/out. Another upside was adjusting to the lower food bill from buying smaller portions of food, and having to cook smaller meals to feed only three, or sometimes even two, of us. But somehow I am still managing to cook enough rice to feed seventeen people. I did adjust to the extra 'ME' time very quickly, including free rein on Twitter, complete control of the TV remote, and days of shopping where I didn't have to hide my purchases as soon as I got home. This 'No Husband' caper was seeming easy. Downside... an average of two light globes blew every friggin week and the rubbish bins are so bloody heavy. And his Mother kept ringing to see how I was coping without a man.

The next eight or so weeks were about us all finding our own place in our new routines and settling comfortably. Well, I think so anyway. I have no idea what anybody else was up to for the next eight to nine weeks, as I decided to commit myself to finally writing that long-awaited manuscript which had been burning a creative spark in the centre of my soul for oh, about three days. Seriously, three days. I had several people tell me within a short space of time "You should write a book." I had occasionally, on a whim, thought this myself, but just as quickly dismissed it. I can't even commit to getting out of bed every day, let alone writing every day. Ideas had floated around in my head, but nothing had stuck. But when the umpteenth person said "You're funny, you really should write a book, I'd buy it " to me on a Sunday, I was convinced to take the plunge. Yes, the promise of one sale was all it took in the end. I was busy on the Monday and Tuesday, so I said "Fuck it. I'm going to write a book. I'll start on Wednesday." Eight or nine weeks, and about 95,000 words later, it was done. And I like it. It's better (in my humble opinion, ahem) than at least four books I have paid good money for this year alone. But am I doing anything with it? That's where my lack of commitment rears it's lazy arse again. Three submissions, three silences, a shrug of the shoulders and I'm ready to move on to something else...

Namely, Bella. I think the next eight weeks are more like eight dog years. One Sunday morning (apparently Sunday is the day I make all the big crazy decisions, so if you ever want to ask me to invest in your health spa and holiday resort built on a former nuclear dumping ground, Sunday's the day to do it) the Husband and I had a conversation that started with us agreeing that whilst we missed having a dog, we also really enjoyed the freedom of not having a dog for the first time in 22 years. No feeding, grooming, vet bills, or pooper-scooping. We agreed we didn't want to get another dog. Somehow, two hours later, the Husband was on the phone to a dog rescue place enquiring about the availability of a cute canine, and the following Sunday (there it is again) we were the new owners of a purebred beagle with 'issues'. At first we couldn't understand why somebody would hand her in to a doggy home, why on earth in only 13 months of life we would be her third owners. She was lovely. One laptop, one jacket, one tube of glue, two toilet brushes, two pairs of bras, three wallets, three boxes of tissues, four scented tealight candles, eleven toilet paper rolls, thirteen pairs of shoes and a bag of potatoes later... I may have a clue.

And then came the Girl's Night In fundraiser for the Cancer Council. I had a thought (probably on a Sunday), just a twinkling of an idea, and it grew and grew until I was lost in a virtual sea of emails which eventually turned into a real sea of donations, all surrounded by a wall of pink. I ran the gamut of emotions; from loving the quick responses, to despairing at no response (party supply places of Adelaide, I'm looking at you), feeling heartwarmed by the generosity, to feeling slighted by the rudeness (a certain Adelaide Hills winery, I'm looking at you), but thankfully, overall, just pleasure and gratitude along with a sense of achievement for a worthy cause. It dominated my thoughts, my inbox and my family room for at least eight weeks. And busting the twenty pink balloons dominated Bella's thoughts for about eight minutes the next day. A good time had by all.

As we are now well into the final eight week period of the year, I look ahead at what's coming. Exams and study times for both the kids (ugh), four birthdays - two of which are 50ths (I love hanging with 50 year olds, I feel so young), a few dinners, a couple of barbecues, an engagement party, two concerts, a dance performance, several basketball games, a trip to New Zealand for the Husband, a trip or five to the shopping mall for me, Christmas preparations, and finally, holidays.

I have no idea what next year will bring... maybe more eight week cycles, or maybe day-to-day living. Maybe I'll dust off the manuscript and spend eight weeks trying to get it out there in print... or maybe I won't. Maybe I'll go on one of the overseas trips with the Husband, or maybe I'll stay home to write a new manuscript. Maybe I'll host another Girl's Night In next October.

Whatever I do, I'm pretty sure I'll decide on a Sunday.

Time For A Girly Winner....

2011-11-07T13:03:00.001+10:30

Today I have continued sorting through my makeup and coming to terms with my Estee Lauder addiction...

... and painted my nails pink...

... and started tidying up my jewellery drawer (old ice cube trays are so handy, aren't they?)...

... in between stepping over the Dog sleeping in her beanbag...

... glancing at my grandmothers' antique brooch & hatpin collection and noticing the dust...

... admiring my new thongs...

... and hanging out some washing...

All typical girly stuff, huh.
So, to continue the theme, I'm going to draw a winner of all the Girly Stuff from my Girl's Night In as I am typing this and waiting for my second coat on the nails to dry.
As a reminder, this is what you'll get...

And the winner is, thanks to random.org... (trying to not smoosh my nailpolish)

Ashlee.

And now I am pissing myself laughing, as Ashlee could not attend my Girl's Night In and was suffering from Flushable Wipe Envy, a rare and debilitating disease many have contracted since that night, so I told her to enter in the hope of winning and therefore receiving the miracle cure. Too funny.

Thanks again to all involved in my Girl's Night In. And now I feel the need to do something really NOT girly...

*burps*

Girl's Night In and a Girly Giveaway

2011-11-01T15:40:00.000+10:30

A perfect, still night after a fine sunny day. I couldn't have asked for better weather for the Girl's Night In fundraiser I hosted for the Cancer Council. As for preparation, spending the night before in a hospital emergency ward hooked up to a heart monitor wasn't really in my plans (that's another whole blogpost), but I guess one person can't get all the luck.

So I was tired, dehydrated and somewhat dishevelled, but the party went on. Or went off. It was a great night; family, old friends and loads of new friends, the only disappointment being the eleven or twelve (not good with numbers) ladies who missed out due to weddings, family functions, illness, double-bookings and last-minute disasters like overdue Uni assignments.

Those eleven or twelve missed the general fun and pinkness of the evening, as well as karaoke performances by, among others, Blink 182, a feminine-sounding Billy Ray Cyrus, the Spice Girls and the B52s. Not the whole B52s, it was just me and all the voices in my head singing all the parts. (I have some video footage of the night, but luckily for us all I am having trouble uploading it. Damn. Ahem.)

They also missed out on door prizes, some fantastic raffle prizes, homemade cookies, delicious cupcakes, crab dip, scented candles, gift bags full of glorious smelling things, electric pink Vodka Cruisers and of course, flushable wipes.

Everyone and everything looked, tasted and smelled wonderful. Wait, that sounds wrong. I didn't taste my guests. But they did smell good.

I will not be telling too many stories, as what happens on Girl's Night In, stays on Girl's Night In. If you really want to know, you will just have to make an effort to come along to the next one(?) to find out. There may have even been some pink trenchcoat flashing, or did I imagine that? I was delirious.

I know there were some valiant attempts from an old friend and I to sing a duet, which ended in hapless giggles and resulted in me taking both the roles of Elton John and Kiki Dee. Talk about multiple personality disorder. The entire evening FED mine.

I'm pretty sure everyone had a great time, got a few laughs (my 'many voices' Love Shack rendition, including body movements where I *may* have shimmied up and down the microphone stand, is still being discussed and chuckled about amongst the family) and did so for a worthy cause.

And did I mention the Kung Fu dancing...

More importantly, with online and cash donations tallied, we raised $1450 which will go straight to fighting Women's Cancers and helping those affected. Well done everybody, you made my heart full (if not a little racy).

Of course I must again thank all those who donated prizes, whether goods or vouchers; everybody who attended was amazed and thrilled by the generosity. And I have a few leftovers, as you do.
And I'm GIVING THEM AWAY TO ONE LUCKY BLOG READER. SO YOU HAVE THE CHANCE OF FEELING LIKE JUST MAYBE YOU ATTENDED MY GIRL'S NIGHT IN, WITHOUT THE HANGOVER. WOO HOO.

I have ...
From Uandi Natural, the most divine body moisturiser I may have ever sampled (valued at $35). These lovely people donated some products for the raffle, and asked that I hold back one product to give away on my blog too. Awesome. I received some samples to try, and their products look, smell and feel wonderful, and I know there was one very happy winner of a cleanser and exfoliator on the Girl's Night (and it wasn't me, no matter how hard I tried to rig it).

Also, from Karmabelles, a $50
gift voucher. They have such lovely silver jewellery, real statement pieces, like this bracelet they sent me to wear at the party... (which only got dunked in the crab dip once)... along with some haircare samples from Organix, and a handcream sample from Crabtree & Evelyn.

And of course, no Girl's Night In-related prize would be complete without....DA DA.... Flushable Wipes!! (as many as I can fit in the box) thanks to Kleenex Mums.

This is open to Australian residents only (sorry) and here's what I want you to do to enter...
1. Obviously you're following my blog (I hope) and you need to give this post a plug on either Facebook or Twitter or both.
2. I would also like you to take the time to give my Girl's Night In major donors a follow on Twitter and a like on Facebook.
Belle Bijoux on Twitter and Facebook.
Uandi Natural on Twitter and Facebook.
Karmabelles on Twitter and Facebook.
Leoni & Vonk on Twitter and Facebook.
Kleenex Mums on Twitter and Facebook.
3. Leave a comment below about your idea of a great Girl's Night In, making sure I have a way of contacting you (either a twitter username or an email address if I don't already have it)

This will be open until MIDDAY NEXT MONDAY, NOVEMBER 7TH. I will do a random draw and notify the winner, hopefully Monday afternoon. Good luck!

I'm A (Not A) Mummy Blogger Dropout

2011-10-27T15:05:00.003+10:30

Yeah, that's me. Dropped out. Resigned. Unjoined. Whatever the correct term is. (To sound tech savvy I suppose I should say deleted and unsubscribed.)

When I first joined what I think was then known as the Aussie Mummy Bloggers group, I did write a post confessing I felt like I had committed some sort of cyber fraud and was about to be arrested by the Mummy Police. Whilst, yes, I am a Mum, as evidenced by two episiotomies, big saggy boobs, an always empty purse and an unhealthy wine dependency, and yes, I am a blogger, as evidenced by what you are reading now, I have never considered myself a 'Mummy Blogger'. And never will. And I may have, once or twice, threatened virtual violence against anyone who called me one. So... a bit hypocritical to stay a member, no? Yes. (and I'm sorry, but rebadging it as Digital Parents didn't make me feel any better, it just brought a lot of silly jokes to mind).

I recently received a survey from the group and whilst I normally ignore those sorts of things because I always have something better to do, like paint my toenails, I decided to do it. I think, somewhere deep down, but not down as far as my toenails, I suspected it was going to be my 'Last Hurrah' as a Digi P. (now that sounds cooler, if not a little like a 90s rap artist or a Japanese Anime character). Especially when I got to the question... and forgive me if the wording is not exact but the gist was...

"What do you find most challenging about blogging?"

My first thought was... "Well, nothing. It's not challenging. It's fun. Like a hobby. You do hobbies because they're fun. Why would it be a challenge. Huh? That's a stupid question. I write what I want, when I want, that's no challenge. But I guess that's not what they want to hear..."

And so I sat there, staring at the screen, racking my brains, trying to think of what was challenging about blogging. But 'nothing' was the only word popping into my head. And then I shook myself... not literally, my big saggy boobs tend to flop about when I do that. Metaphorically. I had been nothing but brutally honest in the survey so far, as I am on my blog, so why was I trying to invent an answer?

Gasp. To fit in with the other Mummy bloggers?? Holy shit, the end was nigh.

So I answered "Nothing. I don't find it challenging. Blogging shouldn't be a challenge, it should be fun." Or similar words to that effect.

And I was happy and I finished the survey with more frankness (No, I don't really like advertising on blogs, No, I don't tend to read sponsored posts, Yes, I've done a Giveaway and will again but it's never been about 'what's in it for me?', No, I don't make money from my blog, I'm just here for the stories baby) and I thought no more about it.

You know before, when I said I suspected the survey was my Last Hurrah? Yeah, the fat lady started singing when the survey results came through titled "This Is Who We Are". And it wasn't me. I just don't think I fit in.

Okay, so I'm in the Women majority (98%) and the Stay At Home category (59%) and I use a conversational style of writing on my blog (89%). They didn't specifically ask about swearing, I was fucking disappointed in that.

But then I noticed the ages. 85% are between 28 and 46. Having just turned 47, I'm not getting closer to the majority, I'm moving further away from it. Shit, I know I tell you all I'm 29 but nobody believes that crap, especially when today, and most days, I look 72.

My kids, at almost 19 and not-far-off-from 17, are positively ancient when it comes to the majority, with 61% having kids aged 2-4. No wonder I can't have dinner conversations with other blogger Mums about the Gruffalump or whatever it is, or Dora the shit explorer who can speak two languages but can't find the shoe which is right behind her, and I'm sorry but I don't have a fucking clue who Igglepiggle is... is he a genetically modified pet on Old MacDonald's farm? And what the fuck is a Ninky Nonk? Is that what Mums are calling a Valium and Vodka cocktail these days so the kids are none the wiser? And what does CBeebies mean? A cute way for a bloke to say "see boobies" in front of the kids when they want to cop a gawk?? What happened to the good old days? We had Bananas in Pyjamas. No mystery. No made up words. They were BANANAS, and they were dressed in PYJAMAS.

Most bloggers post 3-5 times a week. What the fuck? My own kids don't even want to listen to me 3-5 times a week, let alone a bunch of strangers. You people really have important things to share that often? Damn, and I thought I had a pretty interesting life. Oh wait, I do have an interesting life so I wouldn't even have time to blog quality posts 3-5 times a week...

One of the survey responses which made me feel like a real outsider was this...

Seventy-one percent of parent bloggers have the goal to be an expert blogger or to make money from blogging.

Really? You actually have goals? Huh.

And the word 'expert' has never sat well with me. Saying you're an expert at something means you think you know all there is to know about the subject, and you've stopped learning and growing. I will never be an expert blogger and have no desire to be because I still don't know what Html means.

And as for the 'challenging' question I answered so honestly... eventually... limited time is an immense challenge amongst bloggers... balancing blogging with family, work, promoting their blog and interacting with other bloggers are the most significant challenges.

You know what I'm going to say, don't you? Umm... don't do it then? Nobody is forcing you. It's supposed to be FUN, to enhance your life and be enjoyable, not a challenge you set yourself to accomplish in the eleven minute window you have between finishing washing the dishes at 10.30pm and sex with the Husband scheduled at 10.41. And... you know... DON'T TRY TO DO IT 3-5 TIMES A WEEK THEN. I mean the blogging, not the sex. Now that would be a challenge...

There was a lot of talk about 'marketing initiatives' and 'working with brands' and 'influencing readers to buy'. Yawn. Whilst I was pleased to see that 96% of bloggers claim to write personal stories (which is what I LOVE), the fact that product reviews at 52% outnumbered opinion pieces at 51% was disheartening. Are people giving up on expressing their personal opinions about what's going on in the world in favour of reviewing a product in order to get a freebie? Or is it because they are aged 28-46 and have two children aged 2-4, and would like to be given a free Pixar DVD and box of toys to review in the hope of keeping their kids quiet for 90 minutes while they catch up with other blogger mums on Twitter, rather than bother to write a post about the intelligent opinions they once had before sleep deprivation killed them all? Oh yes, I may see their point.

Before anyone gets all up in my face, I'm not bagging the work that has been put into creating online parent blogging communities or the bloggers involved, far from it. They offer a lot to people who need or want that connection and I'd recommend it highly to anyone aged 28-46 who asked about it.

It's just that I never really needed or used it. I'm not in that place.

And I like the place I'm in.

I can have no goals here.

And I can have them more than 3-5 times a week.

Iz Weekend Yet?

2011-10-21T09:44:00.002+10:30

Busy week.

Sat/Sun: Yard clean-up. Shed clean-up. Dog-wrangling. Afternoon with parents for early birthday celebrations. Visit with friends for same.

Mon: Awake at 4.30am to send the Husband off to Perth. Running around collecting donations for Saturday night's fundraiser. SOOO much washing. Cleaning. Dog-wrangling. Sorting raffle prizes. Falling asleep late afternoon amidst a pile of clean clothes and lingerie vouchers.

Tue: Birthday. Prompt Daughter into remembering. Showing delighted reactions at opening gifts of make-up (which I bought), shoes (which I chose and tried on), chocolates (which I told them to get), and jewellery (which I bought for myself the week before and did not tell anybody). Showing delight at delivery of flowers from Husband (which I suggested would be a good idea before he left). Quiet, relaxing day of a bajillion phone calls, emails, text messages, Twitter and Facebook messages. Dog-wrangling. Trying not to fall asleep before I made the kids, err, I mean, the kids offered to take me out for dinner. Which I paid for.

Wed: Post-Birthday hangover. Which, considering I only had one glass of wine, is a complete mystery to me. Though it may have had more to do with being woken at 2.22am by a 3.3 magnitude earthquake which made my whole house shake. More running around, sorting prizes. More washing and cleaning. Checking for earthquake damage. Shocking... all my birthday cards had fallen over. Another bajillion Twitter and Facebook messages from the lovely Americans (the time difference is a mystery to them). Dog-wrangling. Filling gift bags with lovely goodies for all my fundraiser guests. Trying to not fall asleep before realising I have to go out. Meat Loaf concert. (yes, I saw the AFL Grand Final performance but I had already bought my ticket). Deciding no matter how bad the concert is, the $100 ticket is worth it to spend a few hours with my BFF and God-daughter. Deciding I am demented to even think that in the first place. Thirsty Merc were great as support though, they are a tight band, love them. And Meat's band are awesome, great musos. And I guess I was entertained for a few hours. At least until we walked out before it finished..

Thur: Operating on only 5 hours sleep. More washing (where the fuck does it all come from?). Vacuuming. Dog-wrangling. Setting up chairs and tables for fundraiser. Shopping. Eleven minute Nanna nap. Cooking a proper dinner for the first time in a few days. Deciding to write a blog post. Not getting around to writing a blog post as Beauty And The Geek had me enthralled.

Fri: Jumping out of bed when hearing vehicle doors slam because I was expecting a delivery. Blearily realising it is only 6.40am, but I'm now up and so is the dog. Dog-wrangling. Panic when delivery actually does come at 7.30am. Discovering that now I'm 47 years old, there really is a time of day when I can't stand to have music blaring from a karaoke/jukebox at me whilst its operation is being demonstrated. Discovering I still love that Jordin Sparks 'No Air' song, but not at full volume through big speakers at 7.50am. Discovering the man demonstrating the karaoke/jukebox likes singing Dean Martin songs to my neighbours at 7.55am.

It's now 9.15am and I am already knucking fackered....

Bring on the weekend. Oh wait, I have to actually get through the Girl's Night In fundraiser too, don't I...

Once Upon A Time....

2011-10-14T08:47:00.000+10:30

Once upon a time, this old housewife had an idea. (what? this is totally how I look most days... wearing an apron, surrounded by baking ingredients, hair and lipstick perfect... yeah, okay, I get your disbelief...)

"I'm going to register with the Cancer Council and host a Girl's Night In fundraiser in my home. I'll invite a few friends around, we'll have a couple of drinks, throw some money in a bucket and have a great night whilst raising money for a good cause."

But this old housewife doesn't often do things by halves. She's a bit of a 'Go big or don't you bother to go at all young lady' type at times. And so she invited more than a few. Lots more. And then an old friend died of cancer and she was spurred on. She told the women she had invited that they could ask a few more. And she hired a karaoke machine. And she started tweeting and emailing people and businesses, both local and online, asking for help. For anything.... goods, vouchers, samples... anything to get bums on seats and cash flowing out of purses.

And they responded. Brilliantly.

First cabs off the rank were the lovely writer-ladies, Lisa Heidke, Kerri Sackville, Fleur McDonald and Kylie Ladd, whose responses when asked if they could donate books were "Yes!", "Yes!", "Yes!" and "Duh." (guess who said Duh... go on...) Love them all for their instant generosity.

Local business jumped in too. To Lou and Karen from Dymocks Adelaide, you are angels in book tshirts. There was no "that's not my job", "you'll have to ask the boss" or "bugger off Cate, haven't you won enough freebies from our Friday Twitter comps?" No, there was just a response of "let me see what I can do..." And do, you did.

And to whoever answered the tweet at Tynte Flowers (THE best floral arrangements in Adelaide, bar none) thank you. Someone will be very happy with your voucher. (And I promise it will go in the raffle, not become a nice display of roses in the family room. Dammit.)

Coopers Brewery and Charlesworth Nuts have also stepped up, with amazing gift baskets (which the Husband is threatening will NOT leave our home, he wants them so badly) and Haigh's Chocolates have handed over a few discount vouchers.

The divine Simone Perele have provided vouchers to every official Girl's Night In hostess (how cool is that) so we will all have very nicely encased boobs to present to our guests, a few of whom will also score vouchers. I also received shampoo and conditioner samples from Kate at Organix, discount vouchers from Jeanette at Cocoon Spa and Wellness and Rosewater Hand Therapy samples from Crabtree & Evelyn.

The AMAZING Juliet from Karmabelles has provided not only a promotional piece of beautiful jewellery for me to wear proudly on the night and show off to all my friends (and which I'll be showing more of on the blog later in a special post), but loads of discount vouchers too. Awesome. (and boy, do I have my eye on some more of their pieces, I am making a Christmas list. Which I will buy myself because I don't trust the Husband - see handbag story further down)

And then up popped the delightful Melissa from Kleenex Mums, (who works in an office which floats on a cloud of soft white toilet tissue and is surrounded by puppies) bearing more gifts than you could poke a runny nose at (not bearing tissues, but flushable wipes, only I didn't want to use the metaphor of what you might poke at a flushable wipe) as well as boxes filled with lovely travel kits.

Uandi Natural also joined the party by sending some small samples to try for myself, as well as some full sized skincare products to include in the raffle. They look, smell and feel wonderful so there'll be a very happy winner. (will also show more of these on the blog later, including a Giveaway, so stay tuned for that)

Mud, Sweets & Tiers... coolest name for a cake shop ever, huh?... is making very special themed cupcakes for us, and Tanya from Wicked Sweets will arrive not just to party with us, but bearing biscuits for all. (no dieting til after the 22nd ladies)

Amy from Partylite has provided scented candles for both prizes and to burn on the night (she must have smelled my dog... or my son's bedroom... or my feet) as well as tealights for the guests to take home.

One lucky guest will take home an aromatherapy massage voucher from Preen Beauty, and another will enjoy a massage from Soul Health & Fitness.

But wait, there's more.

The lovely Nicky from Leoni & Vonk has donated the most gorgeous necklace to be included in our raffle. I'm so thrilled with it, it is very tempting to make it go 'missing' in my own jewellery drawer before the night. Damn my honesty. Sigh. So pretty isn't it?
(you'll also see more Leoni & Vonk jewellery in a later post as my daughter and I will be wearing some on the night, courtesy of my own credit card)

And just when you think "Well, that must be it...", it's not.

My Princess Seraphim, She Of The White Chocolate, the adorable Sarah Pietrzak, hooked me up with the amazing Belle Bijoux and her beautiful handbags. I have coveted one of these handbags for quite some time now, but oh no, the Husband got me the $18 Jimmy Choo knockoff from Hong Kong which already has a busted zip. Groan. Anyway, one of Belle's gorgeous handbags is winging it's way here as we speak (yes, they are so magical, they fly), and will be raffle prize #1. Or, you know... mine. No, I promise, into the raffle she goes. (*adds to Christmas list*)

There may even be more coming... good heavens...

I simply cannot thank all these people enough. I know I've listed a lot here, but I would love you all to take 5 minutes out of your day, click on some links, check out their sites, and follow them on Twitter and Facebook if you can. Maybe even leave them a message, tell them I sent you from my Girl's Night In post, and thank them for their support.

They rock.

Oh, and if anybody has connections with Mother Nature, can you please see if she'll do something about the weather forecast for the 22nd? Cold and wet?... *sobs nervously*

If you wish to sponsor my Girl's Night In by making a donation direct to the Cancer Council, go to my home page on the official website and click on the pink "sponsor me" link.

It's Getting Closer... Girl's Night In: Prologue Part 1

2011-10-11T18:55:00.000+10:30

So, if you've been living under a rock, or have been avoiding me (both equally acceptable excuses and perfectly reasonable, I'd avoid me too), you wouldn't know about my Girl's Night In fundraiser for the Cancer Council on Saturday 22nd October. (see previous post for what it's all about) As the night draws near, I'm hoping for wonderful weather (long term forecast for the day before is for 31 degrees so let's hope it holds), a night of fun and laughter, and more importantly, loads of cash raised for a good cause.

I'm expecting there'll be the good old traditional party games, such as Keep The Karaoke Microphone Away From Cate, Pass The Wine Bottle, Blind Woman's Bluff, High-Heeled Hopscotch, Cupcake Bobbing, Queenie Queenie Who's Got the Champagne?, Red Rover Fall Over, What's The Time Mr Taxi Driver?, and Pin The Flushable Wipe On The Drunkard.

Or, you know, we'll have pillow fights whilst dressed only in our lingerie. (that one's for the blokes)

Over the next few days I'm going to start thanking all the people and businesses who have donated goods and vouchers for raffle prizes and giveaways on the night, so bear with me as I'd like to give them a good plug and promote them. I won't think of them as sponsored posts, because I'm certainly not getting paid for any of it, but they have helped out a good cause and deserve some plaudits.

Help me out by showing them some support.
Thanks guys.

If you wish to sponsor my Girl's Night In by making a donation, go to my home page on the official website and click on the pink "sponsor me" link. I have a very low target set at the moment and would love to be able to lift it.

Girl's Night In - The Prelude

2011-09-30T11:50:00.000+09:30

I've been meaning to do it. Planned to do it. Wanted to do it. Said I should do it.
But I've never done it.
Til now.
Nope, not getting a Brazilian OR a tattoo, I'm hosting an official Girl's Night In fundraiser for the Cancer Council on Saturday 22nd October. The idea is to get a bunch of girlfriends together at home and everyone who attends donates what they would have spent on a night out; the cost of dinner, or drinks, or a movie, or coffee and cake, or all of the above if they're feeling really generous. All money raised goes straight to the Cancer Council to raise awareness of Women's cancers, help in research, and offer practical assistance to cancer patients.

Why this, why now?

I've never been luxuriously rolling in cash, so I've never been able to contribute financially in a big way. Just a little bit here, a little bit there. Bought the ribbon. Bought the sunscreen.
I have no medical training, so the chances of me finding a cure for cancer tomorrow are less than diddly squat.
I'm a bit squeamish and a massive sook, I cry at the drop of a tissue, so I've never been able to volunteer in a practical sense. Patients would find themselves wanting to comfort me as I bawl my eyes out at their stories of hope and courage.

So what did I have to give? Well, I have time. A Husband who's away a lot and rapidly growing teenagers afford me some freedom. I have a big backyard. I have some girlfriends who like to party. I have a laptop. And I have some contacts.

So I started emailing. And tweeting. And typing letters (some businesses still don't seem to have websites? really?). And calling. And emailing some more.

And the response was wonderful. (Mostly... but I'll get to that in another post)

I have about 35-40 guests coming, and loads of donated goodies to use for raffles and giveaways. Seriously, I am considering running away with everything. Books, chocolates, jewellery and flushable wipes will get me a long way. Not to mention the free travel bag to pack it all in.

But no. I'll stick around. Just between you and me, I'm kinda looking forward to the night. I know I'll be a bit stressed and frazzled and tired from cleaning my house and organising everything, but once that karaoke microphone gets in my hand and I punch out some Fleetwood Mac... all will be well. (yes, I have Stevie Nicks delusions, although I look and sound more like Lindsay Buckingham)

I only have to read the literature the Cancer Council sent me to remind myself to stay put and not make off with a case full of Kleenex products. Almost 17,000 Australian women will be diagnosed with breast or gynaecological cancer by the end of this year, and will every year. On average, that's 46 women who will be told they have a women's cancer every day. Sadly, well over 4,000 women lose their battle each year. It may be a cliche, but every dollar makes a difference.

$10 helps produce a cancer information book. Imagine being told you have cancer and the room starts spinning and you pretend you're listening to every word the medics are saying but all you can think is "I have cancer". Patients need clear and accurate information they can absorb, at home, in their own time, and this book gives them that.

$50 can help fund one hour of research into a rare type of breast cancer. Imagine you or a friend or family member are diagnosed with a rare type. Every hour of research may help find a better way of diagnosing, or treating, or maybe even curing.

And so on. It all counts.

So while we're having a fun night, dressed in pink, laughing, singing, drinking, eating and possibly finding 101 uses for flushable wipes, we know we'll be helping someone, somewhere... possibly even ourselves one day.

If you wish to sponsor my Girl's Night In by making a donation, go to my home page on the official website and click on the pink "sponsor me" link. I have a very low target set at the moment and would love to be able to raise it.

Over the next couple of posts, I will be thanking and promoting all the individuals and businesses who have donated goodies for my night, so I would love you to keep returning to the blog to check out my list of generous people and give them your support.

Don't You Just Love It.....

2011-09-23T08:28:00.001+09:30

....when it's close to midnight and you're curled up in bed, fast asleep, and George Clooney has just started doing dirty things to you, and you are woken up by a megaphone-type yell from the Son, roaring the words which every mother wants to hear....

"MUM, THERE'S BLOOD EVERYWHERE."

Eyes fly open. Heart starts racing. Fumble for lamp. Fumble for slippers. (yes, I know, apparently I'm a 72 year old, but the floorboards are cold at night) Barely register that Dog is no longer on the bed where she was when I fell asleep. Emerge from bedroom to blinding lights in every room and Son standing, motionless, survey the scene, and realise... holy shit...

THERE'S BLOOD EVERYWHERE.

Big drops. Little drops. Smudges. Long trailing lines. Everywhere. Lounge room, study area, kitchen, family room, back porch, laundry...

THERE'S BLOOD EVERYWHERE.

After a minute of staring and gathering thoughts, I realise the Son is talking to me. I hadn't noticed, partly because I was still back in my room with George Clooney explaining how I was happy for him to shag me every day, but due to all his previous women having a shelf life of two years, I wanted a more binding contract. And partly because, holy fuck...

THERE'S BLOOD EVERYWHERE.

I focus on the Son and realise he's telling me a bit of a Cat vs Dog story, how the Cat had come inside, the Dog must have heard him and come out of my room, they had a little tete-a-tete in the family room (where the Son was still up, playing PS3. Like you had any doubts) which didn't go so well and ended in a bit of biffo and a chase through the house and out the doggie door.

"But I don't know where the blood is coming from, I didn't see either of them actually connect with each other... maybe the Cat was already bleeding, maybe he was hit by a car or hurt or something when he came in..."

"Well, he's done a runner now and it's midnight, there's nothing I can do about it. Help me clean this up, for fuck's sake...

THERE'S BLOOD EVERYWHERE."

But no. As I grab paper towels and floor wipes and drop to my knees (still thinking of George Clooney), Son decides he needs to find the Cat and check on him. Several minutes later, while I am still wiping and cleaning, Son returns to announce that the Cat is indeed fine. Not him. Our eyes turn to the Dog who is wide-eyed and still charging around the house, snuffling away, following the Cat's scent. We finally get her to stand still for one second and there it is, a claw-sized slash on her nose. Bloody hell, one little cut made all that mess.

I sighed, then grinned in my delirium and yelled "WE GOT A BLEEDER". Son looked at me blankly. I don't think he's seen 'There's Something About Mary' yet.

Eventually I got to go back to George Clooney, though I was a tad disappointed to find he had turned into a hirsute Ashton Kutcher. I shouldn't have watched Two And A Half Men this week.

A peaceful night ensued, although after that interruption I think a letterbox bomb going off at 4am would have seemed peaceful, and Daughter, who had slept through the whole incident, was the first to arise. She went to the kitchen to deposit a tissue in the rubbish bin, was confronted with a certain pile of used paper towels and floor wipes, and...

"MUM, THERE'S BLOOD EVERYWHERE."

Meet Cate. The Other One.

2011-09-15T14:10:00.000+09:30

I think I'm having a fairly ordinary week. A few nice things and generous people have made me smile, some people have made me laugh and get over myself, but on the whole I feel a tad drained.

It started Monday. At 4.30am to be precise. Husband had to get up to jet off to Queensland for two whole weeks. He's been in this job since February and we're kinda used to him not being around much now - so much that when he gets home we stare at him, wondering who the hell he is for the first 5 minutes, and then my memory kicks in and I immediately ask him to take out the rubbish and change a light globe - but this two week stint away is coming fairly soon after his two weeks in Hong Kong & Singapore, and a week in Sydney. Not much time at home at all. I mean, when he's here, he farts and stinks the joint up, disrupts my Twitter time, annoys the kids, leaves the newspaper and coffee mugs all over the place, and checks up on the credit card bill... but at least he's here, y'know?

Anyway, I couldn't really get back to sleep and have woken up at 4.30am every morning since. Weird and exhausting. If I fall asleep part way through this post, you'll know why. I have also had a sore shoulder and back and was popping anti-inflammatories. Then I had no hot water. The dishwasher blew up, blowing a fuse, and I had to wash the whole weekends worth of dishes by hand, with sore shoulder. Eventually I worked out what was happening and got the hot water back on, but alas, dishwasher has carked it. First world problems, I know.

And it was my Dad's birthday. He's 89. That might be good news, ordinarily, but he spent his birthday have needles injected into his eyeballs in an effort to save his eyesight from macular degeneration, and will continue to have regular treatment with no guaranteed outcome. If it doesn't work he'll go blind. We just have to hope.

When I thought things were bad enough, I checked my emails and discovered an old friend from school, netball and tennis had died of cancer Sunday night. And I cried for her. Younger than me, leaving a husband and kids. Tragic. Bloody fucking cancer. And so I threw myself into sending emails and trying to get donations of goods and vouchers for my Girl's Night In Cancer Council fundraiser (more on that in a later post) with renewed vigour. Three solid days of researching, phoning, emailing, inviting, begging, and perhaps some whoring. I may have promised my virginity to somebody. (boy, will they be disappointed) And it's tiring. My brain, fingers and eyes hurt and it sure isn't healing my shoulder. But I'm doing it. I have to. I want to.

I also haven't been feeling particularly healthy. A bit of a gastric issue (of which I'll spare you the details, though I do know how some of you love a good poo story) coupled with the insomnia has left me feeling very flat and lethargic. I'm tired and I'm sooooo over it.

And last night when I was feeling very sorry for myself I thought of Cate. The other one. And I gave myself a fucking huge kick up the arse.

I'm talking about Cate Bolt.

I cannot possibly articulate her entire story here, but I will give you some links to look at in just a moment, so please, please, take 10 minutes out of your day to look at them.

But just to get you to sit up and take notice....

Cate has nine children. Not a typo. NINE.

Cate was homeless.

Cate started an orphanage in Indonesia.

Cate had a heart attack and has suffered some strokes, one as recently as this week.

Cate has brain damage from the strokes, affecting her motor and linguistic skills, but certainly not her thoughts.

Cate's first worry is not of her own health, but of the kids at the orphanage.

Cate does not want you to feel sorry for her, but do what you can to help her causes.

Cate never moans publicly about her own problems. Nor privately, I suspect. Unlike me.

Cate continually tells me "I can't believe you're 46." She hasn't seen me in real life yet. I actually look 72.

Cate did not ask me to do this post.

Cate is fucking amazing.

Please read this article by Peter Run to get a more in-depth look at Cate's awesomeness.

Then go to this site to vote for Cate's dream. And vote from every email address you have access to.

Check out Foundation 18 and see if there's any way you can help.

I really hope you don't mind me nicking your photo for this, Cate.

When is it time.......?

2011-09-06T08:15:00.001+09:30

When is it time to stop wearing black nailpolish?

I thought I was getting too old to be emo, so I asked this question publicly and got many varied answers. From "when you notice you have unattractive/old/damaged hands and you realise the nailpolish is drawing attention to them" to "when your nails fall off" to "Never!"(including an uplifting speech on the empowerment of women as we get older) to the more specific "106". I mulled these over, painted my nails black and started plotting my world domination progress right up until my 106th birthday.

When is it time to buy some new renovating/decorating magazines?

When you get all excited about an upcoming Spring Fair in a Country Living magazine, then realise it was in the UK. In 2009.

When is it time to stop wearing leggings as pants?

TWENTY YEARS AGO. It didn't look good in the 90s and it DOESN'T LOOK GOOD NOW. You think you look awesome, BUT YOU DON'T. People are sniggering behind your back because LEGGINGS ARE NOT PANTS. Under dresses, okay. Under shirts/tops/tshirts, NO. PUT ON A SKIRT OR SOME REAL PANTS. (In case you hadn't worked it out, I am a card-carrying member of the Leggings Are Not Pants Society, and NOT because my arse is too fat, but because I made my mistakes in the 90s and have learned from them. Really, my first Mother's Day, I am in all photos wearing black floral leggings and a black top. You have no idea the dismay I feel when I look back at them and realise I can NEVER display such a significant photo. Hideous. And I'm sorry, just because leggings are plain black now, it doesn't make them any more stylish. LEGGINGS ARE STILL NOT PANTS.)

When is it time to give up on the small dream to be an author?

When your small dream alters with the season and becomes even smaller. When you make submissions and DON'T hold your breath til you get a reply. When you realise how much self-promotion is involved and decide it's not for you. When you read other books, pick them to pieces, and realise you couldn't handle someone doing that to yours. When you realise you don't want to be yet another person on social media who is brown-nosing, trying to make contacts, trying to get an agent, trying to get published. When you just want to write but can't be arsed with all the other crap. Screw that.

When is it time to make your lazy Uni bum son get a job?

Soon. Very soon.

When is it time to stop spending money on handbags and shoes and start saving for the future?

Who the fuck put this stupid question in here?

When is it time to take responsibility for your own actions, accept you are an alcoholic and a failure of your own making, and stop blaming your mother for everything?

Since you are now 60, I would say at least 30 years ago, dear brother. (Oh, you thought this question was for me?)

When is it time to cash in the Husband's frequent flyer points for that one-way ticket to Honolulu?

Soon. Very soon. Especially if the son doesn't get a job.

When is it time to grow up and stop deriving evil, self-esteem-boosting pleasure from finding a hideously unattractive public Facebook photo of someone you don't like/resent/are in rivalry with/has done you wrong/etc etc?

What's that? Did you say "Never"? Phew, that's a relief.

When is it time to do something with the wedding dress which has been hanging in the wardrobe for almost 24 years?

Tough one. I will never fit into it again (I will never fit one thigh into it again, let's face it) and it was a 1987 masterpiece of lace and satin (or something equally flammable), so it will never be fashionable again. What to do? Hope the daughter can cut it up and use it for an art project? Probably the only option. How sad.

When is it time to stop filling the wine glass?

My first thought is "another stupid question" but apparently the answer is when someone pushes aside this...

... to replace it with this...

.. and you can't stop giggling at this...

.. because you're wondering how they made a chocolate out of sparkly vampires.
And then you take these photos.

When is it time to stop regretting the almighty cock-ups of the past and just look forward to the future cock-ups?

Well, that's a cheery question, innit? Right now, I guess. Fill up my glass, will you?

When is it time to stop picking up after the Husband and kids?

The sensible answer is when the dog stops stealing and destroying things which have been left at her level. The wishful thinking answer is when I am on the plane to Honolulu. However, I believe the correct answer is never. Sigh.

When is it time to take a break from blogging?

When you have lost your mojo and have nothing to say. When you start posting drivel about how you have lost your mojo and have nothing to say. When you lose sight of why you blog. When the perks become more important than the words. When you just don't care that much anymore. When your spam comments outnumber your real ones. When you start questioning when you should take a break from blogging... oh.

When is it time to realise your parents are not immortal and neither are you?

When you look around the table and find yourself wondering if this will be the last Father's Day lunch with these people. When you later look at the photos and see age. Including your own. And multiple chins. Especially your own. And black nailpolish highlighting old hands. Sigh. When you realise your father is about to turn 89 and marvel at it. When you realise you are about to turn 47 and wonder how the fuck you got here and where did all the years go. Oh that's right, 24 of them were spent crying over your skinny wedding dress, picking up after other people and plotting escapes to Honolulu.....

When is it time to stop writing this blog post?

Spring Comes

2011-09-01T08:00:00.010+09:30

Sitting quietly, doing nothing, spring comes, and the grass grows by itself. ~ Zen proverb

I love spring anywhere, but if I could choose I would always greet it in a garden. ~Ruth Stout

or as Robin Williams said...

Spring is nature's way of saying, "Let's party!"

I felt compelled, probably along with hundreds of other bloggers, to do a 'First day of Spring' post. No idea why. Hormones, probably. And maybe a touch of sunstroke. We've had some fairly amazing weather in Adelaide this Winter (did we actually have a Winter?) so Spring has well and truly sprung. I have spent more time just sitting outside, soaking up the sunshine in the last month than I may have done in the whole of last Summer, although I think that's because our brains tell us "hey lazybones, it's Winter but the sun's out, go get some solar-powered vitamins into you". Whereas in Summer, my brain tells me "hey, shit-for-brains, its 40 degrees and you have the palest skin on earth which sizzles and peels, do NOT go out there".

Anyway, when I finished my book and got bored with the dog's antics (another roll of toilet paper demolished, we may not have had a Winter but it certainly snowed several times in my yard), I decided to take some snaps. So as the roses the Husband sent me a couple of weeks ago start to droop and wilt....

...actually this one looks okay...

... but this one looks dreadful...

... I turned my attention to the garden, still lush from limited Winter rain...

... and found the Camellia, although at the end of its flowering period, still hanging on magnificently...

..and the last of the Jonquils, still bobbing around, smothering me with their perfume...

... and the Kalanchoes, still vivid as ever....

... while the Azalea had gone from buds to bursting with flowers within days (and yes, I know, I need to clean my outdoor blind, just look at the flowers, tsk)...

...and my angel seems quite pleased with the Pelargoniums appearing over her shoulder...

...and the Geraniums, not to be outdone, are making a beautiful statement...

... while the Daisies and white Geraniums are making happy faces too...

... and everywhere I turn, bulbs are opening up, a perpetual surprise to me...

... and even the first Dutch Iris has appeared...

... along with the first Roses of the season...

... but the best part of Spring?....

... Mr September. 30 days of Dan the fireman.

Yeah. You're welcome.

Where's My Hole?

2011-08-29T15:06:00.001+09:30

Hello Humans.

I'm back and I'm not happy. I used to have a cat-door. Not that I ever lowered my standards enough to use it properly; I always made the humans in my service push or prop it open for me. Why should I butt my precious head against hard plastic? I'm far too sophisticated for that. But the fact is, it was mine, it was installed for me and me alone.

Then came The Retarded One.

The Dog.

Did the imbecile fit through the cat-door? Not really, not properly. But with much bashing, crashing and wiggling, she did. Eventually that solid concrete skull (cannot possibly be a brain in there), rugby shoulders, dog food-filled gut, puppy-bearing hips and lard arse of hers crashed through once too often, and broke the entire damn thing. The result? Cat-door simply became hole-in-the-wall.

I must say I was not entirely displeased with this turn of events, as it meant whilst the entire household was sleeping, I could come and go as I saw fit and I no longer required the services of human intervention. I could creep stealthily around the house at night, walking (and leaving pawprints) on furniture, licking any plates which were left out, listening to the snores of both human and canine, then serenade them all with a loud MEOWWWWWW at 2.37am. This brought great delight to the household as it caused a Benny Hill-style dog and cat chase through the house and out the hole, which my mistress jumped out of bed to watch with glee. At least, I think that was glee. I'm not sure, human emotions do confuse me.

Unfortunately, this freedom of movement and expression has not lasted. I know, I'm surprised too. My mistress seemed to whinge constantly at the older male human until he finally did something about the hole-in-the-wall. (this seems to be a regular occurrence, I believe you humans call it marriage?) To my horror, the male made the hole even bigger and fitted a sturdy... *gasp*... DOG-door. Oh, the shame of it all. My own entrance being replaced by a Retard Ramp.

I shall have my revenge. I shall sit outside my mistress's bedroom window and serenade her with a MEOWWWWWW at 2.37am.

Just like I did last night.

What On Earth Are They Looking For? (episode 2)

2011-08-24T10:10:00.001+09:30

I don't look at Blogger stats for the numerical stats. I'm not really into numbers, unless they're X-lotto winners. Or number of days til a bill is due. Or numbers on a price tag attached to a Marc Jacobs handbag. I didn't even know the stats were available for a tragically long time, until someone slightly more narcissistic than me pointed them out. The only reason I ever go to the stats page is so I can share with everybody here and on Twitter, what incredibly mind-blowing word searches 'people' (I use that term loosely) are doing to find their way to my blog. Some have been piss-your-pants funny, some have been nonsensical, some have just been gobsmackingly outrageous.

Earlier this month I noticed 132 searches for 'Spanish Inquistion' had come to my blog in one week. ONE. First assumption was that 132 History students somewhere were all studying the same subject at the exact same time. Second assumption was that 132 comedic wannabes were all studying Monty Python sketches at the exact same time. Boy, would they have all been profoundly disappointed with an inane blogging meme.

One thing I don't understand is, why hasn't anybody searching wine found me yet? I would seriously consider a wine sponsor but I'll never get one at this rate, despite mentioning it in almost every post. Where are the 'who loves wine more than her children?' searches? Noooooo, I get the boobs and the penises and the mother/son incest searches (seriously, wtf? I blame that on a spam comment)

Anyway, here's some of the latest pearlers.

before night falls book inside condom : What? Really, what? There's a book inside a condom somewhere? Is it part of a treasure hunt or something?

lesbians dare each other to do things : So do children. And drunk men. And bored housewives. So what?

having a lot of sex fast : I'm guessing this search was done by an extremely horny couple who have four children under the age of five. No wait, that entire sentence is an oxymoron.

boy looking at boobs : I have boobs, and I have a boy.... but I swear he ain't looking at mine. He'd have to crouch down too low.

small boys seeing girls boobs : Do I really mention boys that much?

green feather bdsm : I am assuming my Rihanna S&M post attracted this, but I had no idea deviants were so pedantic. Green, huh?

girl in dress cellulite : This search would have found me due to a photo I posted here last year, of a girl with very bad cellulite in a very short dress. But why would anyone search for that? Cottage cheese fetish?

dash boobs rainbow : Just... what??

images of big boob paradise love doll : I am assuming this refers to a blow-up toy. You will not find her here. I may have decent boobs and the usual number of orifices, but I am au naturel, no man-made parts. Though a release valve for bloating days would be handy.

penis size by age : Aww, come on guys, you're still obsessing about size? YES, SIZE MATTERS. Happy now?

And the creme de la creme (if you'll pardon the pun)...

big bobs cock sandwich : If anyone knows Big Bob..... nah, forget it. I'll stick to wine.

Open Letter To Tina Fey

2011-08-16T17:03:00.001+09:30

This may be a photo of you Tina, or it may be me. The resemblance is astounding, I know.

Dear Ms Fey,

Firstly, I'm going to call you Tina. I think you and I have become close enough over the last few weeks to drop the formalities and go straight to inappropriate familiarity, hey Teens?

When I say we've become close, what I mean is, I read your book, Bossypants, so I really know you. And we have so much in common it's scary. Like your Dad's name; it's Don. So is mine! Well, actually it's Eric, but it's pretty close to Don, don't you think? And I was a 'change-of-life' baby for my Mum too. Like you, I also had an 'Aha' (not Ahh Bra) moment Oprah would be proud of when I realised I had old parents. My Dad took me to the betting shop (as he called it, another sign he was old which I had previously missed) and one of the toothless, smoke-hazed women there said to him "Oh, how lovely, you've brought your grand-daughter in to learn about gambling."

I'm pretty sure I also learned all about my body not from my Mother, but from publications such as "Growing Up and Liking It", "What's Happening To My Body?", "How Shall I Tell My Daughter?" and of course Dolly magazine, but mostly from my much older and wiser neighbour, Maria, who sagely informed me that a period was "like doing a really runny poo, only it's not poo, it's blood." I mistakenly thought I would go to the toilet, get it done in under three minutes, and it would all be over until the next month. What the fuck? It lasts for days?? (by the way Tina, I should add I am relieved that my Mother was not the only one who bought maxi-pads the size of a loaf of bread, did you walk across the schoolyard like you had just ridden a horse in the Paris-Dakkar rally too?)

Like you, since turning 40 I also feel the need to take my pants off as soon as I get home from a hard day of, err, shopping. I also go to the bathroom a lot, just to get some 'me' time; not so much from the kids any more, these days it's to escape the dog. I too was once very skinny and had a super short haircut. At the same time. I virtually disappeared. I had to grow my hair back so people could find me. Unfortunately my body grew in sync.

And then there's your Greek ancestry. My neighbours are Greek! The similarities between us just keep popping up! But seriously, I once had an American follower on Twitter who regularly asked me if I was actually Tina Fey, tweeting hilarious comments under a pseudonym. Sure! Tina Fey, one of the funniest women on the planet, gifted writer and performer on Saturday Night Live and 30 Rock, when choosing an alter-ego, elects to be a short, dumpy, sarcastic housebitch from Adelaide, Australia, with a penchant for wine, chocolate and swear words. Wouldn't everybody choose that? Fuck yeah!

It's like looking in a mirror, I'm telling you, you can see it, yes? You know it.

Another thing we have in common is that I don't drive either! I know! We're like twins! And I'm also great at improvisation. Not like you on a stage. More like when a recipe calls for tomato paste and I have none, so I add barbecue sauce instead. Or when I forget someone's birthday and have to make up a quick story about how the dog ate the card I was going to send (was difficult when we had no dog for a year, I'm telling you). Or when a not-very-young woman is discussing how much of her bikini line should be waxed before a holiday and the momentary horror of picturing her rather rotund figure in a skimpy bathing suit passes across my face and I have to pretend I've just eaten a sour grape. Improv. I do it daily.

So, because of all these parallels between us, I am hereby applying for the position of your Best Friend Forever. I have no idea if the position is vacant, but if it's only Amy Poehler standing in my way, I'm sure I can take her. I mean, wouldn't you rather have an older, uglier, less funny version of yourself standing next to you on a red carpet premiere (for example), therefore making you look awesome, instead of some tiny, cute, witty blonde?? Come on! Weird brunettes unite! And if the need ever arises to escape some overzealous paparazzi stalking us outside Saks (where you've taken me to buy me some gifts), I could be your stunt double. See? I have multiple uses!

See, why would you want this....

...when it could be like this...

You'd be mad to ignore me on this, and I recommend you should at least fly me over for an interview. Whilst you ponder my application, I feel it's only fair that I mention I will be extending a similar offer to Dawn French.

Your future BFF under consideration,

Cate.

Dear Bloggosphere....

2011-08-10T08:25:00.001+09:30

Dear Bloggosphere,

This is my 100th post.
Some of you may have read fifty of them.
Some of you may have read one.
Maybe this is your first.
If it is, please be safe in the knowledge they're not all like this.
Some are better.
Some are worse.
My blog is simple by choice.
Or laziness.
Or ignorance.
I don't know how to do loads of things on Blogger.
Does it affect my quality of life, as in my real life?
No.
So I don't care.
I don't take advantage of my blog.
That may be my loss.
Or not.
I have never done a sponsored post.
Nobody seems to give away wine.
I have received one book for free to review.
I have written one post for a competition in which I won money.
It was already spent.
I don't make money from advertising.
Not sure I'd know how.
But I still don't care.
I will never blog every day.
I don't have 365 significant things to say to the world per year.
My kids would agree.
I try to remember how I found your blogs.
I wonder how you found mine.
This week, someone found my blog by searching 'blue waffle penis'.
Last week, it was 'woman holds penis'.
Nineteen searches for 'big bouncy boobs' have found me.
But only one searching 'fuzzy pink cock monster'.
I have 367 followers and about 40 subscribers.
I follow one bajillion and eleventy thousand blogs.
I am lucky if, in a week, I read three of those.
I am thrilled if three people read mine.
Unless any of those three are real life family or friends.
And then I panic.
You may know a lot about me.
You may know very little.
You may think you know a lot, but actually know diddly squat.
I may think you know me, then realise you don't.
Did you know I don't drive?
There you go.
Now you know something.
Want more?
I am a Mother, but heaven help you if you think I'm a Mummyblogger.
I have a Husband.
He travels a lot for work.
I am regularly a single parent from Monday to Friday.
This is why the free wine would be appreciated.
I have two teenagers, Son and Daughter.
They don't travel anywhere beyond the fridge and sofa.
This is also why the free wine would be appreciated.
I have That Fucking Cat and That Fucking Dog.
Again with the wine.
And I have an extended cast of thousands.
That may be an exaggeration.
Hundreds, perhaps.
Okay, dozens.
I may occasionally exaggerate numbers.
I'm a pretty loyal friend.
It's hard to get rid of me.
If you apologise, I will forgive.
I will apologise.
Just because I like you.
I appear strong on the outside.
But not all the way through.
Humour and indifference hide oversensitivity.
At least they try to.
I hurt.
I cry.
A lot.
I am severely short-sighted.
Possibly in more ways than one.
I used to perm my hair.
Now it is so curly, I straighten it.
I have never had a manicure, pedicure or facial.
It probably shows.
But I don't care.
I'm 46 and I'm okay with that.
I don't like water much.
On water is sometimes bearable.
In water is perhaps occasionally tolerable.
Under water is completely impossible.
I am claustrophobic.
Not real good with heights either.
Or flying.
I have panic attacks.
I sound like a mess.
Maybe I am.
And yet I have the balls to invite Lance Armstrong to dinner.
And tell people what I think.
I speak my mind.
I give opinions.
I'm not rude or obnoxious about it though, I don't think.
At least I try not to be.
Stubborn, for sure.
Sarcastic, maybe.
Definitely.
Pragmatic and honest.
Certainly when I write.
Except when exaggerating numbers.
I quite like my blog.
But it's just a blog.
It doesn't make me a writer.
I wrote a 94,000 word manuscript, but that doesn't make me a writer either.
No matter how much I want to be.
Apparently it requires talent.
I don't think I'm cut out to be a writer.
I'm just an occasional blogger.
Who has done one hundred posts.
And still doesn't know what she's doing.
Like, I have no idea what Html means.
Forgive me.
But please don't tell me.
I still don't care.

Love, Cate.

Weekend at Catie's

2011-08-08T11:40:00.001+09:30

It was a lovely week, despite dog derailment, loss of laptop and continued footwear destruction. (See previous post)
Mostly beautiful weather, almost unheard of in August, even got the tshirt and thongs out. (which the dog then destroyed)
As the week rolled on, the weekend loomed as hectic but fun. (so many things to do, so many places to be, so many shoes to replace)
Thursday and Friday were spent in a flurry of shopping and phone calls and messages organising our coming days. (including overseas travel for the Husband where he will undoubtedly need to buy more shoes)
As Son walked out the door for Uni on Friday he announced he would not be home for dinner as he had a birthday celebration to attend and he would therefore see us some time noted as 'whenever'. (and was given a brief lecture on the complexities of sharing not just a bathroom with your family, but the politeness of also sharing information and meal arrangements more than five minutes in advance. And was told to put his shoes away)
Daughter came home from school, and despite being given two weeks to find out more details and make transport arrangements for her Saturday night social outing to a birthday party (as Husband, myself and Son also had separate social plans) announced that she had failed to do so yet, but was 'working on it'. (and was yelled at for not getting it done sooner and had this situation compared to her schoolwork, where she has two weeks to do an assignment and with one day to go is just starting to 'work on it'. And was told to put her school shoes away)
Daughter and I cool off for a while, then reconvene later to continue the argument and lament her time management skills, during which I suddenly ask "Where is the dog?" Daughter looks out the window and replies "On the back lawn chewing something." "Can you go out and see what it is?" "Why can't you?" At which point I move to look out of the window and in my I'm-going-to-fucking-scream-in-a-minute voice I say "Well, she's chewing your school shoes." (and Daughter is then told in my most adult, mature voice she will have to attend school on Monday looking like a hobo with chewed shoes because it's her own damn fault, ner ner ne ner ner)
I did feel bad for yelling at her, and since I was going out later, wanted to enjoy myself and not feel miserable, I decided to apologise to Daughter. I went into her room and was greeted with "AND WHADDYA WANT NOW?" to which I replied "Well, I WAS coming in to apologise for yelling but instead I think I'll just point and laugh at your Hobo shoes. Ner ner ne ner ner." (I think she may have hurled a Hobo shoe at my retreating figure, not certain)
I attended a lovely dinner with The Ladies; Kirsty, Bianca and Lucy (which Lucy wrote about here, far more eloquently than I. I would have included swear words and told everybody that Kirsty travelled all the way from Qatar just to meet me) leaving behind a grumpy Daughter and a confused Husband to sort their own dinner plans and shoe inventory. (and I didn't even look at your shoes, Ladies, sorry)
Saturday dawned, as did the realisation I had no gift for my Mother, whose birthday celebration we were attending that afternoon. I decided she needed a new jumper and matching scarf and so we headed to Rivers. (partly because it is two minutes from our house and partly because they also have shoes)
Whilst selecting from the vast array of knitwear available (there were four jumpers left) I spotted out the corner of my eye a pair of shoes (okay, I admit the shoes were about twenty metres away from the jumpers) which would have been ideal for Daughter's outfit that evening and promptly dispatched Husband to go home and get Daughter whilst I guarded the shoes. (see? It's not all about ME. The fact that I hoped her feet had grown to be the same size as mine, therefore enabling me to borrow them is neither here nor there)
Daughter likes shoes, we buy them (not in my size unfortunately) and one of the four jumpers, then stopped off to buy cards, wrap, sushi, etc. As you do. (but no shoes for me. In my hormonal state, this was not good, but I knew there would be cake and chocolate at Mum's)
Gift-wrapping, card-writing, makeup-applying, hair-combing and we're off. Well, Husband and I were off to Mum's (an excruciating afternoon tea consisting of relatives, toddler tantrums and cupcakes), Daughter was off to bedroom to sort shoes, outfit and homework (probably in that order) and Son was off to basketball. (no shoes were left out for the dog; we were learning)
Somehow, about two hours later, we found ourselves dealing with a son in shock, and blood, loads of it. A deliberate tripping and subsequent faceplant on the basketball court led to a gashed chin, a split and swollen lip, a broken tooth, a bucketload of blood and an urgent phone call to our Dentist friend, who we were due to have dinner with three hours later. (being a Dentist, I can't tell you his name or show you his face, but I could show you the back of his head. Or maybe his shoes)
So whilst Husband and Son ran around like headless (and toothless) chooks, finding out what happens when a Dentist tries to access his own surgery out-of-hours on a Saturday and discovering just how loud and annoying alarms are when you're the ones breaking in, I was holding the fort at home, rearranging all the evening's plans for us, Daughter and Son which were now in jeopardy, fielding and making phone calls, and helping Daughter do makeup, straighten hair and coaching her on how to walk. (at this point I should say she CAN walk, but only in flats. She is the ultimate tomboy and this was her first attempt at leaving the house in makeup and heels. Sometimes I have doubts that she is mine... at least until she speaks)
Whilst Daughter learned about vertigo, centre of gravity, and the reason we have toes, the boys learned about i-bond, flowable resin, distals, exposed pulp, mandibles, enamel, exposed dentines, and the word 'interproximally'. Basically, the broken tooth got glued back as a temporary measure. (wonder if I can use that stuff to glue some of my shoes back together)
Managed to get Daughter to her destination on time, just; managed to get Son home safely, if not a little sore and distressed and talking with a lisp, and managed to get to our dinner, albeit a little late. But that was okay, since the others were late too, because some inconsiderate sod broke a tooth and asked him for help on a Saturday, how rude. Yeah, yeah, very funny. (I wore my high heeled boots and almost slipped on some wet steps on leaving the restaurant, that would have been a riotous way to end the day)
Came home to find Husband had not closed bedroom door properly and I have one more ruined shoe. (and spend some time pondering why the dog only seems to chew one of a pair, then moves onto one of a different pair. Why not chew both of the same pair? I have no idea either)
Sunday greets us warily and we decide to do as little as possible, thereby lessening our chances of things going wrong, and increasing our surveillance of the dog's klepto activities. Husband starts packing gear for week in Sydney, then caves into Daughter's moaning about her Hobo school shoes, takes her to buy new ones, leaving bedroom door open again, resulting in me losing the inner sole of yet another shoe. (we buy a shoe, we lose a shoe, we buy a shoe, we lose a shoe...)
We spent the afternoon watching football and keeping constant tabs on the dog and our bedroom doors. (and keeping our shoes on our feet)
And here we are, we made it to Monday, with less blood, teeth and shoes, but all relatively safe and sound.
Except for Daughter's brand new high heels.
Dog destroyed them last night.

The Dog Days Are Not Over

2011-08-04T10:00:00.002+09:30

The dog has been here for 18 days. Today is day 19. Yes, I'm counting.

I think I have tweeted about her antics on every one of those 18 days and That Fucking Cat blogged about her. I have even updated my Facebook status a couple of times because of her. Shocking, I know. I'm not really that into Facebook but the dog has forced me to vent on every form of social media I have ever joined. I feel better when I do. It doesn't repair my slippers or my son's Playstation remote controller, but it does help my blood pressure.

My messages have ranged from those typed whilst wearing rose-coloured glasses...

"I have a new baby. Meet Bella, the 13 month old beagle. And she's an INSIDE dog FFS, she has totally suckered me. Bonus is she will be able to sniff out any illegal substances the kids bring home.
Gotta love beagles. So gorgeous."

...to those with the glasses slightly slipping...

"Dear Bella the Beagle, Since you are new here and extremely cute I am giving you the benefit of the doubt... however, my slippers have never walked from bedroom to family room by themselves before. Do you have some explaining to do? Love, your new Mummy."

"Have discovered my bathroom time and dog's destructo time coincide. I may never wash myself again."

"Dog food breath, oh how I've missed it."

"Just caught dog digging in muddy hole outside. Had to clean her paws with my Nivea face wipes before she could come in again. #unprepared"

"Am sneaking around doing stuff while dog is sleeping. Its like having a baby in the house. #dontwakethebeast"

...to those with glasses removed...

"Bella Beagle has growled at every visitor to our home, and has barked more in 11 days than Clodagh (RIP) did in 11 years. I think she's letting everyone know "I've arrived, this is MY home and these are MY people, so back the f**k off, bitches." Or something like that."

"I get up to find 2 pairs of my bras have been dragged out onto the back lawn by Guess Who. Happy Thursday. #damndog"

"Introduction #4 between That Fucking Cat and Bella Beagle went swimmingly. As in, I'm swimming in my own blood."

"Dog has been humping our arms. Daughter just said "I'm a bit pissed off I'm the only one Bella hasn't used as a sex toy yet." #thatsmygirl"

"Dog managed to tear a 200 sheet roll of toilet paper into 900 sheets.... and then the wind picked up... FML"

"OMG dog, stop trying to bring into the house the giant stuffed Simba which is covered in dirt because you half buried it."

"Intro #5 between Fucking Cat & Bella Beagle was better. Hissing, growling but no blood. My wounds from yesterday are healing nicely, thank you."

"Just caught dog with my bras on the back lawn. Again. Lingerie fetish."

... and onto messages typed with rose-coloured glasses hurled to the ground and stomped on...

"My 45yo childhood teddy missing for 10 days. Dog here for 14 days. Husband just found teddy buried in yard, with one ear sticking out."

and culminating with yesterday's gem...

"Dog just destroyed laptop. Any future posts from that device will no longer contain the letters F, B, N, C, R or D.
eg: *u*ki*g *it*h *og"

Sigh.

Smile

2011-07-29T22:00:00.001+09:30

Considering my latest That Fucking Cat vs Bella the Beagle battles, this made me smile....

Everything You Wanted To Know About Australia (and apparently were stupid enough to ask)

2011-07-28T12:00:00.006+09:30

This may or may not be me and my pets on my own private beach......

......which is here. Or not.

I received a gem of an email earlier this week, just when I needed the laugh, so I thought I'd share it with you.

These questions were 'allegedly' (I don't believe everything in emails, except that if I don't forward Irish good luck messages to 342 people within 11 seconds, little Timmy will die of scurvy, I will get 158 years of bad luck and an angel won't get its wings. Or something like that.) posted on an Australian Tourism website by some fairly interesting (=ignorant) characters around the world.
Even less plausible is that the email claims the responses given were by the actual website operator. Doubtful. But a tiny part of me (the snarky part, okay so it's not tiny) would love to believe somebody had the balls for it. Whatever, bloody funny ayway.
Enjoy.

Q: Does it ever get windy in Australia ? I have never seen it rain on TV, how do the plants grow? (UK ).

A: We import all plants fully grown and then just sit around watching them die.

Q: Will I be able to see kangaroos in the street? ( USA )

A: Depends how much you've been drinking.

Q:I want to walk from Perth to Sydney - can I follow the railroad tracks? ( Sweden )

A: Sure, it's only three thousand miles, take lots of water.

Q: Are there any ATMs (cash machines) in Australia ? Can you send me a list of them in Brisbane , Cairns , Townsville and Hervey Bay ? ( UK )

A: What did your last slave die of?

Q:Can you give me some information about hippo racing in Australia ? ( USA )

A: A-Fri-ca is the big triangle shaped continent south of Europe .
Aus-tra-lia is that big island in the middle of the Pacific which does not
... Oh forget it. Sure, the hippo racing is every Tuesday night in Kings Cross. Come naked.

Q:Which direction is North in Australia ? (USA )

A: Face south and then turn 180 degrees. Contact us when you get here and we'll send the rest of the directions.

Q: Can I bring cutlery into Australia ? ( UK )

A:Why? Just use your fingers like we do...

Q:Can you send me the Vienna Boys' Choir schedule? ( USA )

A: Aus-tri-a is that quaint little country bordering Ger-man-y, which is... Oh forget it. Sure, the Vienna Boys Choir plays every Tuesday night in Kings Cross, straight after the hippo races. Come naked.

Q: Can I wear high heels in Australia ? ( UK )

A: You are a British politician, right?

Q: Will I be able to speak English most places I go? ( USA )

A: Yes, but you'll have to learn it first

Q:Are there supermarkets in Sydney and is milk available all year round? ( Germany )

A: No, we are a peaceful civilization of vegan hunter/gatherers. Milk is illegal.

Q:I have developed a new product that is the fountain of youth. Can you tell me where I can sell it in Australia ? ( USA )

A: Anywhere significant numbers of Americans gather.

Q:Please send a list of all doctors in Australia who can dispense rattlesnake serum. ( USA )

A: Rattlesnakes live in A-me-ri-ca which is where YOU come from.
All Australian snakes are perfectly harmless, can be safely handled and make good pets. (BWAHAHAHA)

Q:I have a question about a famous animal in Australia , but I forget its name. It's a kind of bear and lives in trees. ( USA )

A: It's called a Drop Bear. They are so called because they drop out of Gum trees and eat the brains of anyone walking underneath them.
You can scare them off by spraying yourself with human urine before you go out walking.

Reminder: Don't forget your pump bottle of piss today, everybody....

Addiction, Mental Illness and Other Stories I Won't Tell.

2011-07-26T09:55:00.001+09:30

Addiction is an illness. A terrible illness affecting the brain. Addiction and mental illnesses destroy lives. I know this only too well. Up close. Friends, colleagues and family.
I have known gambling addictions to result in loss of homes, families and even freedom. Jail.
I have known the purchase of new shoes or a winter coat for a child being delayed far too long because there were no winnings at the races that month.
I have known a prosperous family with a successful business... gone. Concluding with living off a pension in a tiny unit.
I have known a grandmother miss most of an important family event because poker machines were on the direct route to where she was heading.
I have known a shopping addiction to lead to tens of thousands of dollars of debt, secret store and bank accounts, secret post office boxes and a marriage hanging by a thread.
I have been privy to relatives and friends dealing with depression, bipolar disorder, self-harming, threats of suicide and actual attempts at suicide, hospital stays, breakdowns, panic attacks, medication... and the number is countless. Too high. And I fear for one who is as yet undiagnosed. In denial.
I have known of alcohol abuse. Sometimes combined with other addictions, sometimes as a stand alone problem.
I have known of someone driving directly at a brick wall whilst drunk.
I have known of one relative to ask another to go through a third person's private things, looking for empty bottles.
I have known of one relative stealing from another.
I have known of violence.
I have known of death.
I have known a teenager, off his face and feeling immortal, being a jackass and ending up legless. Literally. He has no legs.
I have known a man who has lived in a wheelchair in assorted nursing home facilities with constant care since his early 20s due to a drug overdose.

These stories are prevalent in my circle of life so far. Worst luck.

I have not shared these addiction and mental illness stories here before, nor ever will again, because they are not all my stories to tell. And the story that is mine, is not your business.

So if I ever make a comment or air an opinion related to addiction/mental illness, particularly regarding my strong stance on people who actually choose to swallow, inhale or inject illegal substances knowing full well the wrongness, stupidity and danger of it, then please know it is coming from 46 years of educated knowledge.

Unfortunately.

My Humans Are Fools... by That Cat

2011-07-22T11:21:00.001+09:30

I'm not sure how it happened.
They didn't want to do it.
They were determined not to do it.
They had happy lives.
Settled lives.
They'd done it before, twice, and it ended in tears.
They had no plans to do it now.
They even discussed never doing it again.
But they did it.

They got another dog.

Morons.

Wasn't I enough for them? I got rid of the last smelly mutt and thought that was it. The days of "Good dog", "Fetch", "Want to go for a walk?" and "I just trod in dog shit" were supposed to be over. It was meant to be "Good boy, Jasper", "We love you, Jasper", "Eat as much as you want, Jasper" and "Certainly, you can claw my quilt cover to shreds, Jasper" from now on.

Look at me, I can lick my back paw while my front paw uses the cordless mouse and my eyes never leave the screen, can the dog do that, huh, huh?

Let's compare, shall we? Dogs are disgusting. They defecate everywhere with no thought of cleaning up after themselves. They roll in dirt and don't bother to wash. They drool on everything and don't carry any tissues. And, ugh, they sniff humans' crotches. If they were at all intelligent and knew where some of those crotches had been they would never put their snouts anywhere near them.

And me? I take care of my own toileting and cover it up in a gentlemanly fashion. Except for that time the idiot human housesitter accidentally locked me inside (before my mistress eventually formed a brain and put in a cat door) and I had no choice but to eject several litres of runny, smelly, faecal matter all over my brand new cat bed. I didn't like that bed anyway. Red isn't my colour.

And so what if I don't always clean my paws after I've spent five minutes scratching in the dirt to cover up my excrement? I leave the dirt on there to prove to the humans I have done my hygienic duty and now deserve food.

And so what if I bring an assortment of live, half-dead, and totally dead, beheaded and dismembered mice, rats and birds into the house? That's not disgusting, it's proof of my mad hunting skills to show the humans I am protecting their home from an invasion of unwanted creatures and now deserve food.

And so what if I don't know how to use the cat door properly? Just because I want the humans to hold or prop it open, doesn't mean I'm lazy, it just means I have no desire to continually butt my own head against a hard piece of plastic, unlike the new imbecile dog they brought home, who worked out how to use it within the first hour. It doesn't mean the dog is smarter, just more masochistic. And I deserve food.

Here is the new lamebrain. You can tell by just looking she's a total defect, can't you, huh, huh?

And while I'm on the new dog... one word. Retard. It has eaten my mistress' slippers, stolen her socks, urinated on her sofa, urinated on her, and humped her arm on a daily basis since it's arrival. My calculation is that if this keeps up, the savant will be on it's way to the sausage factory by the end of the month.

And yet, the humans seem unperturbed by all of this. Like they expect it. Indulge it, even. Only last night I overheard a conversation that ended in laughter. Laughter, I'm telling you.

Man : "Bella, get off....argh.... she's humping me again."
Mistress: "Oh well, it's your turn, she's humped me every night."
Girl: "I feel a bit pissed off that I'm the only one she hasn't used as a sex toy yet."
Boy: "Yeah, I laid on the lawn today and she thoroughly violated me."

Laughter.

I don't like it.

So for now I'm hiding out under the bed in the boy's room, biding my time, waiting for the halfwit canine to really stuff things up and book a one-way ticket to the vet for a quick green dream.

Hmm, think I need to relieve my bowels now.... wonder where the dog's bed is...?

Damn You Rihanna

2011-07-15T10:36:00.001+09:30

Oh Rihanna, you have a lot to answer for. You and your weird wigs, chains and whips and sex in the air. It's your fault I had to tell my daughter what 'S & M' stands for.

Now, my daughter is 16 and not a particular Rihanna fan, she's more of a Muse, Foo Fighters and Green Day kinda girl who even likes my Simple Minds, The Cure, Radiohead and Birds of Tokyo CDs (thank you baby cheesus for giving me a rock chick and not a dance diva), she is not innocent as pure snow (we don't get snow in Adelaide), she watches True Blood and has therefore seen simulated sex acts, fellatio and horny fangbangers (but as of last week is still a virgin which she announced in front of our friends *cringe*) so when the Rihanna video came on TV I was a little taken aback when she turned to me and said,

'What does S & M actually stand for anyway?'

I thought of lying. 'Sunshine and Moonbeams' came to mind.

'Smiles and Memories.'

'Sausages and Mash.'

I'm not sure how I would have connected sausages and mash with having sex in the air but it would explain Rihanna loving the smell of it.

Anyway, I didn't lie. Whenever she's asked me a straight-out question, I've never lied. Except that time she asked why the Tooth Fairy hadn't visited and I went into a detailed bullshit story about lots of kids losing their teeth on the same night and demand being high and the Fairy's schedule being backed up, when in fact the Fairy had a few wines and went to bed with no thought of tooth collecting.

So I told her.

And then a strange thing happened. I found I couldn't speak in complete sentences. I kind of spat the words at her, sort of like a really twisted word association game.

Sadism.

Masochism.

Sadomasochism.

BDSM.

Pain.

Whips.

Chains.

Bondage.

Leather.

Torture.

Fetish.

Role-playing.

Dominating.

And so on.

It was weird, as my 18 year old son was also in the room, smirking in the corner, shooting aliens and pretending he wasn't interested but absorbing every stilted, staccato word I spat out.

And you know what was weirder?

I realised my daughter had said 'Ahh, okay, I get it...' and wandered off after the first five or so words, no longer wanting to listen to her mother speaking of such things.

But I kept talking.

And now I have part of the song stuck in my head.

"I like it, like it, come on, come on..."

Which is ridiculous, let's face it, we're lucky to find the energy for a quick bounce these days, let alone worrying about getting tied up, having hot wax dripped on each other and attaching pegs to nipples. Knowing my luck I'd set fire to the bedroom, and not in a good way, and have to confront firemen looking like I'd had the washing hung from me.

Damn you Rihanna.

They'll Miss Me.... Eventually

2011-07-09T14:24:00.000+09:30

*Warning: Narcissistic, sarcastic, whiny and self-indulgent post. But let's face it, it's all about ME and you wouldn't expect anything less.*

The skeletal remains of an elderly Sydney woman were found in her home last week. She had died on her bed sometime in the last 8 years; that's the last time anyone can remember having contact with her. Her husband was long gone, she had no children, no family, no friends. Awful.

As I lay dying in my bed from Manflu last week, I got to thinking... would anyone miss me? Would anyone really notice if I quietly slipped away, lying here in my mound of quilts, used tissues, headache tablets, Country Home magazines, and vomit buckets, amidst wet patches of drool, snot and excrement? (okay, there was no excrement but I thought it sounded more dramatic)

I have two kids, so you'd think they'd notice. But they are teenagers, not noted for highly keen observation skills. They will stare into the fridge for a few seconds before announcing we have run out of yoghurt, despite six tubs staring them in the face. Or will wander around their room for a few minutes, tossing clothes and shoes aside, before announcing they have lost their wallet/purse/bus ticket/calculator/ipod/keys/wand(don't ask), despite me walking in there and being able to place my hand on the missing item within 17 seconds (my record is 2.5 seconds - would have been less but I tripped over a shoe on the way in). If I started to give off decomposition gases, I don't think they'd notice - you should smell their rooms. I guess eventually they would get sick of eating 2 minute noodles and come in to see if I would get up to cook something more substantial, like toasted sandwiches, and start weeping over my lifeless body. Or arguing over who gets my laptop.

I have a husband, but he was away. He knew I was sick and rang twice a day to check on me, and I would hope that if the son had answered every call and the Husband had not spoken to me at all, he would start to get suspicious by the third day. Maybe even worry a bit, and prompt the son to come in and poke me with a stick. After all, he'd need somebody to wash his shirts when he gets back from his trip, wouldn't he?

I have a best friend, but I only saw her and a few of our other friends the previous Saturday night, just as I was on the cusp of falling ill. I had a headache and razorblades in my throat at that stage, just the beginnings of a cold really, so they wouldn't have been expecting me to die any time soon. It would be another week or so before they missed me. Although, you'd think me leaving a birthday party (free food and booze) at 10.19 on a Saturday night, boobs covered up, still sober and walking upright, might be a sign that I was not quite myself.

I have parents, but I saw them the day after the birthday party when I huddled in the corner of their living room, sitting in the warmth of the sun streaming in the window, with a box of tissues on my lap, slipping in and out of the conversation (and probably consciousness). All I wanted to do was sleep, but I think I grunted and nodded in all the right places without offending them greatly, made a few sarcastic comments and rolled my eyes at appropriately timed moments. A normal visit, really.

I have siblings. Pffft.

I have That Fucking Cat. He would sit on my feet meowing, then start clawing me, trying to get me up to feed him. He would miss me for about one nanosecond, until someone else fed him and he would switch allegiance to their feet.

I have loads of other friends I see less often than my besties, so they would take a while to notice my absence. Although we do email reasonably regularly, so the lack of rude jokes, Maxine quotes and icanhascheezburger animal photos in their inboxes would be the first sign something was amiss. I did manage to flick off one email from my deathbed to organise a dinner in a few weeks time. That's if I'm still alive then.

I am such an erratic blogger and commenter that the blogging community would not miss me for ages. It's not unusual for me to not post anything for a few weeks, then do 3 in 8 days. And I'm so slack at commenting on others' blogs, it's more of a shock if you do see me, than if you don't.

I have Twitter 'friends', but I don't have a 'clique' I speak to every day who noticed my absence. That's okay, I was part of a real life clique once (maybe twice, okay, three times if you count high school, but let's concentrate on the last time about 12 years ago), and when someone gutsily informed me of this ("You lot are so cliquey") I skedaddled so fast out of that situation I caused a dust storm. I had no idea I was being an elitist snob, but once I stepped outside of the 'group' and made an effort to be friendly with everybody I could see how confining (and defining) it was, and how much other friendship I was missing out on. In fact, the dinner I have organised in a few weeks (again, assuming I'm still alive) would not be happening if I hadn't stepped outside that clique, as it is with a couple I immediately met on the exterior of that group and with whom I have maintained a solid friendship.
Anyway, I digress (blame the drugs)... I have missed people on Twitter before; I've been known to post caring tweets such as "Where the hell is @soandso?", "What in shit's name has happened to @whatshisface?" and "Are you fucking ignoring me @arsehat?" when tweeps have gone missing in action. Anyway, the lack of daily Cateisms on Twitter was eventually noticed, and to those of my 2,870 followers who sent messages looking for me, I hope you got my replies and I thank you. All five of you.

I have Facebook friends. But I'm so rarely on there nobody would notice my profile gathering cobwebs. In fact, some idiot would probably *like* it and put me in a group of "People Who Don't Update Often and May Therefore Be Dead".

I have neighbours. But I saw her a couple of weeks ago, it's Winter, so it wouldn't be unusual to go a few more weeks between sightings. They don't do their Sunday night Greek barbecues in Winter, so there's no need for me to hang over the fence hoping for leftovers to put in our toasted sandwiches.

I have extended, in-law family. But they would wait on news from the Husband before wondering if I was dead. And then use his time of grief and mourning and sorting out laptop arguments between the kids to come and steal Gran Green's chiffonier (which we just inherited after a 25 year wait... I don't mean we've waited that long for her to die, she was already dead, it has sat in the MIL's house and we've been told for 25 years that we'll 'be getting it one day'. I think she was waiting to see if our marriage would last)

Lance Armstrong might miss my stalking, err, I mean, scintillating conversation starters. The local courier would miss delivering all the stuff I order online. The lovely ladies at Dymocks would wonder why I hadn't entered their Friday Giveaway and the local bakery would probably go out of business. Okay, and the local boozery. Hey, it's near the bakery.

As a social experiment, my dying and not leaving the house or having much contact with the outside world has been interesting.

As a health and wellbeing experiment, it sucked hairy dogballs.

Oh, and the Husband is back from his trip... with Manflu.

The Ladies' Oracle

2011-06-23T13:35:00.000+09:30

I said ORACLE. No orifices to see here.

I recently bought this, uhh, oracle, for the princely sum of 50 cents. I know, ripped off, I hear you say. But how could I resist a book which is 'founded on an entire new plan which never fails to reply to any question asked'.

And it's devised by Cornelius Agrippa, 'being an infallible prophet of the male sex'. I know, it gets more irresistible every minute, huh?

First published in 1857, it promises to answer questions such as...

Shall I soon be courted?

Ought I to believe the tender vows that are breathed to me?

What disposition will my husband be?

Is the repentance sincere?

Will my reputation be always good?

Have I any rivals?

...and of course the ageless classics...

Does my husband always tell me the truth?

The secret that I hide, will it be discovered?

Shall I die maid, wife or widow?

Basically, it was the first Magic 8 ball.

After choosing one of the 100 questions on offer, you close your eyes and place your finger..... NO, I SAID ORACLE, NOT ORIFICE.... upon a table printed in the book, the symbol your finger lands on corresponds to an answer to your question, yada yada yada, and there you have it, problem solved.

According to Cornelius, 'Nothing is more easy or simple, and we have seen eminent and wise men struck with astonishment at the correctness of the Oracle, and never has a work of this kind been presented to the public in such a state of perfection, and we flatter ourselves that upon a trial it will be universally admitted'.

Man, was old Cornelius an opium fiend, or what?

I decided to test it out and ran my eyes over the questions, skipping the ones about courtship (those days are long gone for me), virginity (ditto), good reputation (ditto), tender vows (way past that, 'are you awake?' is as good as it gets now), forgiveness (you've got to be fucking kidding), children (vasectomy took care of that), answering letters (what are letters?), long voyages (I hate flying), and what opinion the world has of me (I really don't give a fat rat's clacker).

The first question I chose was 'Will my husband make me happy?'
Close eyes, waggle finger, poke page, open eyes, have landed on symbol of one triangle. Check chart... Q23, one triangle, go to page 38.
Answer: 'Yes, every other day'
What the fuck? Only 50% of the time? That's not what I signed up for almost 24 years ago. So, he's only made me happy for 12 of those years? Pretty shit odds, I reckon.

In that case, let's try this one then. 'How many husbands shall I have?'
Eyes, finger, 3 squares, page 65.
Answer: 'Several in jest, and one who will cause you to weep'
I have no idea what this means. Several in jest? I'll marry them for a joke? Or I'll marry several clowns? I understand the one who will make me weep, coz if he's only making me happy 50% of the time, I'm crying the other 50%. Jeez.

Here's a good one. 'Has my husband loved any other woman as much as he loves me?'
Eyes, finger, 4 triangles, page 86.
Answer: 'As much, yes... more, no.'
My husband is in SOOOOOOO much trouble when he gets home. Stupid Oracle.

Bit scared of this one. 'Does my husband believe me to be really virtuous?'
Eyes, finger, 1 triangle, page 85.
Answer: 'He must be a simpleton to think so'
Right. Moving on...

Safer territory here. 'Will my life be peaceful or agitated?'
Eyes, finger, 1 square, page 25.
Answer: 'If you agitate the ocean you must expect a storm'
No wonder I get seasick. Of course I agitate it when I'm only happy 50% of the time, you idiot Cornelius.

This will be interesting. 'Have I any enemies?'
Eyes, finger, 3 striped squares, page 98.
Answer: 'None to be really feared'
As if. *looks over shoulder*

Oh dear. 'When shall I cease to love?'
Eyes, finger, 2 squares, page 43.
Answer: 'Very soon'
Not surprising, since I'm only 50% happy and he loved someone else as much as me. Cornelius is a wanker.

Oooh, good one. 'The wish that I have at this moment, will it be gratified?'
Eyes, finger, 1 triangle, page 8.
Answer: 'That is impossible'
Yeah, coz Cornelius is already dead.

Another risky one. 'Shall I be loved long?'
Eyes, finger, 3 striped squares, page 84.
Answer: 'It would be impossible to love you long'
Fuck you and your fucking oracle, Cornelius, you stupid arrogant twat.

Right, fuck this, final one. 'Will my husband have much intelligence?'
Eyes, finger, 1 circle, page 10.
Answer: 'Happily much less than you'
Cornelius is a fucking genius, he's really onto something here. Love it.
What?

What I Expect People To Say At My Wake

2011-06-13T18:26:00.001+09:30

I recently wrote a post (which I cannot link to because Blogger swallowed it whole, plus comments, when it had conniptions) about somebody dying and people saying loads of really nice things about her, when my only experiences with the deceased led me to believe she was a grumpy old bitch.

This has led me to wondering what people will say about me if I should lose the plot and decide to blowdry my hair whilst under the shower tomorrow. I would hope people would be honest. I don't expect schmaltzy stuff, I expect the truth.

I needed to make myself smile today, so I came up with what I think I would (like to) overhear if I eavesdropped on various conversations at my own wake.

She was funny.
So bloody funny.
She made me wet myself once.
I loved how loud she was.
God, so loud.
Really loud.
Annoyingly loud.
Bloody foghorn.
She made me fart in public once.
She was a great listener.
She never listened, she never shut up long enough.
She certainly said what she thought.
She gave good advice.
She gave crap advice.
Her advice was to drink wine.
She listened to my advice.
She never took advice.
She always did what she was told.
She always did whatever the hell she wanted.
Jeez, she was funny.
She was so passionate.
She was so laid-back.
She was lazy.
So lazy.
Remember how loud she was?
Big mouth.
I remember the time I saw her 10 times in 3 weeks.
I remember the time I didn't see her for 3 years.
She was a great friend.
She was a lazy friend.
Slack.
And loud.
But funny.
Remember how sweet and kind and gentle she was?
No.
Me neither.
I once thought she was anorexic.
I once thought she would explode.
She was such a div.
What's a div?
An idiot.
Oh yeah, she was a div.
She was funny.
She was a clown.
She could be mean.
She could be generous.
She was a sucker.
She was so rude.
Total bitch.
Remember that time when she got drunk and fell over/dropped something/broke something/swore loudly/sang loudly?
Hah, which time?
Remember that time she was really quiet?
No.
Me neither.
I thought she was a snob in high school coz she was one of the 'populars'. I was wrong.
I thought she was a snob when her kids were at school coz she was one of the 'cool mums'. I was wrong.
No, actually, you were right.
She always knew the right thing to say.
She always said the wrong thing.
At least she always said what she thought.
I'm going to miss her.
I'm not, I haven't seen her for ages.
Me either, I'm just here for the food and beer.
She threw good parties.
Hell, yes.
Okay, I'll miss her parties.
She made me laugh.
She made me cry.
She made me go 'what the fuck?'
Where's the toilet?
Go behind a bush.
She'll kill me, she loves her garden.
She's dead, she won't care now.
Oh, yeah.
She had a way with words.
She was amusing.
She was interesting.
I never knew what penis marbles were until I met her.
I never had to wear Tena Lady until I met her.
I felt old when I was with her.
I felt young when I was with her.
She was funny.
Very funny.
Sort of funny.
Sarcastic bitch.
Remember how lovingly she talked about her life?
No.
Me neither.
She was good at netball/tennis/Scrabble/writing/everything.
She was competitive.
She was a sore loser.
Is there more wine?
Of course.
Coz she's not here to drink it all.
She liked a drink.
She was a pisshead.
She was smart.
She hid it well.
She never rang me.
Be grateful, she rang me once and I couldn't shut her up.
She liked to talk.
Non-stop.
She was bubbly.
I thought she didn't drink bubbly?
She was loud.
I loved it.
Gave me a headache.
Do you remember when she did that thing, with the thing?
Huh?
Maybe you weren't there.
God, she was funny.
Don't mention God, she wouldn't like it.
She wouldn't care.
Wanna bet?
She would laugh.
Probably.
Definitely.
She was so intense.
She was so casual.
So sarcastic.
What a funny lady.
What a crazy lady.
Totally.
Nutjob.
She was a great godmother.
She was a great friend.
She was a great wife.
She was the best mother.
Do you remember that time she climbed Everest?
Who the hell are you?
Oh, am I at the wrong funeral?

Not Sure What To Call This....

2011-06-10T13:16:00.000+09:30

I want to write about something today but it's hard. It's still raw. It's still happening. Maybe when it's all over I can be objective and write about it properly if only to help others going through the same stuff and wondering what the hell they should do next. For now I'll just list key words. I'm sure you'll get the drift.

Daughter.
16.
Year 11.
High school.
Pressure.
Assignments.
Projects.
Procrastination.
Laziness.
Deadlines.
Due dates.
Stress.
More assignments.
Exams.
Phone calls.
Emails.
Teachers.
Extensions.
More pressure.
Tantrums.
Yelling.
Hugging.
Tears.
Silence.
Vomiting.
Counsellor.
Waiting.
Watching.
Hoping.

A Letter To Myself (Yes, I've gone nuts)

2011-05-25T13:55:00.000+09:30

Dear 23 year old Cate,

Well. You're married now. You've done it. Chosen your life partner. I'll save you the 'you're too young' lectures. You're still with him, after all, so you must not have made too bad a choice.
And no, I still have no idea who that woman in jeans and bright jumper was outside the church, running around taking photos of you all. You should have put your specs on so you could see her better. The Husband still has no clue who she was either, in fact it's a wonder he remembers the day at all. He's old now. I'm not going to tell you what you should have done differently about your wedding, you already know. But try not to start too many sentences with "Next time I get married..." over the coming years. Although it keeps him on his toes, The Husband does get a bit tired of it.
You're in for a bit of a shock. You're going from living at home, having all the cooking and washing done for you, to now having a house, a husband and a kitten, all looking at you for clean floors, clean clothes and sustenance. Don't worry, just ignore the floors, shove some clothes in the washing machine once a week and hope for the best, and remember, a can of tuna will feed both man and beast.
By the way, wear nothing but mini-skirts for the next seven years. You are currently quite thin and have fucking awesome legs. This will not always be the case. In fact, you could use a few extra kilos right now, you were far too thin on your wedding day, so much so that several of your friends were thinking the time had come for an anorexia intervention. Not to worry though. Obviously, you'll beat your 'too skinny' issues in the future. Emphatically.
It won't be long before babies are on your mind. Constantly. When your best friend has a daughter and asks you to be godparents, your ovaries will almost explode with unbridled enthusiasm. You'll read books, you'll learn about ovulation and how soon before or after you should have sex, and you'll spend so much time on your back with your legs in the air (during and after) that you think about having someone paint some Sistine Chapel-like murals on your bedroom ceiling to give you something to look at.
You will be disappointed. Downhearted. You will cry. But you will persist. After 16 months, you will cry again, but this time with joy. You'll cheer and celebrate, you'll tell everybody you love, and you'll throw away Michelangelo's business card. You will glow. For a while. At 12 weeks you'll cry again. Uncontrollably. You'll be rushed into the horror of Queen Vic hospital and you will curse and swear that both choice number 1 (Calvary) and choice number 2 (Burnside) were fully booked on the day your doctor could find no tiny heartbeat. The day you discovered the horrible medical term 'missed abortion'. The day you saw your medical record state Pregnancies:1 Children:0, and knew that would not change any time soon. The day your world stopped.
It will start again though. But be prepared. Because now everyone knows. You'll have to put up with insensitive "Are you pregnant yet?" questions. Over and over. You will want to punch people. Every day. Every day for yet another 16 months. Oh, and all the people who keep saying "well at least you know you can get pregnant", they mean well but.... yeah, you'll want to punch them too.
But guess what? You'll have a happy, healthy baby boy. You'll get mastitis and have cracked and bleeding nipples, but you'll persist and breastfeed anyway. It would be a waste not to. Your boobs will be enormous and squirting milk everywhere. You'll go on a hen's night when he is only about six weeks old and offer to make a milkshake dessert for the entire restaurant. They will decline.
Your son won't sleep and he'll bite your nipples and poop straight out the side of the cheap nappies your husband bought when you told him to buy Huggies, only Huggies, you dimwit, why didn't you listen, it's not hard, I said Huggies, but he will look so cute when he smiles that you won't kill him. I mean your son. You're still debating offing the Husband.
You'll decide when your son is about 17 months old that since it appears that you may only be able to get pregnant once every 16 months, that you should start trying for another baby. The Husband will be shattered when the planets align on the very first attempt and his services are no longer required. Ever.
You will have a happy, but not quite as healthy baby girl. She will be gorgeous and feed well and be a much better sleeper, but you will discover exactly what a paediatric urologist does over the next 10 or so years. And it ain't pretty.
Your kids will make you cry, roll your eyes, yell and laugh. And that's all before breakfast.
Your Husband will also make you cry, roll your eyes, yell and laugh. And that's all before you get out of bed.
Don't worry too much about money. You'll be okay. Eventually. Though I'll give you a heads up to save yourself a few bucks, I wouldn't bother buying the treadmill, the Epilady or the Footspa. Or any of that lacquered pine furniture. Really, don't do it.
That'll do for now, it's a lot to absorb, I know.
I'll write again soon to warn you about the school years. What an education. For you, I mean, not your kids.

Love from 46 year old Cate.
Shit, I'm twice your age now? When the fuck did that happen....??

What On Earth Are They Looking For?

2011-05-18T15:24:00.000+09:30

I am so sorry, I have been a very slack blogger buddy lately. I haven't written much, I haven't read much and I have hardly left any comments, apart from the odd snort here and there.
Bad me.
I even have three real, made-of-paper books (remember them?) on the go at the moment, and am making almost zero progress. In fact, I may have to go back to the beginning of the fiction novel to start again.
Bad bad me.
I have done zero blog maintenance and have only just had a look at new followers today (and I think they date back to January).
Bad bad bad me.

One thing I do happen to check on now and then, is what words are the search keywords that bring people to my blog, and it continually begs the question...
What on earth are they looking for?

Some are obvious, some less so.

Like : "international steampunk city"
Yeah... I have no idea either.

And : "brüno film swinging penis"
Right. Okay. He's not on here.

Then there's : "cartun sixy on the bed"
Say what?

And : "guy wearing on a condom on his erect penis"
Speaks for itself, but also not on here. This is a vasectomy household.

There was : "big cock in posy"
Err, no, don't remember seeing one of those in my bunch of flowers.

And : "the story of easter"
Self-explanatory, but boy, I bet they were disappointed. Mine was blasphemous.

And this : "fuicing white gril"
Right. Uh-huh. Just a tad dyslexic?

The only one I've had lately that makes any sense to me is "big bouncy boobs".
Well. Duh.

As Winter Approaches....

2011-05-15T16:42:00.007+09:30

As Winter approaches ever so slowly, this is what's in my garden....

Well, the spider was in my garden.... RIP Aragog.

We Have A Winner

2011-05-14T15:40:00.000+09:30

This is how I looked all day Friday.

Since Blogger was in a coma all day yesterday I was unable to post about my worst parenting moment and announce the winner of the Anonymums book giveaway.

This is just a quickie to let you all know the winner is....

Me N My Monkeys.

Congrats Jane, the book will be heading your way next week.

Thanks to everyone who entered and hopefully if Blogger stays alive I will share my bad parenting story with you on Monday.

Monday Catch-Up....

2011-05-09T12:24:00.005+09:30

Hello Monday, we meet again. I'll keep this brief, as it appears that I have a bit of a post Mother's Day headache, despite only drinking three glasses of wine. I think it's from staring at my shiny new toy all day.

Someone suggested I try cooking with it instead of staring at it, but I was under the impression it was an ornamental thing of beauty for decorative purposes only, and the silver part was just a pretty dustcatcher.

Anyway, it's been a mad week and weekend so I just have a couple of reminders.

Firsly, go check out my interview with an American blogger, my mate Lazarus at The LG Report.
I do apologise for representing my fellow Australians in such a manner, but I may have yanked his chain once or twice and it was a lot of fun. And I'm sure you expect nothing less from me anyway.
Head over there, give him a follow, and leave a nice comment. You may or may not wish to admit you know me, that's up to you.

Secondly, don't forget my Anonymums book giveaway which ends this Friday 13th (again, cue spooky music). Go to the post and leave a comment telling us your worst parenting moment and you'll be in the running.

Have a great week and I'll be back on Friday to tell you my worst parenting blunder and announce the winner. If it was truly a 'worst' comp, I think I might beat you all....

GIVEAWAY! TRUTH OR DARE! ANONYMUMS REVEALED!

2011-05-05T09:10:00.002+09:30

Okay, two out of three of those headlines are accurate.

Yes, I have a giveaway.

Yes, there is a truth or dare element involved.

But no, I still don't know who the Anonymums are. Damn.

The Anonymums very kindly gave me two books, one to read, spill wine and smear chocolate on, the other one to keep. No, wait, I have that wrong. The one I have kept in pristine condition, apart from a layer of dust, is to GIVE AWAY. YAY!

Just so you know what you're getting, here's a little taste...

"Most days, I feel like a zombie - a mindless, animated slave to two needy, demanding kids (my hunger, however, is not for human flesh, but for easy recipes with only two canned ingredients)" ~ Mum A

"Now I find myself considering wasting one of my Three Magic Wishes on a washing-up fairy. When I was young - that is, before children - had a genie puffed out of a bottle offering me the three things I most desired, I'd have gone for money, sex and chocolate. Now - and I think about this a lot - it's all about chores, babysitting and, oh yes, chocolate." ~ Mum B

"This is what my life has become. You see, motherhood has imposed on me far too much sense, and sensibility. They came along two years ago as I pushed out the placenta and took away with it all the frivolousness that I had been cultivating for 27 years. No longer can I justify spending a fortune on ridiculously uncomfortable boots. Instead, I spend a fortune on ridiculously expensive bits of plastic that make annoying noises, shrill crooning and overly-enthusiastic renditions of the alphabet that you simply cannot tune out." ~ Mum C

The book is the culmination of a real life game of Truth or Dare concocted by 3 suburban mothers who were, let's face it, bored, and needed to put a bit of spark back into the long days of mothering young children.

For 3 months Mums A, B and C dared each other to do things and to tell each other the truth about motherhood, their lives, and about who they'd become compared to who they wanted to be.

You will definitely laugh, you might shed a tear and you may even cringe with sympathy, but mostly you will enjoy a bloody good read, and find yourself wondering "Shit, would I do that? Could I do that? Would I tell someone that? Could I be that honest? Have I got any chocolate in the pantry?"

If you would like to win this clean (I promise) copy of Anonymums, you must rise to a challenge set by none other than the Anonymums themselves...

Tell us the truth about your worst-ever mothering moment. Not the ‘bad mother’ moments that only good mothers recognise, but that moment when you thought to yourself ‘I am truly the worst mother in the world’. Go on. Confession is good for the soul.

We should know.

Make sure you are following this blog and leave a comment below revealing your Truth to the Anonymums and me. I swear we won't tell anyone else. Hah.
If you are not a regular (and why aren't you?) or not well known to me, make sure you also leave an email address or Twitter ID name so I can contact you if you win.
The winner will be drawn by that random thingy or I'll get drunk and pull a name out of a hat. I'm sure either will do.

You have until 4pm on Friday 13th (oooooh, spooky)

So, get honest, and good luck!

And why is there wine, Tim Tams and red lipstick in the photo, I hear you ask? When you read the book, you will know.....

Never Again....

2011-04-27T08:10:00.006+09:30

I will never again drink about this much wine.....

....followed by a skolling competition with two of these....

...whilst wearing these shoes....

...ever.

*hobbles back to the sofa*

The Story Of Easter According To An Atheist

2011-04-21T21:38:00.002+09:30

Jesus and the rest of the dudes from his football team got uber pissed on a buck's night, and they decided to nail Jesus to a cross as a prank. Jesus was so hammered he didn't feel a thing, and eventually passed out in a stupor. The other dudes were so trashed they thought they'd killed him, so to hide the evidence they shoved Jesus in a cave and pushed a rock across the entrance. Jesus woke up a couple of days later and said "WTF? What did those dudes do to me? I can't remember anything. Damn, I could really use a garlic kebab right now." Then he found the back exit of the cave the other dudes were too pissed to see, and left on a journey to search out the greasiest hangover cure he could find. His dudes are still waiting for him to come back.

Please direct all complaints to my 16 year old daughter

Rest in Peace KB

2011-04-15T13:01:00.003+09:30

Exactly one week ago today I had the sad task of attending the funeral of a 21 year old, of saying goodbye to a lovely young man with his whole life ahead of him, and of holding his mother in my arms, feeling her whole body tremble with grief.

I don't ever want to do that again.

Two lives were lost, and three others I believe still hang in the balance, in such a horrific and tragic accident that I feel nauseous every time I think about it. I feel deeply for all the families involved, as well as for the Police and Paramedics who had to deal with such a shocking scene.

Please Mums and Dads, hug your teenagers and young adults and tell them you love them.

RIP KB

Operation Fumigation

2011-03-23T23:55:00.002+10:30

The Diary of The Brave (Some May Say Daft) Mother Who Cleaned Her Teenage Daughter's Bedroom.

Friday, Day 1: Daughter, 16, has left for school and will be going directly from school to German Language Camp. She will not pass her room, will not collect $200, and will not have a clue about what I am doing until she returns on Sunday afternoon.

Achtung.

Assemble all items that may or may not be needed. Dust cloths, Mr Sheen (not the Charlie variety; he gets dirty, not clean), disinfectant, wipes, broom, dustpan, vacuum cleaner, garbage bags, flea bomb, mousetrap, Febreze, scented candles, long-handled bbq tongs, paint scraper, gloves, face mask, goggles, phone numbers for State Emergency Services, Rentokil Pest Control, Drug & Poisons Unit, and Centre for Communicable Diseases.

Alert somebody that I am venturing into wild, uncharted territory alone. Wish I had a compass or a GPS. A trail of breadcrumbs maybe. A canary would have been good too. Momentarily ponder the thought of bringing in one of my Princess Parrots, but if they ever start breeding they will make me more money than my daughter ever will (I can sell their children, apparently I will go to jail if try to sell my daughter's). Say my goodbyes to Twitter and sort out posthumous distribution of my teapot collection.

Don safety gear and approach the door with caution. Not sure why, the door looks perfectly fine. Push door open and try not to cry. Survey damage. Clothes, shoes, books, folders, papers, cushions, stuffed toys, bags, socks, posters, hats, scarves, dvds, cds, and reindeer ears. And that's just the top layer. Which may or may not be moving; not sure if it's just my eyes watering or there is a sub-surface life form yet to be discovered.

Realise the odd feeling of movement is actually my own head spinning due to combination of odours; the smelly sock-type ones as well as the overpowering ones of her morning preparation. Deodorant, body spray, perfume, and quite possibly bubblegum. Oh…. no, I just trod on the gum.

Step out of room to remove the gum, steel my resolve and gulp some fresh air. Take a moment to wonder why it is that Aunties give teenage nieces cheap, putrid perfume instead of decent stuff. Do they think teenagers don't need to smell better than generic brand toilet freshener? Or is it some sort of long-awaited revenge on me for giving their kids tambourines, bongo drums and an electronic keyboard that got stuck on an "It's A Small World" loop when they were young?

Schnell.

Charge back into the room with bravado, gusto and a swig of Amaretto. Head down, bum up, attack the obvious first. Shoes. Check. Clothes. Check. Socks. This is where the bbq tongs come in very useful. Straight to washing machine. No wonder she's been borrowing my socks lately, she hasn't picked up any of hers for approximately eleven dog years.

Get the strange feeling I'm being watched. Come to the conclusion that all of the vampire, witch, wizard, werewolf, gangster and rockstar eyes in posters on the wall are following me around the room, mocking me. Collectively, they are a Threatening of Teen Icons. Thankfully no Efron or Bieber in sight.

A second layer of clutter begins to emerge. One of empty chocolate and lolly wrappers, Lipton Iced Tea bottles and milk drink cartons. Eeeew. Shit. Except for that one, that's not quite empty and it's no longer milk. Make mental note to pass that on to my friend who works in the Immunology Department of IMVS, it may be required for a lab experiment.

Books put away and random surplus posters which had been lying on the floor since the dawn of Girlfriend Magazine are tightly rolled up and tucked neatly in the corner. A discovery. Fairy wings. Yikes. I gave them to her when she was 4. She has worn them only ONCE when I made her. I thought they were beautiful. Now they just look like cheap pink stockings stretched over wing-shaped wire coathangers, which have been finger-painted with gold glitter by hyperactive toddlers. Bin.

A couple of hours in (I had a brief Twitter break after an hour to let people know I still had a pulse) and most major items have been returned to their rightful place, or forwarded to Waste Management Services. Surfaces cleared, during which an actual, functional desk was revealed hibernating in the corner; dusting, polishing, disinfecting and armour-coating commences.

Phone rings, washing needs to be brought in…. one thing leads to another glass of wine and day one of Operation Fumigation draws to a close.

Saturday, Day 2: A beautiful day. Bed stripped, linen washed, mattress and quilt aired. Replace photos, ornaments and knick-knacks onto now sparkling surfaces. Decide what to do with 'interesting' pottery creations she has brought home over the years. Internal debate rages over Aesthetics versus Sentiment. There is a clear winner. Shove them in a drawer.

Tidy up school books, bags, folders, papers and assignments into neat piles. The sun streams in and I catch a glimpse of something shiny out the corner of my eye. Bloody hell, a startling revelation. There really IS a polished floor in this room. It's been so long since I laid eyes on it. Try not to cry, again.

Sweep, vacuum, wash, remake bed, tidy up drawers, sort perfume (throw out the cheap shit), sort jewellery (see if she's pinched any of mine), sort nail polishes (see if I can pinch any of hers), and avoid eye contact with anything that looks remotely like a personal diary, a personal hygiene product, or a personal battery-operated device.

Slowly back out of the room, pulling door shut. Celebrate with vodka and pineapple. Over and over again.

Sunday, Day 3: Last minute check of the room, a bit of tweaking and a flourish of (my) expensive perfume. Done.

Fertig.

Daughter comes home, goes into room, dumps all her camp gear on the floor and comes out again. Not a word. Starts telling us about the weekend. Eventually Husband asks if she noticed anything.

With a roll of the eyes, "Yeah, I noticed Mum cleaned my room WITHOUT my permission. Where's all my stuff? And where the hell are my posters that were on the floor? You better not have rolled them up, I've spent months trying to flatten them out so I could put them up…."

Scheiße.

Looking up 'ungrateful cow' in German...

Red Dust and Blue Skies

2011-03-21T07:15:00.000+10:30

Fleur McDonald is a country girl, born and bred in Orroroo, South Australia.

I am a city slicker, born and bred in Adelaide, South Australia.

Fleur boarded at an all girl's college 3 hours drive from home.

I attended my local co-ed high school 3 minutes walk from home.

Fleur was a jillaroo and studied Agribusiness.

I was a disco diva and studied aggro girls in nightclubs.

Fleur lives on 8,000 acres of land about 110kms from Esperance.

I live on an 830 sq metre block about 5kms from Adelaide city centre.

Fleur is more than 1500kms from her childhood home, as the crow flies.

I am 1.5km from my childhood home, the crow could walk.

Fleur sleeps under a million stars.

I won't sleep in anything that has less than a 5 star rating.

The day Fleur went to a sheep sale, I went to a Perfume and After Shave sale. She may have got more value for money, but I bet my day smelled better.

How on earth did we meet? Well, we haven't yet. Not physically. But some of our words and thoughts have met, online. And I now think I have glimpsed Fleur's heart and soul.

You see, Fleur writes novels, and she writes about what she knows. What she has seen, heard, felt and breathed in over many years on the land. And she does it very well. I can taste the red dust, hear the galahs squawking and the lambs bleating, smell the rain coming, and see the weathered, muddy-booted stockmen she describes so vividly. (Of course in my mind the stockmen are really good looking and are all wearing the After Shave I bought for them in the sale to cover the smell of sheep dung. But anyway…)

Fleur's first novel, Red Dust, was short listed in 2010 for the Australian Book Industry Awards as Newcomer (Debut) Author of the Year and the R*BY awards. It was also the highest selling novel for a debut author in 2009. And deservedly so.

It is the inspirational story of Gemma, a 29 year old woman, who (and I'm not giving anything away here) after witnessing her husband die in a plane crash, tries to maintain both the farm and the life she and her husband had built for themselves. She deals with grief, adversity, family dramas, allegations, rumours and community opinions, and the possibility that her husband's death was no accident, all with a stoic resolve to find the truth and emerge triumphant. And hopefully at peace.

Fleur sent me a copy of the book (which she forgot to pay the postage for, so bloody funny) and I loved it. It's an honest country yarn. I learned so much about what goes on in my own 'backyard', beyond the reach of fast-food outlets, shiny department stores and suburban humdrum. I even found myself venturing into the great outdoors as much as possible to read it, wanting to see blue skies, feel fresh air, hear birds chirping and create some sort of connection between myself and the story's rural setting. I stopped short of donning moleskins and RM Williams boots though, was strictly shorts and thongs weather. (The fact that, as a city-limits girl, I don't own any moleskins or RMs, is beside the point.)

I also haven't had the sudden urge to rush out and start crotching sheep or use lice spray on my kids (though I would've loved that during the Nit Plague of 2001), but I did get motivated to buy Fleur's second novel, Blue Skies.

It is sitting next to my bed, waiting to be devoured and I'm impatient to get started. A new heroine, a new setting, a new farm to discover, but all surrounded by the same red dust and blue skies that are so obviously in Fleur's blood. And how lucky are we that she has shared this love of hers with us?

Hopefully I'll get to meet Fleur one day (maybe soon). "But what on earth will you two have in common?" I hear you ask, "You're probably so different…"

Well… we're South Australian women, we have husbands, children, homes, families, an interest in books…. and then there is wine. But really I think anyone who uses a phrase such as,"zipped up his strides" in their book will get along fabulously with me.

And if she smells bad I'll just spray her with my perfume.

Check out Fleur's site: fleurmcdonald.com

And Allen & Unwin for more info on Red Dust and Blue Skies

The Garden of Weedin’

2011-03-15T13:04:00.000+10:30

"There is peace in the garden. Peace and results." ~ Ruth Stout.

Ruth was an American author best known for her "No-Work" gardening books and techniques.

She lied.

Oh I guess eventually when the swearing dies down, the sunburn fades, the back unbends itself, and the cuts, scratches, broken nails, bruises and wounds all heal, there will be peace and results. But where does the "No-Work" bit come into it? And will we live to see it?

Monday was a public holiday in Adelaide, a day we had set aside all week as 'garden time'. While others around the city were enjoying the Adelaide Cup, Future Music Festival and Womadelaide in the glorious weather, we had earmarked that day to apparently torture our bodies, (not to mention several snails, grasshoppers and crickets), in a less drugs- alcohol-music-gambling -related manner, looking for said peace and results. (Though I'll bet there were as many disgusting, shiver-up-spine inducing creatures at those events as I found in my garden.)

Due to a combination of my excessive planting in years gone by, our brilliant warm sunshine, and the wettest summer for decades, the garden had got a little overgrown. I have been heard to mutter 'Triffids' quite a lot recently, and have been terrified to stand still for too long whilst outside lest one of my well tended plants grows quickly enough to strangle me and feed on my rotting carcass. "It's only a book" you say? I'd like to see you come and stand under my Wisteria for 20 minutes and tell me it's not alive.

So chore number one on the list was weeding and pruning. As was numbers two, three and four. Next was straightening and re-staking all our standard roses. Then rescuing a couple of shrubs that had been swamped by other larger, bossier specimens and moving them to their own open space, where they too can now grow into feral, life-threatening aggressors. Equality for all.

Weeding and pruning was okay, though it is where all my bloody wounds came from. Did I mention I was wearing an itty-bitty tank top, shorts and thongs? I know, I'm a bloody idiot, literally. I think I may still be sporting a couple of rose thorns in sensitive places, and my arms and legs feel like they have been whipped. And not in a good way. The tank top proved to be a distraction too, as the Husband kept stopping and saying things like "Have your boobs grown?", "Bloody hell, you're spilling out everywhere", and "Are you sure your boobs haven't grown?"

Onto the roses. A simple task. You'd think. Remove all the piddly little bamboo stakes that came with the roses from the nursery all those years ago and no longer hold them up in strong southerly winds; replace with solid, hardwood stakes. Except the roses are quite big, bushy and heavy now; they didn't want to straighten so easily. And it's amazing how they continually snag their thorns on your clothes, gloves, earrings and armpits. Ouch. And the ground was a bit firm. And some of the stakes didn't really have sharp enough points. And the husband's thumb got in the way of the big, heavy mallet. Ouch again.

About 48 bandaids and velcro rose ties later (and trust me, you don't want to get them mixed up), we moved onto the Shrub Search and Rescue. Two lost souls could just be seen desperately poking their heads out from between a Conifer and a Fuckingium Feralica Ficus (that is its scientific name, believe me). Husband commenced digging a hole where the rescued and hopefully rejuvenated plant number one would be relocated, and promptly struck a root. (No, he didn't get lucky, this is not the Garden of Eden as well as Weedin', it was an old tree root) He dug, he chopped, he hacked. Finally he dug up enough of it to get a firm grip and start pulling. (Gardening is full of innuendo, innit?) It was strong and stubborn, and gave up a good fight. He pulled and pulled….. until *snap*…. Husband went flying backwards …. As I could see what was about to happen I yelled out "Shit, you do some stupid things"…

….he tripped over this….

….and landed on a small tree, leaving it now looking like this….

As he was writhing on the ground clutching his shoulder, I rushed towards him, stood over him, put my head in my hands, and moaned "My tree…. My…. beautiful …..ornamental ….plum ….tree. IT'S RUINED. LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE." Yes, I'm very sympathetic. Sigh.

The rest of the chores were carried out in a sort of subdued manner; partly because by this time we were both knucking fackered; I realised my itty-bitty tank top had provided me no protection from not only the garden or the Husband's eyes, but from the sun either (mucho moisturiser required today, ouchie); and also because I was trying to stay mad at him for a bit longer, but the giggles were threatening to take over every time I pictured him flying, tripping and crashing. Hilarious.

So, Ruth Stout, I'm not totally convinced. The garden is not "No-Work" but "Shitloads-of-Really-Painful-Work".

However, there is peace to be found out there today while the Husband is at work, the Son is at Uni, and the Daughter is at school.

And that, my dear lady, is what I call a result.

This Old House

2011-03-02T12:25:00.001+10:30

We have a love for old homes. I mean LURRRVE. Adore them. Can't get enough of stonework, fireplaces, leadlight, high ceilings, timber floorboards and a sense of history. Hence in 2003 we lost our minds and bought a piece of such history. A sandstone fronted villa that had been in the same family, relatively untouched, since it was built in about 1906. (some report it may have been as late as 1910, but either way, she's a century old now)

There had been very little improvement made to the house over the years, apart from the totally mod con of hot and cold running water, some war-era kitchen cupboards, an indoor bathroom, and the circa 1950s addition of a toilet into the lean-to laundry, making midnight trips to the outside brick dunny a thing of the past.

A 7 year labour of love, the old girl has driven us to blood, sweat, tears, bruises, splinters, aches, pains, destitution and near-electrocution, but fuck, she's worth it. Probably our proudest moment was when a local real estate agent asked us if she could use a photo of our house on the front of a brochure she was compiling on beautiful character homes in the area. Oh, yes.

This Saturday night we will be hosting a group of my husband's old workmates who have not set foot in her since our housewarming 7 years ago, and it has prompted me to take a look back at what we've done.

Whilst I appreciate everyone's taste is different, and I do admire modern homes and love looking at what people choose to live amongst, you will not see any white on white on white here. I'm traditional; some may say old-fashioned. I thrive on colour. I must have timber, in every shade and every condition. Recycled and distressed is best. I must have warmth. I surround myself with clutter. Old, worn, rustic things will always find a place in my home. Chipped, crackled, missing a piece, no longer works; none of it matters.

Must-haves were polished floorboards, a timber kitchen, an original claw foot bathtub and a fireplace in as many rooms as possible. Check. We have achieved all that.

Oh, and airconditioning. Hey, a girl has to keep her cool while she's designing her life.

Anyway, since I've been poring over the old photos this week, I thought I'd share some with you. Hope you enjoy.

July 2003

More recently

A view looking down our backyard in 2003; Harsh. All concrete paths, weeds, big trees and dunny on the left

Now; lush.

Living room fireplace; painted timber and a non-functioning oil heater

Now

The old galley kitchen (too small to house a fridge) and teensy art deco bathroom leading off it....

....was gutted....

...to become a nifty little study area and a bigger, brighter bathroom.

All of that meant of course the kitchen had to go somewhere else.... so we carried our sledgehammer into the dining room (the fireplace was a particular joy)...

....and voila.... my dream kitchen (still evolving actually)

The foundations of something new....

...and the finished result

I could bore you to tears for hours with a bazillion more pics like these....

....or these....

....but I won't. *wink*
Instead, I'll just grab a drink and go and enjoy some of the fruits of 7 years hard labour......>

A Bunch Of Fives

2011-02-24T16:13:00.001+10:30

Somebody gave me a bunch of fives, damn it. And I never saw who did it.
I found a half finished post saved in my docs folder. A thousand apologies, I have no idea who sent me the meme, whether it was here on the blog or whether it was an email, but there it has sat for a long, long time. It had virtual cobwebs. I think Lady Gaga was still Stefani Germanotta and wearing pants when I started this. I had half answered some of it, some were blank, I think I made up the last category and have forgotten others so, alas, it may just be a shadow of it's former self. I've updated, tweaked, embellished and bullshitted, so it's ready for you now.

5 NAMES I'M KNOWN BY (not including Mum/Dad): Well, nobody calls me Dad, not since the operation. You already know these…. Cathryn, Cathy, Cate, Cath and Chook……. Phew, thank goodness that's 5, thought I was going to have to reveal some of the less salubrious labels placed on me over the years. Not that 'Chook' is particularly classy. Blame my dad for that one.
5 CITIES I'VE BEEN TO: Melbourne, Sydney, Brisbane, Canberra and since I don't think my home city of Adelaide really counts, I'll say Suva (Fiji). As you can see, I don't get out of the country much.
5 CITIES I'D LIKE TO GO TO: Berlin, Venice, Paris, Rome and London. Seems I'm a wannabe Eurogroupie. And I may have to leave the country at some stage.
5 THINGS I'D SAVE FROM A FIRE: Well, apart from the humans, I'm really not sure. Photographs seem an obvious choice. I have a friend who lost everything in the Canberra bushfires some years back, and she said the immediate priority when it was all over (apart from a place to stay of course) was getting underwear and footwear. So I'm hoping I'd have time to grab some knickers, bras and shoes. But of all my shoes, which ones? Oh fuck, what a nightmare decision….
5 MOVIES I HAVE SEEN RECENTLY: Including TV, I've seen Fanboys, Ghosts Of Girlfriends Past, Dorian Gray, Alice In Wonderland and Daybreakers. Shit, they were ALL on TV. Last big screen viewing was the latest Harry Potter…. I need to get out more. (How am I going to get out of the country if I can't even get to a movie theatre?)
5 BOOKS I HAVE READ RECENTLY: This is difficult to remember, I am always reading something so I have had to stare at my bookcase for quite a while to work out roughly what the last 5 were.
Okay, 5 novels I started and actually finished are; The View From Here by Deborah McKinlay, The Blood Countess by Tara Moss, Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Niffenegger, A Tiny Bit Marvellous by Dawn French and Vanishing Point by David Markson.
There were three others that were attempted but remain works in progress (I'm looking at YOU Finkler, Letty Fox and The Slow Man), to be saved for a boring, rainy day. When I have absolutely nothing else to read. And I mean nothing. Like, not even a phone bill.
5 PEOPLE (ALIVE) I WOULD INVITE TO A DINNER PARTY: Really difficult. This is one of those questions I change my mind about constantly. If it was this weekend…. George Clooney, Hugh Jackman, Lance Armstrong, Michael Jordan and Dawn French. Reserves would be Kate Winslet, Julian Assange, Cate Blanchett, Nelson Mandela and Bill Clinton. Emergencies are Betty White, Justin Timberlake, Eminem, Tina Fey and Jeremy Clarkson. But ask me again next week and the squad could be completely different. The Bieber will never be in it though.
5 PEOPLE (DECEASED) I WOULD INVITE TO MY HEAVEN/HELL/AFTERLIFE WARMING PARTY: Another doozy. Since it's a party there has to be music, but whom on earth (or NOT on Earth in this case) do I choose? Elvis? Lennon? Hendrix? Or the more dulcet tones but no less party boys like Sinatra? Dino? Cash? Some classics…. Beethoven? Chopin? Maybe some rockers like Haley and Holly? What about Morrison, Cobain and Hutchence? Or can I make one choice a jamming Supergroup of ALL the dead musos, and then choose four other people to drink vodka and jump around in the moshpit with me? No? Fuck-a-doodle-doo, this is too hard, too hard…. *curls up in the corner and starts rocking…. around the clock*

Bloody hell, that was difficult, and I guess I failed. Indecisive Libran. Go ahead and do your own bunch of fives, just remember to finish it some time this year. Nelson Mandela and Betty White aren't getting any younger y'know.



Manual of Domestic Art

2011-02-18T07:12:00.000+10:30

As with my parents a year ago, we have just had to move the Mother-in-law into an aged care facility. She has fairly advanced Parkinson's and could no longer care for herself at home. This was a much easier move; she had downsized many years ago and had therefore de-cluttered, the opposite to my parents who had saved 60 years worth of plastic bags and lonely Tupperware lids. All the in-law siblings pitched in and made this process less taxing and more enjoyable, unlike my family where, despite being one of four offspring, I was the one left holding the… well… plastic bags.
The MIL's worldly goods and chattels were divvied up and I somehow found myself in possession of a 70 year old book; "Manual of Domestic Art (Cookery)" issued by the Education Department of South Australia in 1941. I got it not because I'm any sort of cooking aficionado, far from it, but because I love books, especially old ones. Oh, and because I was the one who cleaned out the kitchen cupboard it was kept in. Finder's keepers.

The Manual covers the Domestic Arts and Home Science syllabus, in particular the subject of Cookery, which was taught in all South Australian schools in those days. Scarily, this manual of rules and recipes was compiled in 1926 by a thoroughly proper Miss Ellie Campbell, so they were already 15 years behind the times. Perhaps ingredients and methods didn't progress much in that time; I know I am still presenting tried and true (aka boring) meals I stumbled upon in the Australian Women's Weekly Microwave Cookbook circa 1989. [Dear family, I truly apologise for this fact and promise I will learn some new recipes. Soon. Like, when Jamie Oliver comes over to teach me personally how his 30 minute meals don't really take 97 minutes.]
Topics taught include classes of foods, weights and measures, milk products, meat, vegetables etc, before moving onto such enlightening subjects as;
Table Service – Setting and waiting. (we are supposed to WAIT on everybody? It's not 2, 4, 6, 8, dig in, DON'T wait?)
Personal Care and Appearance of the Housewife – In handling food and working methods. (So they mean food hygiene? Phew, thought Miss Campbell was going to tell me I should be out of my PJ's by the time I start cooking dinner)
Heating Appliances – Care and cleaning, management of stoves, setting a fire. (Hell, I can set fire to my own kitchen without instructions thanks very much, that's why they invented smoke alarms. I use them as timers)
Laundry – Ironing, care of dishcloths, tea towels, dusters and mops, as well as laundering of all clothing including silk stockings and underwear. (I suspect Miss Ellie may have been a bit of a hoochie girl)
Simple Means Of Controlling Common Pests – Flies, ants and mice. (Nothing about teenagers?)
Household Practice – Care of kitchen, toilet, brooms and brushes, maintenance of crockery, utensils, metals, glass, sinks, drains and bins, bed making, sweeping and dusting. (I think they forgot to mention painting your fingernails and perfecting afternoon naps. What?)
The poor young ladies of the day had to sit through lessons on heating and lighting of the home, household accounts, storage of linen, care of younger children (or was it care of linen and storage of children?), cold storage of food, and my favourite; The Excretory System. Guess it helped to know what necessitates the 'cleaning toilets' topic.
The majority of the recipes seem simple and fairly typical of what were probably standard meals of the day, though I don't imagine every family sat down to a meal of Fricasseed Sheep's Head With Boiled Artichokes every Friday night before a hearty game of Canasta in the front living room. And I have been gagging at the thought of being served up Stewed Ox Kidney, Stewed Ox Tail or Tongues in Jelly. But I guess it was during the war, supplies were low, and everybody in Adelaide had an ox in their backyard, yes?
Miss Campbell seems to have found her forte in her apparent love of sweets. The most incredible array of puddings, cakes, pastries, pies, jams, slices and biscuit recipes fill the pages of probably more than half the book; which goes a long way to explaining why most of my MIL's generation have false teeth. I may have to road test the entire list, starting with Apple and Rice Meringue, Cream Puffs and Melting Moments through to Raspberry Buns, Scotch Shortbread and Treacle Tart. For research purposes, of course. (NOTE TO SELF: make Dental appointment)
I cringe that my MIL was learning from this book at the age of eleven. ELEVEN. While our daughters are now playing sport, learning about the environment, solving math problems and being told they can do anything, those girls were being taught how to wash dishes, how to choose a good cut of meat, the nature and use of starch in laundering, and most likely being told "Study this Manual because this will be your life." Okay, it might have paid off for Junior Masterchef wannabes, but I can see why a VG&T (Valium, Gin & Tonic) was the Housewife's Drug of Choice in the 50s.
Thank goodness for modern times and a plethora of options, or we'd all still be idolizing Miss Campbell and collecting plastic bags.
To finish, I'll leave you with a quote that appears in the preface of the Manual of Domestic Art by John Ruskin, an English artist, poet, art critic and social thinker;
"Cookery means the knowledge of Medea and of Circe and of Helen of Troy and of the Queen of Sheba. It means the knowledge of all herbs and fruits and balms and spices and all that is healing and sweet in the fields and groves, and savoury in meals. It means carefulness and inventiveness and willingness and readiness of appliances. It means the economy of your grandmother and the modern chemist; it means much testing and no wasting; it means English thoroughness and French art and Arabian hospitality; in fine, it means that you are to be perfectly and always ladies – loaf givers."

Yeah, well…. John Ruskin was rumoured at various times to be either gay, a paedophile, or incurably impotent, and his only marriage was annulled after six years because of non-consummation. Doesn't seem like he was much of a loaf-giver. Perhaps he had a tiny breadstick.

What’s In A (Randomly Generated) Name?

2011-02-06T13:52:00.000+10:30

Hi, my name is, my name is…… no, not Slim Shady. My name is Green Egg Forty Sippa. That's my Gangsta name anyway and don't you forget it. Yo.
I'm thinking Dr Seuss and 50cent must have collaboratively invented the Random Name Generator that came up with my alias.

No longer do we have to piece together the names of our childhood dog and the first street we lived on (Zippy Balcombe) or our favourite pet and childhood food (Candy Cupcake) to embrace a fantasy name for a character in a story or a fake ID or umm, you know, roleplay, whatever. Ahem.
As with most things these days, we need look no further than the amazing Spiritual Guide of All Things Bizarre, the Internet. Find the name generator you want, type in your real name, one click and there's your new pseudonym. It's that simple. And that stupid.
Why do I even look at these things? Could I really not go another minute of my life without knowing that my Pirate name is Captain Mary Bonney? Like, am I planning to run away to sea to sail on the Black Pearl, drink rum with Johnny Depp and swap spit with Orlando Bloom? Actually, that doesn't sound like a bad idea…
Was it essential that I know my Mexican Wrestler name? Which, by the way, is Ratón Último. It means Last Mouse. Does that mean I am a fantastic fighter and will be the last rodent to survive, or is it just something that would look good listed on a WWE Smackdown poster next to Dolph Ziggler, Ricardo Rodriguez and The Undertaker?
I was hoping my Mafia name would be really sexy, like something straight out of a Brian De Palma movie. So disappointed, I find nothing sexy about Alley Cat Sandra. Pussy jokes included.
And then there's my Porn Star name. Tonya Sinn. It sounds a bit too sophisticated; more like a champagne-sipping high-class callgirl than someone who does pizza delivery guys on a pool table to an electro-pop soundtrack. (I admit my idea of porn may be a bit out of date, but ahhh... those were the days.)
My real, boring human name is Cathryn, derived from the Greek Katharos (Katherine), meaning 'pure'. Yes, I know. Go on, I'll wait while you have a good laugh at that.
I have never really adored my own name (do any of us?) but I do have to thank my oldest sister for saving me from a fate worse than Cathryn. My siblings were 17, 14 and 11 when I burst onto the scene as the Great Mistake of 1964 (mistake [mis-teyk] noun, verb: an error in action, calculation, opinion, or judgment caused by poor reasoning, carelessness, insufficient knowledge or lack of birth control) and cries of "She had the baby", "It's a girl" and "You woke me at 2am for that?" were quickly followed by "What's her name?"
One or both of my parents (neither will admit guilt in this heinous almost-committed crime) wished to call me… Patricia.
Apologies to those of you who are named Patricia and love it. But, really….
Look at me.

Do you see Patricia?
Pat??
Patty???
Patsy????
(I acknowledge maybe there are some similarities with AbFab's Patsy, but....)
No, absolutely no. Just… no.
For starters, I am not an old-age pensioner. The popularity of the name Patricia peaked in the late 1930s through to the 1940s and has plunged into a steady decline since, so I may have been able to accept the name if I was a war baby, conceived in the back of a Ford coupe utility during a hastily arranged shore leave. But I wasn't.

Nor am I Catholic, wanting to bear the name of an Italian virgin martyr and Saint. I mean, I admire her for escaping an arranged marriage, but women usually do that so they can shag whoever they want, not to stay a virgin.

Anyway, you could say my sister was the 60s version of the Random Name Generator, as she insists she plucked the name from nowhere. Apparently, whilst announcing that nobody better dare tell her to turn her radio down once the baby came home, she also declared there was no way she was having a sister called Patricia, that was a horrible name, but a Katherine/Catherine/Kathryn/Cathryn would be fine. (Exactly who chose my particular spelling is unclear, but there is a rumour that it was a mistake by Dad, his second one that year.)
At some stage during the early school years Cathryn of course got shortened to 'Cathy'; it's the Aussie way. I remember trying to get people to call me 'Cate' at one point, but Dad was the only one who did and others argued I couldn't be a Cate, it had to be Kate with a K (these were the years long before Cate Blanchett came along). And I attempted 'Cathie' during the rebellious teenage years, because a group of 26 of my closest friends all voted that it was much more of a cool-surfie-chick way to spell it. Hey, it was the 70s. But it didn't stick. Neither did 'Imogen'. Don't ask.
So over the years Cathryn has evolved. Don't be surprised if you call me Cate, then my Mum approaches with 'Cathryn', a friend greets me as 'Cath', the kids moan at 'Mum', Dad lets slip 'Chook' and the Husband yells 'Bloody hell Cathy, are they more new shoes?'…. I will answer to them all. Some more politely than others.
Interesting postscript. I have just discovered if I use Cathryn on the Porn Star Name Generator I am actually…. Sweatee Asstronaut.
Oh yeah. That's more like it.
Did somebody order pizza?



Rocking The Boat

2011-01-27T17:10:00.001+10:30

What's that saying? Never argue with an idiot, they drag you down to their level and beat you with experience.
Sigh. Sadly I should have heeded this when the announcement of the Young Australian of the Year was made public, and a stream of vitriol spewed onto my screen in the online community of Twitter.
For the uninitiated, the YAOTY was Jessica Watson, a teenager from Queensland who at 16 became the (unofficially) youngest person to sail non-stop and unassisted around the world. Bloody good achievement, considering my biggest adventure at 16 was the first-Saturday-in-every-month challenge to sail non-stop and unassisted past the doorman at the local football club disco.
I read about the announcement as well as the bios of the other nominees for Young Australian of the Year.

[About the Awards: Each year our nation celebrates the achievement and contribution of eminent Australians through the Australian of the Year Awards by profiling leading citizens who are role models for us all. They inspire us through their achievements and challenge us to make our own contribution to creating a better Australia. ~ from www.australianoftheyear.org.au]
Tara Winkley, a young woman who is working tirelessly to change the lives of Cambodia's orphans. Bravo, what an angel. Would have been a worthy winner.
Angela Barker, a woman who was brutally bashed resulting in horrific injuries, who now campaigns for the rights of those suffering brain injuries. Bless her. Another justifiable winner.
Kalinda Griffiths, who has become a strong voice for Indigenous women in her health research and fight for equality. Good for her, she would have made us proud as a winner too.
Clinton Heal, a skin cancer survivor who has worked hard establishing care and support groups to help others. What great commitment, I would also have been happy to see him holding the award aloft.
Vincent Buckskin, a young Indigenous man who is dedicated to educating the community and sharing Kaurna culture through dance and language. Well done, would have been a deserving choice.
Kirsty Albion, a passionate campaigner about environmental protection who is inspiring young people to have a say on climate change. Again, a valuable contributor who could well have won with all our blessings.
David Bresnik, a generous and committed volunteer whose involvement with the St Vincent de Paul Society is providing young people with a positive role model and serves as an inspiration to others. We could have easily applauded this young man with the highest honour too.
All brilliant young Australians. I read about them, absorbed it, felt proud of all 8 of these young people, felt momentarily lazy and unaccomplished as I pondered what I, at age 46, had done with my life, and then moved on, thinking nothing more of it. Until I saw this tweet...

"Jessica Watson is proof any young Australian can achieve their wildest dreams ..if daddy is filthy rich"
Should I have just rolled my eyes at the inaccuracy of this statement and let it slide by? Probably.
Did I? Not on your fucking life.
My reply:"What makes you think he's filthy rich? He was a real estate agent and their family lived on a bus or a boat for years."
This is fact. Her parents were a real estate agent and an occupational therapist. The family of 6 lived on a modified double-decker bus after living on a cabin cruiser in earlier years. The children were mostly home-schooled and all sailed from a very young age. Yes, of course they had to raise funds to try to get the journey off the ground until sponsors were found. I have no first-hand knowledge of the family's personal wealth, or lack thereof, so I would never be so presumptuous as to make statements one way or the other. But 'filthy rich'? And insinuating that she won because of these supposed riches? My hackles were raised.

"not every 16 yr old owns a 20foot state of the art boat"
No they don't. But look at all the 16 year olds whose status-loving parents buy them a $20,000 hotted up car which they then proceed to wrap around the nearest tree during a drag race or whilst showing off to friends, killing themselves or worse, killing an innocent victim.
Or the gadget-loving parents who fill their homes with up-to-the-minute technology, home theatres and gaming consoles, and their 16 year olds never lift their Dussault-clad butts off the white leather sofa.
If I could afford it, I'd much rather buy my child a boat if they were a fully-trained, skilled and experienced sailor, and had a dream to follow their passion. You simply cannot put a price on fresh air, exercise, life skills and building up a resistance to sea-sickness.
The fact is though, Jessica's parents did not buy the boat. Australian adventurers Don and Margie McIntyre (well known for their sailing and Antarctic expeditions) purchased the yacht for Jessica and provided much of the equipment. They believed in her ability, as did the other sponsors who eventually came on board (pardon the pun).
Oh, and it was a 34 foot boat.

"i hate her with a passion"
Oh wow. I didn't even know how to respond to this. How a fully-grown adult can say this about a teenage girl whom, as far as I know, they have never met personally (and obviously don't have a lot of knowledge about), is beyond me.

"she had more resources than 99% of 16yr olds and not worthy of young aust of year"
Yes she did have more resources than the average teen. But from what I've read (in an effort to educate myself so I don't make ignorant comments in public) Jessica, her family and supporters worked relentlessly to get those resources. It was a hard-fought battle.
But what about past winners of the YAOTY award?
Did Lleyton Hewitt win in 2003 because his Daddy was rich and spoiled him with the best tennis racquet money could buy? No, he was provided with the tools he required by sponsors, paid to play tennis, supported by a team of professionals and made it to world #1.
Did Casey Stoner win in 2008 because his Daddy was rich and bought him a pretty motorbike? No, he was employed by a team and paid by them and their sponsors, and provided with a bike and all the equipment to be a World Champion.
Did Ian Thorpe (2000) and Kieren Perkins (1992) win because their Daddies were rich and bought them giant swimming pools? No, they had sponsors, Swimming organizations and Government backing, and some incredible technology from Arena (changed from Speedo, thanks Nadine) to help win Gold medals.
HOWEVER, at the end of the day, Lleyton still had to hit the ball over the net, Casey still had to ride the motorbike around the track, Ian and Kieren still had to swim the laps, and Jessica still had to sail the goddamn fucking 34 foot boat.

"they are rich enough to buy the boat in the first place"
Oh my fucking god. Dude. Have you not listened to anything I've said?

My head. Brick wall. Hitting.

Someone once said something like "Your thoughts, ideas and opinions are your truth. Your truth is important. But your truth is not necessarily The Truth."
I'm all for thoughts, ideas and opinions. Especially opinions. I have many of them; some great, some bloody ridiculous, but they're all mine. Everyone has the right to express them, even idiots. But please do not spread hatred and supposition.
At no point did I disagree with anyone's opinion that someone else should have won. That's their opinion; there is no right or wrong in that. Eight randomly selected people on Twitter at that time would most likely have chosen eight different winners.
Should the argument have been based more on the fact that we reward funded sportspeople with more recognition than we do to community-minded strugglers? Perhaps.
Would I have voted for Jessica to win? Probably not. But I am not on the National Australia Day Council so all I can do is stand and applaud the 8 amazing young Australians who have done us proud and will probably continue to do so.
Can't we just support every person, whether they be 16, 46 or 66, rich or poor, self-funded or sponsored, who chooses to get up off their arse and actually DO something with their lives?

The Christmas Letter You Do In January

2011-01-18T11:07:00.001+10:30
I was immensely slack before Christmas and neglected to send out cards or my usual 'This Is What We Did All Year' email to our friends scattered far and wide. I made one of those Elf Yourself E-cards but my friends complained that it wasn't sarcastic enough, elves are way too cute. Sigh.
So here's the January update I sent them... sarcasm included.
Hi everybody. Thought I'd join in the new tradition of the January newsletter since like you all, we have no time to even scratch our arses let alone recap our year in the weeks leading up to Christmas. Not that we've had a relaxing time since then either, but things are just starting to settle down again. I hope. But probably not.
So, from Christmas 2009, which was held in our not-quite-half-completed family room (thankfully it wasn't a cold, windy day, we had no windows), through til now is a lot of news. You better make yourself a coffee. Or pour a wine.

Casa Pearce Building Site, Christmas 2009
Boxing Day 2009 saw the mysterious demise of the Best Cat EVER, Oscar Boy Wonder. He disappeared and was allegedly found in a deceased state in a neighbour's yard. And she buried him without telling anybody, as you do. WTF?? It wasn't til the boys went doorknocking looking for him a few days later that she fessed up with the claim that she found him dead, buried him, and "wondered if he was our cat" but didn't seem to think it prudent to come and ask us. Again I say WTF??
She is now known as "Cat Murderer".
The building of the extension continued on straight after Christmas without missing a beat, and we welcomed the addition of cat #9 to the fold, Jasper. AKA Ninja. AKA That Fucking Cat. Suffice to say that one year down the track from his arrival, it can be very safely assumed that when he dies, which may be sooner than he thinks, he will NOT be blessed with the title of Best Cat EVER.
Throughout all our building work, we also had the task of moving my Mum & Dad into an aged care complex, clearing out and selling their home of 60 years. And it was the home of Hoarders Incorporated. You have never in your life seen so much accumulated useless crap. Unless you've seen the Australian Cricket Team lately.
The renos seemed to occupy us for quite a bit of the early months, with the room being usable in March, but not completely 100% finished til the recycled timber floorboards were laid in about June/July. We paved all around the new room as soon as the weather let us and although we did a fucking marvellous job, we have decided not to go into the paving business for our joint mid-life crisis. Way too crippling, the back and knees weren't built for bending, I'm sure of it. Even worse though, I broke several fingernails. Oh, the trauma.

Family room finito; about 34 square metres of extra living and dining space we desperately needed

Please pause a while to admire our paving efforts. Thank you.

We finally got back into our own routine, which meant no longer blearily answering the door to a tradesman of some sort before 7am and belatedly realising my boob was almost falling out of my pyjama top, after 9 months of on and off chaos. All in all it went very well, and to say we are bit pleased with the result would be like saying Tiger Woods was a bit unfaithful.
We were left with one area of garden to complete, and it was a toughie. It had been used as the builder's, brickie's, plasterer's, paver's (Husband's), etc etc dumping ground and was overrun with rubbish, rubble and weeds. So guess what the last couple of weeks have been spent doing? Getting pissed? Good guess, can't blame you for thinking that. But mostly clearing, more paving and some planting. Then getting pissed.

Before and After

All we need now is some more plants and a rainwater tank in the corner, and we are set. Set for what, I'm not sure; we have been working on this place constantly for over 7 years so apparently now we are supposed to sit back, relax, and enjoy the fruits of our labour (or some such bullshit) says me. To which Husband replied "You know how we painted the front of the house when we first moved in? Yeah, it needs to be done again." And so the cycle continues.
Away from the house and garden we've all had the usual stuff; birthdays, dinners, parties, basketball, concerts (the last Powderfinger concert *sob*), soccer, movies, cricket (including Ashes Test, where we witnessed the accumulated useless crap in the Baggy Green first-hand), and the odd lazy weekend.
Son got his driver's licence, scored MIL's little red car (affectionately? known as 'The Bubble') when she gave up driving after mounting a roundabout, a kerb, a garden bed and only stopping when she collided with a house. The car had to have a bit of a makeover, but came out of it fairly well so Son is pretty lucky to be handed a one-owner car at his age. Oh, and MIL was okay, in case you were wondering. I'm sure you were.
Son turned 18 in November, one day after completing his last Year 12 exam and entering permanently into the world of Call Of Duty: Black Ops. He moves from the sofa occasionally, mainly just to eat, sleep and shower, and mainly when we remind him to. Having said that, he passed Year 12 (woo hoo) and has been accepted into a Bachelor of Business (blah blah, some other words) course at UniSA. I have upgraded from calling him lazy bum to lazy Uni bum.
He went to Melbourne with school; played badminton and of course still basketball; had his school Formal, after which he stayed in a hotel in the city with his mates, played cards and drank an unidentifiable clear alcoholic liquid of some sort, had no sleep and went straight on to play 2 games of basketball the next day. Because playing sport is a noble way to die of sleep-deprived alcohol-induced exhaustion. Like father, like son.
Daughter will be 16 next week and going into Year 11. She was torn two ways last year; the English/literary path or the Science path. After a week's work experience in a Library (in which she would have preferred spending her time stabbing her eyes with rusty forks) she has decided that dissecting frogs, psycho-analysing nutjobs, or blowing up laboratories is probably her future. For now, anyway. This is subject to change of course, as she is not definite about anything much in life except the fact that she hates Zac Efron and Justin Bieber, and wants to be a vampire. Not the sparkly Twilight kind, but the broody Vampire Diaries kind. Although I suspect any type that doesn't age will do. Like mother, like daughter.
Husband spent the month of October working in Sydney and Newcastle on secondment to what is basically the auditing department of the bank. He flew back home for weekends and absolutely loved the change of environment after 10 years in the same job. His waistline however, did not love eating out for dinner every night, drinking wine, and getting no exercise. Let's just say his next weigh-in at the Red Cross Blood donation centre set off bells and alarms and got him a stern glare from Nurse Ratched.
It was 5 kilos well gained though, as not long after he returned home, a job in that department became vacant, he applied, and he got it. It is a massive promotion for him, something that probably would have taken him til close to retirement to reach if he had stayed in his current job. The job is based in Sydney, but they have accepted him to stay based in Adelaide. So he will be a Travelling Wilbury, heading off all over the country, and eventually, hopefully, the world, with his purple pen (actually its all on computer, tsk) auditing the bank's, err, stuff. (Don't ask me for more details, I'm just here to spend the money)
Husband starts the new job next month and will probably head straight to Sydney initially, but then it looks like the first month-long auditing project will be in …. drum roll….. Adelaide. Pfffft. The Frequent Flyer points will be stagnant for a bit. I have my eye on the Hong Kong and Singapore trip though. Thank fuck the bank has branches all over the world.
I have gone from Renovation Project Manager to Manager of Fuck-All now, and it's not a bad job. The shopping and lunches are hard work, but somebody has to do it. I think I am earning my keep, sort of (but not really), with all the tickets, books and prizes and things I have won this year, I have had a lucky run. Though I think winning the tickets to the cricket was more of a four-day-long punishment. Had the highlight of my life on Saturday. (sad, I know) I extended an invite to Lance Armstrong (who is here in Adelaide for the Tour Down Under in case you hadn't noticed) via Twitter to come round for a BBQ dinner. AND HE REPLIED. HE HAS 2.7 MILLION FOLLOWERS ON TWITTER AND HE REPLIED. TO ME. LITTLE OLD ME. There was much merriment in the house, partly vodka-fuelled. He couldn't make it but thanked me for the offer and said he'd take a raincheck. I am thinking I may stalk him until he does. Or until he gets a restraining order against me, whichever comes first.
[Adding this late info now just for the blog: Lance replied to me AGAIN last night. Says he is definitely dropping by one night. I need a house cleaner, STAT.]
In other family news, the Pearce side of the family welcomed its first baby since Daughter was born. NO, not more fruits of my labour, but Husband's niece's very premature labour. The gorgeous Harrison arrived 6 weeks early but thankfully safely.

Daughter and Son taking it in turns for cuddles with Harrison, Christmas 2010

Sadly, we lost Clodagh this year. Her dog years were up. She gave up, was miserable, ill and riddled with arthritis, and we did the kindest thing for her. Husband tried to get a 2 for 1 deal going with the vet, but apparently they don't do mothers-in-law.
We are having a bit of a déjà vu sensation at the moment, as we have spent the last few weeks moving John's mum into an aged care complex, almost exactly a year after my parents moved. At least we are well versed in all the paperwork and rigmarole now. Her Parkinson's had got worse, she has deteriorated to a point where she is no longer able to take care of herself so again, we had to do the best thing for her. Unlike the dog, it hasn't involved a $200 injection. Yet.
We are currently in the middle of divvying up her worldly goods and moving things out of her unit, so whilst we are still hectically busy, we can see the light at the end of the tunnel.
There had better be wine there.
And when we're done, this is where I'll be if anybody wants me….

CHEERS!

Cate’s Accumulated Crap Giveaway

2011-01-10T07:33:00.000+10:30

This is just like Oprah's Favourite Things Giveaway, only better.
Sort of.
Only not really.

Unlike the Big O, I don't have a multi-million dollar empire and can't afford to buy you all velour jogging suits, Baby Phat tote bags and Japanese black goat hair makeup brushes. What I do have however, is rubbish, shit, junk and stuff.
So if you'd all like to come and (virtually) sit in my backyard, preferably in an orderly fashion just like a real Oprah audience, I'll hand out the priceless/worthless crap. Be warned though, if you scream incessantly like a real Oprah audience, I will be forced to bring out my nerfgun. Whipper snipper if I see tears.

Are you ready?

You're all getting …. SERVIETTES. Woo hoo!!!

Yes, that's right, paper serviettes. Some of you may call them napkins, but to be honest, when I see the word 'napkin', my wayward mind goes immediately to something else other than tableware.
The reason I have enough serviettes to hand out to you all is a result of my stubborn refusal to buy plain white ones. Let me explain … I have a kid's party, buy the cute packet of 20 with balloons on them and only 18 get used. So I put the spare 2 away. Next is a Christmas party, so I buy 40 with gold stars on them, 33 get used, 7 get put away. Then a barbecue, I buy 20 with the blue stripes that match our cutlery, 11 get used, 9 get put away. Morning tea with the girls, I buy 10 with the gorgeous little cupcakes on them, 6 get used, 4 get put away.

And so on and so on; every occasion requiring a differently patterned serviette, and you can NEVER find a packet to match the ones you bought for the same event from the previous year.
Over a 23 year sentence … err, marriage, that's a fucking lot of leftover, mismatched serviettes.

*pause for thought*
I have issues, don't I?

Moving right along (before I dwell for too long on that question), you're also going home with …. RECEIPTS. Yay!
The receipt for the $120 pair of shoes I got on sale for $19 at Myer in 2003 after queuing for 45 minutes… it's yours! And you in the back row, here's the receipt for the $30 kettle which was bought at KMart in 2004 and stopped working (okay, it blew up) in 2009. The woman on the left, don't be shy, you can have the receipt for the $100 Epilady hair remover purchased from Big W in 2001. In fact, you can take the Epilady too, it fucking hurts.
And you sir, you look like a man who would appreciate the receipt for $99 issued in 2006 for my daughter's mobile phone which, incidentally, came with a bonus pink lip gloss. See? Says so there on the receipt.

Guess what's next… HAIRY DUSTBALLS …. Wow, I know, right?
So I'm a lazy housebitch and haven't done much cleaning around here since the kids finished school and ruined my life, err….. I mean … have been keeping me company every day. I figure if you each go to a corner of any room in the house and pick up a hairy dustball from my floorboards I won't need to vacuum again until at least Easter.

Okay, calm down. I know the dustballs are exciting, but now I'm giving you all…. KEYS…..
Oh shit, why are you all screaming? NO, NOT KEYS TO A CAR, YOU MORONS. I told you I do NOT have Oprah's budget. I have a drawer full of keys of every shape and size to give you though. What they open … who knows? Probably every door, window, boot and lid of every cupboard, house, car and locked box that we've ever owned. And even some that others owned. I'll hire a bus and we can all go on a 'Keyhole Crawl' around Adelaide, testing the keys in all sorts of places, and somebody may get lucky. I did work in a bank, y'know. I may not have returned the keys to the safe when I left .…

And now you're all getting ….LEFTOVER LIPSTICKS. Yeeehaaaaaaaaa!!
I have naturally pale lips so I don't go anywhere without a touch of colour on the smackers. This means there can often be lipsticks found in every handbag I own (which is a lot), as well as in every room of the house, in the car, in the pocket of my jeans, and of course in my underwear drawer. Yes, in with my bras and knickers. I must have read somewhere that sexy lingerie and luscious lips go together, but I think I got the context wrong.
I use them until they are almost empty, but not quite. There is just enough left that is accessible with a lip brush, or if I really smooch my kisser into the dregs and risk cutting my lip on the edge of the tube. But apparently I haven't thrown any of them out. I've been clinging to the possibility that I just might need the last smear of that Estee Lauder Pure Colour Long-Lasting Intense Moisturising Lipstick in the shade of 'Love Affair' for .. umm … a love affair. Guess I've held onto that one for 23 years.

And finally, you need something to carry all your goodies in, so you're all getting …. USED GIFT BAGS. Yeah baby!
I actually have giant gift bags full of medium gift bags, which are in turn full of smaller gift bags. Here's the fairy bag someone gave my nearly 16 year old daughter when she was 5, and the bottle bag with teddy bears on it that I received in 1996 holding the finest Spumante my sister-in-law's $2.95 could buy. I also have for somebody the 8 inch bag that I tried to squeeze a 10 inch present into about 6 years ago. Just ignore the big split down the side.

So there's my Crap Giveaway, done and dust(ball)ed for the year. I think we have established that I keep silly things, sometimes unnecessarily, and sometimes for a little longer than I should, just in case I can find a legitimate use for them, or because I'm too lazy to get rid of them.
The Husband has been here for 23 years……



2010 Fuckups and What I Have Learned From Them

2011-01-02T10:55:00.000+10:30

Fuckups. We all do them don't we? We open our mouths just to change feet; we select the wrong 'Sue' in our email address book; we hit ENTER instead of DELETE; we buy the size too small with the belief we will have lost 10 kilos by the party; we say "Yes, I'll make the pavlovas" when every fibre in our body is screaming "NO, don't you remember the 38 eggs you painstakingly separated and 'beat til peaks form' last year and how you cried with exhaustion?"; we take the piss out of Pandora, Ed Hardy and Amway just before our friend shows off her new bracelet, tshirt and distributor's name badge from guess where?

Sigh. It is essential that we learn from them though.
Apparently.
So I've heard.

#2010fuckup: I totally (and tipsily) misjudged the doorway from our kitchen to the family room one night whilst carrying a dozen plates and belted into the doorframe quite heavily.
What I Have Learned: Physics. Something about centrifugal forces, the arc of flight of a dozen plates, and the dents they make in a newly polished timber floor.

#2010fuckup: Let the son accept the gift of a car from Grandma.
What I Have Learned: Son occasionally gets 'Drive' and 'Reverse' mixed up and daughter can keep a secret for a maximum of about a week before spilling her guts.

#2010fuckup: When wearing my awesome winter boots with the lovely straps and buckles on them, I made the mistake of tucking my feet under me on a friend's sofa.
What I Have Learned: With a bit of inconspicuous but concerted tugging it is possible to break free, and a strategically placed cushion will temporarily cover the damage left behind. And that you can blame new puppies for anything.

#2010fuckup: I accidentally broke a wine glass into a zillion pieces at a friend's place.
What I Have Learned: Toddler's sipper cups don't break.

#2010fuckup: Neglected to give my son a strict "Dos and Don'ts" type of lecture before he went on a school trip to Melbourne for four days. Decided he was mature enough and didn't need it.
What I Have Learned: Unless instructed, he will not bother to phone home at all in four days. Not once. The only time his phone made contact with mine was when some other kid picked up his phone (whilst my oblivious and careless son was playing basketball), dialled 'MUM', and I chatted to a complete stranger for several minutes.

#2010fuckup : Sacrificed way too much sleep in the vain quest to see the Socceroos become legends at the World Cup. Losers.
What I Have Learned: Apparently nothing, as I did it again the following month when the Boomers were playing in the World Basketball Championships. Losers.

#2010fuckup: Went to the Ashes test in Adelaide expecting to see Australia play cricket.
What I Have Learned: We don't know how to play cricket. And that I need to apply sunscreen much sooner than when I start to go a bit pink.

#2010fuckup: I had a beer at the cricket.
What I Have Learned: I still don't like beer.

#2010fuckup: I didn't give enough thought to the electrician's question of "Where do you want the light switches located?"
What I Have Learned: Answering "Wherever, it doesn't matter" is proving to be an error of judgment a year later when I am about to come into possession of Gran's old chiffonier, and access to said light switches may be compromised. Still, dining by candlelight is romantic and means they can't see I've burnt their dinner, yes?

#2010fuckup: I arrived at a family member's house and opened the screen door from outside in an attempt to enter the house. Silly me.
What I Have Learned: The 58kg Pyrenees Mountain Dog who lives there does not like people opening the screen door from outside, it must be opened from the inside or he will consider you an intruder. Also learned that scratches, swollen red welts and bruises from such dogs really, really, really hurt.

#2010fuckup: I got quite drunk at home with friends one night recently, had a horrific hangover and took two days to clean up.
What I Have Learned: How many sexual partners all my friends have had.

#2010fuckup: I gave honest, forthright, bold opinions on more than one occasion when perhaps the more genteel thing to do would have been to bite my tongue, smile and say nothing.
What I Have Learned: I will never be genteel, so fuck it.

And The Bleat Goes On…

2010-12-20T08:03:00.001+10:30

You have the song stuck in your head now don't you? So do I. And Cher was so pretty back then, back when she could still move all the muscles in her face....

But "Shut up Cate and tell me....What is a bleat?" I hear you ask. When what you want to say is too long for a 140 character tweet on Twitter but not quite long enough for a blog post, a bleat is the result.

I have promised Heather of Note From Lapland, the luscious wench who tagged me, that I will bleat my teats off, which prompted London City Mum to issue a Severe Smother Warning. Bloody hell, I don't think even my teats reach that far, but I'll try.
@TheAttentionSeekingDramaQueenMoronWhoseProblemsAreAlwaysAsBigAsIfNotBiggerThanYoursAndEverybodyElses : Earlier in the week I tweeted the following message..."Being A Good Friend Tip#26: Do not trivialize your friend's bad day by comparing it to yours or everyone else's. Shut the fuck up & listen."
When someone says they've had a horrid bitch of a day, please don't reply with "Ahh, sorry, I'm having the same" or "Oh bummer, we've all been there" or "Sorry to hear that, we've all had one of those". Really? How do you know? Did you stop to ask what had happened first before you trivialized her complaint? What if her best friend had died, her husband announced he was gay, her dog got hit by a car and the heel on her most expensive shoe broke, all in one day? We've all had one of those days, have we?? Unless you stop and listen, you really have no fucking idea what she's been through.
And starting a sentence with "Sorry to hear that..." does NOT excuse what you say next.
Unless of course your BFF carked it, hubby came out of the closet, dog got splattered and fave Jimmy Choo went boohoo.

@BoringTweetersWhoThinkWeGiveAFuckAboutTheirBoringTweets : I have tweeted briefly about this before so it's not fresh news.
I know we are not all scintillatingly witty or stimulatingly clever all day, every day. It's hard work being awesome. Even I get tired sometimes. Yeah, yeah, stop laughing you lot in the back row. But please, I beg of you, spare me tweets like "Hello", "I am hungry", "I am hot", "I have a headache", "I need a snack", "I am tired", and my current favourite "I am cold." (not forgetting the extended mix versions "My nose is cold" and "My feet are cold") Seriously, you're wasting space on my screen where funny and interesting people could be.
What do I want to reply to these tweets?
You're hungry? Go eat something. It's not rocket science. You find food, open your mouth, put the food in, chew and swallow.
You're tired? Put the fucking twitter down and go to bed then. I don't care.
You're cold? No kidding! It is winter where you are, it is -5 degrees and you have 10 inches of snow so of course you're cold. How do I know all this? You told me. Every. Fucking. Day.
If it's a rare lapse that you do these kinds of tweets, that's fine, I'm not going to shoot nerf bullets at you for it. In fact I probably won't even notice. It is the repeat offenders who give me the irrits and have me reaching for the Super Deluxe N-Strike Vulcan Nerf Bazooka Blaster with 3 darts per second capabilities and bonus removable tripod.
In the interest of this being constructive criticism as opposed to just a rant, I'll share a tip. (I said a TIP, LCM) When I succumb and decide to tweet something plain and simple, I add a hashtag to acknowledge the fact that I am fully aware of its supreme dullness. Like #boringtweetoftheday or #boringoldladytweet or #likeanybodycares or #thingstwitterdoesntneedtoknow , thereby, hopefully, taking away its unimaginativeness. Or maybe you could just add #unimaginativeness

@SomeWomenWhoAreOldEnoughToKnowBetter : This is another thing I have tweeted briefly about before but couldn't elaborate on.
I am very uncomfortable about women who refer to their husband/partner/father of their children as "Daddy" when they are talking to other adults. Sure, when you are talking to your kids, "Give this to Daddy", "Go ask Daddy" and "Tell Daddy to stop hiding in the shed, I know he keeps his beer and porno stash out there" is perfectly acceptable. But when you are conversing solely with adults (real life or Twitter) please stick to terms like Husband, Other Half, M.O.T.H. (Man Of The House), or H.I.M. (He Impregnated Me).

Calling him Daddy smacks of immaturity. And incest.

@ThatFuckingCat : He was waking us at 4am to go out. He was banging on our window at 5am to come back in. He was waking us again at 6am to go out. And so on and so on. He goes in and out a thousand times a day and night, so we put in a cat door. Hooray, problem solved, you think? Pig's bloody arse. He refuses to push it open himself so we still have to either hold it open for him, physically shove him through or prop it open. When we prop it open, all the other neighbourhood cats come in and eat his food, while he sits and watches them. Like he invited them for a dinner party. Only they don't even bring wine.
We have thought of the electronic doors that open automatically only when your cat, wearing the special tagged collar, approaches. But he has lost 5 collars in 6 months, fuck knows where, so not convinced that would last long.
Does anybody want That Fucking Cat for Christmas? I'll throw in free gift wrapping and an obsolete cat door.

@TheHystericalPeopleWhoCriedLikeBabiesJustBecauseOprahWasHere : I am not in Sydney nor involved in the Tourism industry so I will make no money from her visit. She didn't make a surprise visit to my place for a barbecue and sing-along in my backyard. She didn't give me a new computer or $250,000 or a pearl necklace (inappropriate giggle). She did have the Irwin kids on stage, let Nicole Kidman sing with a real microphone, and she broke Hugh Jackman's face.
Okay, now I'm crying too. Just not for the same reason.

@ThePeopleWhoPutUpWithMySillinessOnTwitterWhoReadOrCommentOnMyBlogAndWhomIHaveComeToThinkOfAsFriends : You know who you are. You chat to me with no judgement, you have read not only my sarcastic rants but my more serious musings. A select few have even read some gut-wrenching heartbreak from me. Just because I don't tweet or post every second day about miscarriage, depression or loss, doesn't mean I haven't experienced them; sometimes the sardonic humour hides a black cloud. But those closest to me know some of this. Thank you. I know that you all know there is more to me than boobs, wine and penis marbles.

"I'm strong on the surface, not all the way through. I've never been perfect, but neither have you." ~ Linkin Park #ILikeToTweetLyrics

Your turn everybody, go bleat your teats off.

Infinite

2010-12-10T20:45:00.001+10:30

I have been a mother for more than 18 years and over that time have been asked, and asked myself, many important questions.
Are my children developing as they should?
Which education system is the best?
Do they have a nice group of friends?
Are they doing their best at school?
Should I push them harder or let them be?
Are they happy?
What is that smell coming from my son's room?
So many conundrums, so much anxiety. And barely enough air freshener.

Another question has been put to me, one I have previously not given an immense amount of thought to until now.
What do you wish you could provide your children with an infinite amount of?
My mind started racing; this is easy, I want everything ad infinitum for my kids.
Or do I?

Love. They already have that from us. They have the ability to love very deeply too. To infinity and beyond. But they should also know how to earn other people's love and trust. Not just expect it. And never demand it. I want them to fall in love, fall out of love, get back up and fall in love all over again. Though it would be nice if that didn't involve too many divorce lawyers.
Money. Umm, no, an infinite fortune at their fingertips will teach nothing about work ethic, saving and the satisfaction of reaching goals. Shouldn't they struggle just a little now and then in order to appreciate what they have? Knowing all the while that we will support them if the need arises, because apparently we have a Money Tree growing in the back yard.
Happiness. Of course I want my kids to be happy. But an infinite amount? All the time? No, not if it is at the expense of other emotions. Shouldn't they also feel sadness, anger, hurt, sorrow? How else do we learn to grow and heal ourselves, how to feel sympathy for others? I have never been a helicopter parent, hovering over them, covering them in bubble wrap, protecting them from knowing or experiencing reality. I want them to feel. And share it. Just not while Glee is on.
Clean Underwear. Didn't your mother always tell you to wear clean underwear in case you get hit by a bus? Though as a friend pointed out to me recently, if you see the bus bearing down on you, it isn't going to stay clean for long. An infinite supply? No, the kids would never learn to do their own laundry.
Health. I do want them to be healthy. Absolutely. Although would infinite health mean not even a cold? A broken finger? A minor injury or ailment that forces the body and mind to slow down, recuperate and perhaps even introduce a healthier lifestyle? Would they bounce through life completely unaware of how important it is to listen to your body and be aware of its limitations? No, everybody needs to go through Man Flu at least once. Preferably when I'm not around.
Courage. To hold your ground, speak your mind, take chances and fight for what's right. Courage to challenge and change. Though not infinite. Shouldn't kids also experience fear and learn when to use restraint? When to be cautious? Wouldn't infinite courage lead some to risky decisions and behaviour? I'll just go ask Tiger Woods what he thinks....
Skills and Abilities. Imagine the joy of the kids being able to turn their hand to anything. To attempt something and have it come so easily to them. To always succeed. But to never fail? To never have to strive to even improve, let alone learn anything new? To always win and have no empathy for those struggling behind you? No thank you. I would never get to beat my kids at Scrabble again.
Wine. Oh sorry, that's on MY infinite wish list, don't know how that got in here.... moving along....
Patience. Does anybody have an infinite well of patience? It would be nice to stand in a slow-moving queue throughout your whole lunch break and it not bother you; to listen to your neighbour's loud music all night, depriving you of precious sleep and it not bother you; to drive in peak hour traffic which makes you late for an appointment, and it not bother you. As long as patience doesn't become apathy, it is a virtue. But in infinite reserves? No, I think the world needs to get impatient at injustices. A little impatience in people can push them to get things done, make things happen, initiate change. Especially if you have a child who can go out and practice their trumpet playing under the neighbour's window at 6am the next morning.
Humour. We need to laugh. We need to see the funny side of things. We also need to instil this message in our kids. It is the best medicine and the most effective weapon. A sense of humour can carry us through the most harrowing times of our lives. Infinite though? No, an infinite supply in my kids would be dangerous. It would result in School Reports labelling them the class clowns, and lead to inappropriate giggling during funeral services. Trust me.

Does all of this make me sound negative? Like I don't want the best life has to offer for my kids?
I hope not, because what I want my two beautiful children to have in infinite measure is....
....balance.

This post is not sponsored, but is part of a vodafone infinite plans competition. Therefore I would appreciate an infinite number of comments!

The ABCs of Me

2010-12-09T15:49:00.002+10:30

I have been tagged on Facebook by the lovely Dave Bartlett to alphabetize myself, or analyse, or anaesthetize, something like that. Since I don't really 'do' Facebook much, it's getting posted here instead.

A – Age: Older than I used to be but younger than I'm going to be. Hey, I've revealed it on here before, go look for it.

B – Bed size: As long as there's room to do whatever I want to do in it, doesn't really matter. If not, the kitchen table comes in handy.

C – Chore you hate: All of them. That's why they're called chores, innit?

D – Names of your Dogs: Have had Zippy, Candy, Maddy and Clodagh. All of them are on that farm where all old dogs go, playing happily together…. What? There's no farm??

E – Essential start your day item(s): Toothbrush, deodorant and hair straightener. This is what the three Wise Men should have brought instead of that other useless crap.

F – Favourite colour: In clothes, black; in flowers, pink; on walls, yellow; in sky, blue; on traffic lights, green; in wine, white; on bills, anything but red; in shoes, ANY colour, as long as there are loads of them in my size.

G – Gold or Silver: Gold. Preferably with diamonds.

H – Height: 5'4 and a half" Don't ever forget the half. Very important. Puts me out of reach of Hobbits.

I – Instruments you play: That's a bit personal…. Oh, musical. None. Played the Wreakorder in primary school. So called because the Recorder group wreaked havoc with everybody's eardrums.

J – Job: Used to work in a bank, then child minding (not just my own, others actually trusted me with their monsters and paid me for it, how funny is that?), followed by 10 years of full-on voluntary bits and pieces at the kids' school (which earnt me no money, but a lovely flower arrangement when I left. Would have preferred money. Or wine.) Now a blogging, tweeting housebitch.

K – Kids: Damn it, yes, I have a couple.

L- Living arrangements: Not far enough away from the kids.

M – Mum's name: Mum. What? That's what I call her… to her face …

N – Nicknames: Madam Whip. Kidding. Maybe.

O – Overnight hospital stay other than birth: Miscarriage. Worst night of my life. Enough said.

P – Pet Peeve: Too many to mention, don't have a 'pet' one, loads of things piss me off now that I'm a grumpy old fart. If I had to choose one, I guess a recurring trigger of annoyance over the years has been mothers (and fathers) who work outside the home assuming I am stupid or just a lazy bitch because I chose to be a full time mum. I am not stupid, in fact I am smarter than a lot of the critics. Yes, I AM a lazy bitch now, but that's not why I haven't had a paid job for a long time. We made a decision for our family many years ago that as long as I didn't need to work outside the home for either financial or self-fulfillment reasons, then I wouldn't. And I didn't. So I haven't. It has worked for us.
So, fuck you.

Q – Fave Movie Quote: Again, hard to choose a fave. I quote lines from movies all the time, and can sometimes not even remember where I got them from. Frontrunners would be anything from Monty Python, which features very heavily in my language. "I fart in your general direction" is a regular. Not that I fart regularly, I just say it. Really.
I also throw odd ones in now and then, like "you son of a motherless goat" from The Three Amigos. That gets me strange looks. And then there's Star Wars. Full of gems. Nup, can't pick a fave.... "Laugh it up, fuzzball".... "Uh, we had a slight weapons malfunction, but uh... everything's perfectly all right now. We're fine. We're all fine here now, thank you. How are you?" ...."Travelling through hyperspace ain't like dusting crops, boy"... "Either I'm going to kill her or I'm beginning to like her." ....."It's against my programming to impersonate a deity" ...oh for fuck's sake, somebody stop me.

R – Right or left handed: Right. But my left hand is talented in other ways.

S – Siblings: Unfortunately, yes, I have them too.

T – Time you wake up: Whenever That Fucking Cat sticks his claws into me or screams in my ear.

U – Underwear: I wear it when I have to.

V – Vegetable you dislike: Brussels sprouts. I can't even bring myself to elaborate or be funny about them. They do make cracking good missiles though.

W – Workout style: hahahahahahaha …. Okay, let me get my breath back. I walk every day. Except when it's raining. Or too bloody hot. Or I'm sick. Or hungover.

X – Xrays you've had: Broken wrist and broken ankle. Not at the same time.

Z – Zoo fave: I should say the Pandas since we have some in Adelaide now, but I haven't even been to see them yet. Actually it's the meerkats. I want one. I really, really want one. Unless it sticks its claws into me and screams in my ear.

You may (or may not) notice there is no 'Y'. There is a reason for that. 'Y' is for Yummy food you make.
Unanimous family vote to leave that one blank.
Bastards.

Adelaide Oval Ashes Test: In Pictures

2010-12-07T14:20:00.003+10:30

So, the Adelaide Ashes Test has been played and won. *grumbles*

Thanks to Vodafone, I got to attend and took along my fabulous...err, trusty ... err, crappy.... camera to do some snapping. I won't say much, as I will be tempted to go on a rant about how completely shit we played and how bloody hopeless we.... never mind. Bloody cricket.

I do have one question that arose from my observations though. What is it with Englishmen, YOUNG Englishmen mind you, wearing dark (black, grey and ugh, brown) ankle socks and shoes? In Australia? In Summer? In 36C heat? At the cricket? Out in public?

Enough words, just enjoy the pics. Oh, and if you're not into cricket, don't despair, I got bored and took pics of the crowd too.

Shane Warne ... we could have done with him in the team....

Former captain Mark Taylor.... Tubby might have been useful too...

.... and Ian Healy....

... not to mention Michael Slater. If only for the eye candy factor.

The Aussies like to have a vigorous game of Hokey Pokey before play each day.

Best dressed pom?

Best dressed aussie?

A rare celebratory moment. Probably when they announced the bars were open.

The Royal Family in attendance.

And The Flintstones.

Me in pink holding straw hat, pretending to be a proud pom. The writing was already on the wall. Or on the flag.

I don't drink beer. I don't like beer. But I had a beer. I was at the cricket and it was fucking hot as hell. It's what you do.

This girl won two awards; Shortest Dress and Most Shameless Display of Cellulite.

The looming thunderstorms.

And finally..... my police escort out of the ground after I started the riots.....

.... just kidding. Maybe.

Wipe Your Feet

2010-11-25T06:30:00.003+10:30

I have decided I should write a self-help book.
Doormat To Dictator In One Day.

It would probably have to carry the sub-title "And back to the doormat by bedtime."
Because that's me, that's my personality. I am a swinger, and not in the fun way that means my keys are always found in a bowl at parties.
As a kid, I was mostly a doormat. I just wanted to fit in, not make waves, not be too noticeable. I was generally a follower amongst my peers, not a leader. Oh. Except maybe at sport. I do admit to the recurring affliction of White Line Fever. There are several girls, and probably some boys (hey, I didn't discriminate), out there with fading scars, unhealed fractures and still bruised egos who would probably testify to that.
When asked for an opinion I would often shrug my shoulders, wait for someone else to give theirs, and agree. There was always someone louder, stronger, more outgoing and confident, who would step up to the plate. The people who know me now are probably incredulous, as I have proven myself to be louder than rock music and quite capable of waking neighbours at 3am with a dirty joke, a roar of laughter and a bit of Hollywood-style old-school soft-shoe shuffling (okay, stomping) out in the street. I may have danced head-first into the tree once or twice but I still got up to finish with *jazz hands*. What a fucking trooper.
But not back then. I kept quiet. Was it through absence of opinion, or fear of expressing one? Mostly the latter, I believe. Pretty sure I always had opinions, but was reluctant to let my mouth release them.
At home I was the youngest child in a house where my mother totally ruled with intimidation, manipulation and emotional blackmail. I just did as I was told. I may have rolled my eyes, had a surly expression on my face, and even poked my tongue out at her behind her back, but I did it.
She was bossy and dominating wherever she went. She wanted to be in charge, to dictate how things should be done. No shrugging of the shoulders and going with the flow for her. Even as she got older and took on volunteering, if somebody else was made the Grand Poobah of Monday's Bingo Balls ahead of her, she took her colour-coordinated textas and her shiny name badge and moved to Wednesdays.
I didn't want to cause trouble, and I also didn't want to be like her, so I let the doormat attitude rule my mind and body. For the most part I accepted this as my lot in life; part genetics (from Dad), part upbringing, part my choice. But eventually, the doormat dam broke, years of held-back opinions rushed forth and there were flashfloods of verbal rebellion. You should have seen people scurrying for their lifejackets and paddles. The unpredictable ebbs and flows of white water rafting have nothing on me.
I can't pinpoint a timeframe or a specific catalyst; I just know I didn't want to be a doormat any longer. Problem was, I didn't really know how to express an opinion in a non-confrontational, objective, pleasant manner. I had never learned. So I SCREAMED it. I got sulky, angry or belligerent. I cried. Pouted. Slammed doors. Threw plums in the swimming pool and blamed the neighbours.
My mother's genetics appearing? Typical teenager? Hormones? Maybe. Partly. Mostly though, I think I was like a really bad case of gas that had just been held in for far too long, resulting in a big, violent fart. I stank the joint up.
The learning process continued. I oscillated between doing what I was told, and wanting to dictate things my way. By the time I started working, I realised the doormat approach was required again. At least initially. I was young, shy, learning the ropes, meeting new people. I became a bit of a follower, probably until my first drunken work function brought me out of my shell. Prawns and champagne. Holy projectile vomit, Batman.
Work, marriage, children, family issues, health issues, frustrating friendships, new experiences …. all have brought out different levels of either subservience or dominance in me. Sometimes I have been targeted because people knew I would be a doormat and say "yes, whatever you want", and I have considered having 'SUCKER' tattooed on my … umm …. forehead.

Other times I could be a contestant on Evil Dictator Idol. I have literally seen people catch sight of me and duck off to avoid the 'Wrath of Cath'. Fuck, I hate the name Cath, but it rhymes with wrath. Don't call me Cathryn either. Cathryn is no doormat. She will fucking kick your arse.
Don't get me wrong, I am not always either a screaming dictator or having people wipe their dogshit-covered shoes on me. Due to the upbringing I had, the lack of an encouraging learning forum, and the choices I made, I have had to teach myself how to express opinions calmly, and try to find a safe, middle ground. Compromise, the golden word. And I don't always succeed. But I try.
It has been a never ending struggle for me. I still shrug my shoulders and give in to people far too easily on occasion. I also get controlling and bite heads off more often than I should. I then have to spend energy either chastising myself for being too weak or apologising to others for being too strong. Most of the time though, now that I'm older and wiser (or just older), I hope I can be found somewhere in between the two extremes.
Just swinging.
Anybody seen my keys?