Emmasbrainblogs: Yer Mum

The D and Em Podcast.

2017-01-31T12:15:00.000+11:00

I have taken some time to chickety-check myself on this space. I've enrolled at uni and attempted to fill in the extensive blanks of my interrupted schooling. I took intensive grammar, bought an Australian style guide from the uni shop for the princely sum of eighty bazzillion dollars and Charlie Hunnam on a bike ... I had so much to learn.

I am arse-ing my way through a creative writing and journalism double major, because I could sit back and become frustrated by all the things I don't know that make me look like a dickhead, or I could face them and learn.

Guess what? I didn't even know what I didn't know. Fuck sake.

I've been lucky enough to study podcasting, or digital audio journalism as part of my degree. I've been blessed with patient and knowledgeable teachers, (one of which were a part of the making of Pheobe's Fall. If you like crime type stuff, you will enjoy this).

Whilst I was becoming learned ...

It's pronounced LEARNNNNED Pepe.

I was toying with the idea of making a radio doc style podcast with all of my new found knowledge when I received a phone call from Her Radio, offering me this very opportunity, working beside, ahead and behind of some crazy talented individuals. It is bizarre how that happens. I took a risk and landed in the exact place I was supposed to be it seems.

So, *shifty eyes ... You may have already heard, and by 'may' I mean I have definitely crammed this down the necks of all the patient and beautiful people that belong to any and all of my social media accounts. Jesus wept ...

Agh, we had this thing ... we were meant to launch in December, when suddenly ... drama, so we may have started promoting a little early... BUT! We got there! and we've made a radio doc type podcast on labels and stereotypes called The D & Em.

We really wanted to examine and take an unfiltered look at what labels can do, both positive and negative. We want to inform people in a way that makes them want to hear it. Being politically correct is fine, necessary even, but somewhere along the way, being politically correct has turned into an excuse to attack those with less knowledge. No discussions were ever started by attacking someone, and discussions are so important in making any sort of change.

Season one starts Feb 1st with teen pregnancy in Oz, a subject close to my heart. I have had the opportunity to interview some fucking amazing people, get some really honest opinions about the labels we give people and do some pretty eye opening research. It has been fairly emotionally taxing, as anything worthwhile is. I have had to really examine some fucked up parts of my life, including that of my interrupted schooling. I don't even think I am the same person anymore, in a good way, I left the person who started this podcast in the Her Radio Meeting space in Newtown, Sydney.

Bye Felicia - *facepalm- *shove in the opposite direction to me.

I will be starting my studies again this semester knowing so much more about what I didn't know, I didn't know. I am so stinkin proud of what we have made.

Then there was the music...

And man, speaking of proud ... Wait ... Proud isn't the right word, considering none of their achievements are in any way mine, but ... THESE GUYS! FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!!

http://www.grizzleetrain.com/

I begged, negotiated licencing agreements, promised a thousand beers, most definitely creeped them out and in the end, they loaned me a track to use for the podcast, possibly to make me go away, but that isn't even the point.

The point is, I am continuously mind blown at the extent Aussie creatives go to support other Aussie creatives. This gesture is contributing to the reasons podcasting in Australia is going to be smashing ground all over the place this year.

The track we used is called 'Step outside' You will be addicted to it by the time the season is done.

Check out
GRIZZLEE TRAIN to find out where you can get it.

These guys are insanely talented and you are going to be hearing massive things about them this year.

Speaking of Australian talent ...

You can check out some more Grizzlee Train on Kasey Chambers' new album.
Have you heard it? It's fantastic, mellow, kinda rootsy, kinda bluesy, my descriptions aren't doing it justice so check it out, see what you think.

So this is where I'm at folks! You can catch up with the podcasts goings on here!

You can listen and subscribe to the D & Em podcast if it sounds like your thing, by clicking on your preferred platform below.

How to woman- A guide.

2016-02-11T13:18:00.000+11:00

This week has been a little shit, as was last week, and the week before. Come to think of it, pretty much the entire duration of 2016 thus far has been unsatisfactory and can inhale my flaccid.

I looked forward to the New Year with thrilling expectation only to find that it is yet to deliver. You know what? It’s kind of like that movie, with what’s its face… Abs...*clicks fingers… Magic Mike Two.

I was hysterically excited about that movie, like, I sat in my recliner groaning slightly, muttering the words ‘For the sweet love of all things sacred, Channing.Fucking.Tatum’ under my breath while I fanned my face with one hand and nibbled on popcorn with another.

Then Pony starts playing, and the grinding and the FUCK I HAVE NEVER WANTED TO BE A POWER TOOL SO MUCH IN MY LIFE, Then…. Nothing. For fuck sake, people wandering around whining that they don’t know what they want to do with their life. JOIN THE FUCKING CLUB!

That was why I went to the movies in the first place! To circumvent my own mind into forgetting that for a while. FARK.

*Punches keyboard *Takes a sip of cool water *takes a small break to google pictures of Channing Tatum.

Anyway. While I am navigating the general bitter unpleasantness that has thus far been 2016, not having any idea what I am doing, I am buoyed by the fact that until I figure it out, I can open my social media feeds and be instructed on how to woman at least.

This brings me to...

How to woman. A guide. VOL 2.

For those playing along at home, this is the second post in a series of chirography, that will help you make sense of the abundance of helpful womaning advice.

The first of which is this article HERE. This was sent to me quite a few times.

Instagram.com

Did you know that you can lift things with your vagina?

I mean, I pick things up with my feet all the time, it was a skill I learned after having a baby that lived on my hip for two years. I would drop things, or the baby would drop things, and I would swiftly scoop my foot over to the dropped object, curl my toes around it and thrust my leg into a nimble bum kick and retrieve the object.

Oh, and there was this one time, I was hung over as arse; I was so hungover I was actually impressed I was still alive.

All I could do was lay on the couch and watch Netflix right? I inevitably dropped the remote, it was just out of reach, and instead of getting up to pick it up I did this impressive planking manoeuvre off the lounge, grabbed the remote, but then I got stuck and had to drop the remote and use the coffee table to hoist myself back on the lounge.

Needless to say the remote stayed on the floor, and I lay there thinking of ways to train my bird Kev or perhaps one of the many cats to fetch things for me until Cabbage walked past to pick it up.

Never in my life had I contemplated picking things up with my vagina! This woman does, she can lift a multitude of items with hers.

Her favourite items apparently are Garden gnomes and Gluten free, organic, coconut sugared donuts.

I know right? I can't even make this shit up... I really don't mean to judge, but fucking gluten free *Rolls eyes, but to be fair I can imagine the plain old Wendy’s cinnamon may be a little burny.

This got me thinking, should I be lifting things with my vagina? Is my vagina pulling its weight? (Pardon the pun)

I thought about all the things I could do if my no good, lazy arse vag would start helping out.

I could move furniture, I could open pasta sauce jars, I could walk the dogs with my vagina! Maybe even mow the lawn? Heck, if this lady can pick up a surfboard with hers I could definitely probably carry a few Coles bags if it wasn’t full of tins or cat food and stuff, I could change a toilet roll, I could pick up the bits of detritus that gather along the skirting boards, all like squat and sweep.

I could water the garden, I could even crack open a Corona slice a thin wedge of lime and serve it to myself with my vagina!

I could be all like, *Cheers to an improving 2016!

Then I remembered... Fucking foul and I have hands and I went about my day.

How to woman. A comprehensive guide to vagina ownership.

2016-02-02T14:13:00.000+11:00

How to woman. A comprehensive guide to vagina ownership.

Congratulations on your vagina.

Having a vagina though, is not all parasailing over an ocean to smile serenely and twirl about through a lush field of indeterminable pink flowers, whilst sporting a crisp pair of snug fitting ¾ length white capris pants and rollerblades like the feminine hygiene products will have you believe.

No my friend. A vagina is a responsibility for life, not just for Christmas.

Don’t be frightened however, there are plenty of people and media coverage to help you navigate the tricky world of vagina ownership, and if at any time you feel unsure, you may simply open your social media feeds, desktop, or mobile browser and there will be a plethora of advice ready at your fingertips to ensure you aren’t ‘Doing Vagina’ wrong.

Having so much advice however can be overwhelming. This series of posts will help you make sense of this abundance of helpful vagina regulation and the principal of acceptable behaviour available to you in the media each week.

Responsible vagina ownership means understanding and accepting that what you do with that vagina is open to constant scrutiny from everyone; certain rules must be followed for the good of mankind and all of the earth’s children.

Won’t somebody please think of the fucking children?

This brings us to the first regulation. Let’s take a look at the most popular advice in the media this week regarding children.

Why I hear you ask? What does this have to do with my vagina?

Well, as we all know, babies come from vaginas. Not only is that how they get in there, but it is also often the way they come out. Whilst the details of this may not appear to be any of anyone else’s personal concern, it most certainly is.

If you are going to go around making people, then eventually those people are going to be out in society, they may eventually end up living next door, and therefore, it is up to everyone to govern you to make sure you are doing it right. It is only fair.

Let us first take a look at one of the most important decisions you will make when your child is born.

What are you going to name that child?

It is very important to consult everyone around you when it comes to naming a baby. Think about it; be considerate when choosing a baby name. Those around you will have to read your baby’s name in their social media feeds once you do the birth announcement, your child’s name will also appear in small bold Calibri body font below your child’s school class photo, next to their child. Also others around you may on occasion have to hear you call your child’s name whilst you are out in the general public. Don’t be so selfish.

Don’t despair though. To make sure you aren’t doing it wrong, Kidspot this week have kindly offered some advice for not giving your baby the wrong name. In particular, the wrong Hipster name.

Yes it seems that some names are just too cool, and nope, not allowed. Too bad.

Hazel and Edith are out, because who cares how adorable those names actually are, giving your child those names will run the risk of you looking like a wanker trying to be cool for the sake of being cool. Which let’s face it. Is not cool. You know… According to Kidspot. *Squints into the sun to avoid any involuntary facial amusement.

Also banned are names like Ella and Miles. Apparently these names are too Jazz musician-y sounding, and who do you think you are?

I mean, Louis Armstrong that said “If you have to ask what Jazz is, you will never know” And if you name your baby without first consulting a judgmental article on an online parenting publication, well, shame faced for you… You deserve what you get.

Harper and Atticus are also out of line it seems. You can’t just go around picking an adorable name because it is also a name that exists in 20^th century literature. For that matter, please make sure you copyright your child’s name when the minute they are born, just in case their name ends up being the same as a character in a novel in the future.

Fucking seriously... How many novels is Stephen king up to now? It’s only a matter of time before he has to use your kid’s name, and no one wants their kid to be have the same name as a demonic thermo-mix, that sends subliminal messages to kill people and over run the earth with clown... It is only a matter of time.

You can also go have it off with yourself if you think it is acceptable to name your child after a ‘Travel destination’ Londonand Sydney are out.

Apparently naming your child after your favourite travel destination or the place they were conceived is so passé. This is not so great news for adorable names like Savannah or Adelaide, but let’s face it. It is great news for all of the little ones whose parents like to holiday in places like Bong County- Liberia or Dildo-Newfoundland, not to mention the babies conceived in places like Smut Eye-Alabama or Condom-France.

Speaking of which, a condom may be the only way to not name your baby wrong according to Kidspot.

Check out the article HERE.

Once you have your baby name sorted, you must accept that you will never again get a weekend, public holiday, lunch break, or any break again for that matter. Your child must consume your whole life and your entire existence must be given to meeting the needs of that child forever and ever. It’s how functioning members of society are made after all.

You certainly can’t go pissing off on a weekend with two of your best mates, lying around with a Pimms and eating strawberries, getting some sun on your tits on a balcony somewhere. Because that is absolutely not what I got up to last weekend, and if anyone says otherwise they are a filthy dirty liar.

You must always cater for your childs needs at all times or you're doing it wrong, unless of course it is at the expense of how you may appear to others during the school drop off.

In order to do it right, make sure that you also have time to get dressed, because feeding your child breakfast, making sure they are clean and dressed, with enough reasonably healthy sustenance for the day ahead, as well as all of the things they need for that day, library books, pencil case, hat and sunscreen and a great big reassuring kiss are important. But just as important as these things, is looking like you did it effortlessly by making sure you don’t take them to school whilst still wearing your oversized Lynyrd Skynyrd T shirt circa 1987, Harry Potter leggings that you bought from Jay Jays for ten bucks and ughs. I mean how fucking hard is it?

Lucky for us all though, a School Principal let us know how not to do mornings wrong this week when a letter was sent out to the parents of little ones attending Skerne Park Academy, reminding parents of the importance of setting a good example for your children by making sure you always appear to everyone else like you completely have all of your shit together and are coping at all times.

Even if you’re not.

Even if you have the flu, have had no sleep with a teething baby, even if you are a bee’s pubic hair away from losing your shit, even if you aren’t losing your shit and you simply ran out of time. Just fucking don’t. For the sweet love of Russel Brands abs, just LOOK like you are superior to every other parent at the school gate at all costs.

According to Principal Chisolm, she ‘doesn’t give a hoot what people wear at home’, to which the public replied that they couldn’t give a flying fuck what Mrs Chisolm thought about wearing Pyjamas to the school drop off and everyone went home and had watched Dr Phil the end.

You can read the article HERE.

Please if you see an article that is helpful to your vagina, please ping or email it my way.
Cheers. xx

Liar Liar Pants On Fire.

2015-11-23T17:38:00.003+11:00

When I was younger, I remember writing this massive Christmas list filled with all of the stuff I ever wanted, because STUFF and I wanted it. The fucking hippies never let us have all that much stuff, because it was wasteful and not necessary to contribute to free society or some shit. I mean we always had an amazing Christmas don’t get me wrong, but we were never allowed to have a slap band because ‘Violence’ *Rolls eyes, or be part of any fad, because we had to learn to think for ourselves and not be caught up in schoolyard social and commercial harvesting movements.

Fark… and I have never gotten over it. Nope, fuck off; I am holding on to that grudge forever, .shove it up your arse.

Anyway, I remember writing this massive Christmas list and my dad took a disapproving look at it, rubbed his beard, pondered for a moment then said.

‘Em, did you know Santa is an anagram for Satan? Possessions won’t make you happy; living to gain possessions is a miserable waste of a life. Did you know some people starve to death, so hungry they die, at the exact same moment someone else is cheering and clapping as they watch someone eat a hundred hotdogs as quickly as they can?

He tapped his temple with his index finger, then he pointed it at me, his finger formed a pistol and shot me with it, as he winked.

‘Messed up if you think about it too hard isn’t it?’ He said.

YES IT IS MESSED UP!! I was seven!! Dude!!!

So, I went back in my room and culled my Christmas list feeling guilty about asking for anything other than air, memories and food for starving nations...

For fuck sake, this is exactly what is wrong with me right there.

*Massages temples, *Sips coffee that is definitely fair trade and bites a Valium in half.

Now I am older though, slightly wiser but not any more mature, I get it. I do.

I was wrapping Christmas gifts for my kids the other night, dreading buying things with so many small pieces, because I would eventually be picking them up off the floor or digging them out of the vacuum cleaner hose eventually. Fuck my kids have SO MUCH STUFF.

While I was wrapping, I was thinking about Christmas time in general, and how it was the time for giving, and memories, and being grateful also, LYING MY ARSE OFF to my kids.

I go to great lengths to bullshit my kids, like sociopathic lengths…

I chew on carrots then chuck them in the front yard so my kids think that reindeer ate them. There was this one year right, that I put glitter in a jar of sultanas and I dropped them in little piles on the front driveway to look like magical reindeer shit.

I actually planted imitation sparkle turd in my own yard.

I have written fraudulent letters claiming to be Santa, thanking them for the carrots, milk and cookies. I even altered my handwriting and put in convincing details like I was a Nigerian Prince ready to hand over my inheritance.

I have mixed talcum powder and glitter and painted two large foot prints on the floor near the fireplace as some sort of weird proof that a guy broke in to our house.

I told my kids that Christmas beetles spy on them. Yep. I told them that some Christmas beetles are actually Santa’s elves in disguise and they are coming to check that they are going to bed on time and brushing their teeth.

When I get caught out in a lie, I make a bigger more elaborate lie, like the time I told my kids that I buy the presents for Santa to bring, I post them to him, and he then decides if you are good enough to get them all, that is why the presents are in my wardrobe, I simply haven’t posted them to Santa yet.

I then had to tell them that if you go looking for presents I haven’t posted yet, they magically disappear when they get to Santa’s workshop.

I have quickly explained to puzzled faces that the Santa’s in the shops are working for Santa and not the real Santa. He sends them to compile the lists because he is too busy, that is why Santa is in Myer and outside IGA at the same time.

Dead set, SO MANY brazen faced, insolent fraudulences have spilled out of my word hole at my kids in the spirit of keeping the Christmas magic in -tact for them.

Unlike some…

Not mentioning any names.

*Dad.

Meanwhile, like a good sociopath, I have convincing and selfish reasons to lie like I do.

You see, firstly, my parents damaged me, I wrote a whole blog and also a book about it, secondly the magic of Christmas time is so fleeting, and I want to keep it going as long as I can.

I want the kids to remember that time as the most magical of the year, and when they inevitably figure out I am a fucking massive liar, I want them to be so impressed by my elaborate attempts to deceive them that they forget the deceit all together. So I guess memories are still on my Christmas list.

Memories, a week in Fiji, a humidor hard cover flight guitar case.. also a hose link hose, but that is a long story and I will tell it another time.

Do you have any good bullshit you tell kids? I may need to use it.

Wolf spiders and fisting pies.

2015-10-01T17:54:00.000+10:00

Audrey, doing her best Joe Hockey.

So I have had a shit couple of weeks. Nothing I can’t handle because I am a soldier damnit.

Mostly I have just been overwhelmed. Y’all know that I sometimes over commit myself, I end up with so many fingers, knuckle deep in so many pies that I just punch a fist a fist in, and there I am fisting away at so many pies that I forget why I liked that pie enough to finger it in the first place.

I have to go back to Uni soon, but the THOUGHT of it, man…I just get overwhelmed with stuff sometimes.

When I get overwhelmed I clean. I don’t just dust and run a mop over… No. I angry-frenzy clean, I move furniture around and I purge stuff. I throw everything in garbage bags in a trenchant manner like the mere existence of it offends me.

Speaking of which I bought something else off the TV. It’s a mop that spins. My mate bought one and convinced me to buy one, (You should totally follow her on twitter, we will absolutely have a sports commentary podcast together one day, and it will be hilarious)

At any rate, being overwhelmed puts me in a foul mood, which isn’t just unpleasant to be around; it is unpleasant to look at.

Seriously, have you seen my face? I suffer terribly from resting bitchy face at the best of times let alone when I actually have the shits.

My cat also suffers from bitchy resting face.

Audrey, perpetually looking like she is cracking a sad.

Meanwhile, I packed the children off to Nans for a few days, and I am putting my frustrated energy into getting shit done. Shit I put off for ages, like the linen cupboard and the laundry.

Fuck my laundry... It’s... fuck it.

This morning, I took a break from fisting pies, and I decided to get rid of an old dead palm plant that I had been staring at for ages thinking… I really should chuck that thing out, but I never do because.. FISTING. Nothing says I am a lazy, un-nurturing, time poor person like dead house plants. I have a house full of them and it is time for them to go.

Anyway, I picked up the old dead palm, and carried it to the front door. I proceeded to open the front door when I felt a strange pinching sensation on my left bird flipping finger. I peered around the pot to see a half squashed wolf spider literally FANGING into my finger tip.

I’ll wait a minute for all the readers who don’t live in Australia to google Wolf Spider, scream, vow never to visit Australia and then come back here to read the rest of this story.

Luckily for me, my many years of hacking away on the guitar have rendered the tips of my man hands, as hard as leather, and the half dead wolf spider could not penetrate the skin.

I dropped the pot, and by dropping it I mean hurling it toward the door while I danced the jig of spider violation.

It is an interesting interpretative dance made up of moves such as shuddering, flailing limbs, screeching and inspecting one’s self all over to make sure the spider is no longer on you.

THEN, I couldn’t find the spider.

It was surely somewhere plotting its revenge.

I felt so violated… I couldn’t stop the sensation that something was crawling on me, I needed Ricky Martin to come over, hold me, stoke my hair and in his soothing accent say things like;

“There, there darling”

“The spider is gone now”

Show Ricky exactly where the spider touched you”

And I would answer;

“EVERYWHERE RICKY!!! EVERYWHERE!!! MAKE IT STOP!!!” While I sobbed uncontrollably and jumped occasionally, when a strand of my own hair brushed on my neck.

But Ricky never came, because fuck my life... So I had to make do with listening to my iPod and spraying everything with surface spray.

When I calmed down I remembered that video that Manu Fieldel made me, remember that? When I made him say my name over and over and tell me his favourite cocktail for an occasion of nerves such as this one?

So soothing.

I’ll put the video here so you can calm yourself after reading this.

Enjoy. xx

It is ideal

2015-09-15T10:02:00.001+10:00

This post was written in collaboration with Hello Mamas.

I was recently asked to describe my ideal day. I thought about it for a while, and for some reason, I felt that my answer should be something along the lines of, cuddling in bed with my children, a day at the beach with my children, a picnic in the local nature reserve with my children… You can sense the theme here.

As a mother I felt an intrinsic sense of guilt that if I am completely honest, my ideal day actually has nothing to do with my children.

Don’t get me wrong, I adore my children, I love them, they make me laugh, and simply being in their presence makes me feel whole. I really do enjoy spending time with my children, so much so, that I do it continuously. I have been fortunate enough to have the opportunity to work from home, and as a result I am able to be with my family almost twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. As much joy as this situation brings me, it is also not easy.

What is easy I have found, is to become lost in the fog of constant parenting. Your little people are so important that it is almost effortless to put things like relationships and friendships by the wayside. Your role as a mother is so important that the small things that you enjoy, or the unique qualities you have that you once nurtured can seem unimportant in the grand scheme of things. It happens so gradually that you may not even realise it is happening at all.

At first you put of the things you enjoy out of necessity. When you bring your bundle home there is simply no time between the relentless care of a baby. The nurture of relationships and friendships must take second place to the nurture of your child. Sometimes the mere thought of having to nourish anything other than the needs of your child can be unwanted and exhausting. Add a few more children to the mix, and the small things that you used to enjoy, the unique qualities that made you an individual person and not a parent seem like a distant memory.

I found that keeping these things as merely a distant memory made me feel less confident; I had almost forgotten exactly who I was as a person before I had children. I felt an almost gratuitous sense of resentment that I could not explain nor could I justify. Surely I was a person capable of much more than cooking, cleaning and tending to the never ending needs of the small family I had willingly and under no illusion entered into caring for.

These resentments were almost always squarely pointed at my husband. I mean it would hardly be considered fair to be resentful toward the children. They played no part in this. My husband however, was an easy target.

There was the unfair distribution of domestic responsibility, the illusion that his life seemed to have been affected by far less change, not to mention his body was still his own, the same as it was before the children came along. His job remained the same; he got to leave the house for eight glorious hours a day. He had a reason to wash his hair, and to get changed out of his pyjamas daily! I went as far as to actually seethe as I counted the amount of uninterrupted toilet breaks he had the privilege of taking during the day. Add to this the veiled current of who I used to be as a person seemed lost, the person he had met and fell in love with simply didn’t exist anymore.

I found respite from these feelings of resentment however, when I began to take the time to nurture my friendships again. Not just catching up for a coffee with other parents, or enjoying the company of other adults as our children played together, but taking the time to separate friendships from parenting all together. Taking the time to spend with my group of friends, the group of women I affectionately refer to as ‘My Girls’.

My girls are an odd mix of people, some old friendships such as my best friend since childhood, some newer friendships, people I had met along the way and we had all utterly and completely gelled. We were a team of like personalities. Never in my life had I known such supportive and nonjudgmental relationships outside of my marriage. They are the kind of people who will tell me what I don’t want to hear in the kindest way, they are honest and loyal; they have my back, even if I am in the wrong.

Slowly but surely, with nights out, dinners, catching movies together, sometimes just laying on each other’s couch I was reminded of who I was before I had children. They reminded me, I was funny, I was smart, I enjoyed listening to live music, I had forgotten how much I used to enjoy that. I enjoyed being creative and they indulged me on this as we spent many a night piecing together invitations and alike to the various hens, weddings, baby showers, birthdays we had among the group.

They reminded me I was compassionate, and capable of nurturing those other than my family, in return they nurtured me. I was reminded of who I was as a person, of what I enjoyed and the unique qualities that made me a person in my own right, not just a mother and a wife. I felt more confident, more capable, I felt more like the person my husband had met, and I felt proud knowing who I was outside of being their parent.

So if I am really honest about how I would spend my ideal day, it would be spent doing anything and nothing with my girls.

My misfit group of women, who allow me to be myself, who remind me that I am the person my husband met and who give me the opportunity to miss my children, and be a more settled and less resentful parent when I return to them.

Whilst nurturing friendships may seem like an unwanted and exhausting extension of your nurturing skills when you become a parent, it really is an important and rewarding effort to make.

Take the time to for friendships mama. xx

Performing Arts Festus-val.

2015-08-24T12:46:00.002+10:00

How are you? Good thanks, well actually things have not been great, but I can’t complain too much. I can complain a little though, so here goes.

I really can’t wait for winter to ping ding. I am really looking forward to bitching about how hot it is, instead of bitching about how cold and miserable it is. I have run out of erect nipple jokes. Also, this winter has slammed us in regard to health.

It seems that one or all of my kids have been sick with some sort of festus ALL. DAMNED. Winter. Hand foot and mouth, check. Gastro, check. The perpetually sore throat virus that turns into temps and a cough that just won’t fuck off, check. I blame myself to some degree, because I didn’t send my kids to day-care for that long and it turns out that day-care and its ability to spread pestilence is important in building a healthy immune system for school.

I inevitably get about 1/3 of the germs my kids bring home, usually when they have all recovered and are back to max energy levels again, or when they have a full calendar of sports, activities or social events I have to ferry them around to. The activity usually coincides with the most inconvenient thing to do with any given illness.

Like when I got a middle ear infection. Fuck, I haven’t had one of those since I was a kid and man they are painful. Hard to concentrate on anything else other than the searing pain painful. SO naturally, my kid was to perform a jazzy little hip hop routine at a performing arts festival. The kind of performing arts festival that had school bands performing various dated ditty’s at an uncomfortable decibel and moderately out of both time and key.

I am not saying that the festival planner was a sadistic thunder c*#nt or anything, but the schedule of the event meant that you could not politely clap and pretend that you gave a crap about the performances of other people’s children until your child had finished performing clearly the best and most spectacular set of the night, then quietly sneak out of a side door and go home.

No.

It was made perfectly clear on several occasions that you were expected to stay for the entire duration of the event, in fact they pretty much soldered the doors shut and placed several stern looking guards on each exit. As extra leverage, they held your child hostage in a separate building until the event was over, then gave you the location of the building in which you could collect your child at the end. There was no interval either. SO my ear was subjected to the relentless performances of fourteen different schools.

Each squeaky over enthusiastic exhale into a clarinet, every thud on a bass drum, every tinny little ping of the triangle seared through my ear like a hot poker. I was really fucking convincingly considerate about it all too. I smiled and clapped at the end of each performance and nudged fellow parents as they beamed with pride at their kid, even though every pain receptor in my brain was sending a high alert to my ear, and to be blunt, I really didn’t care for any performance my kid wasn’t in.

I know how that sounds OK, and I honestly.... Just don’t care.

The next day I ruptured my ear drum, not pointing any fingers or anything, but I am pretty certain I would totally have grounds for a law suit if I was that way inclined. I mean I am not, but just saying. It was a bit fucking rude.

There was an upside though, I should probably be a little thankful to the festival to some degree, because the rupture of my ear drum resulted in the ache going away almost immediately, and although it is a little sore; my doctor advises me that it should clear itself up in about three fucking months.

Hope you are all good.

Em.

How Giving My Kids More Game Time Has Helped.

2015-08-22T16:37:00.001+10:00

You should know that this post is sponsored by BIG W. All words and opinions are my own.

Our children are digital natives, and the world of gaming is no longer just involves staring at a screen. The world of games has become our children’s playground to some extent. Games can be a social time for our kids; they can interact, play and chat with their friends from the comfort of their bedroom or living room. We hear a lot about this news being all doom and gloom, but it doesn’t mean that children will become endlessly idle, and not socialise outside of a digital environment. In fact, there are a great many benefits I have found to indulging the digital native, game obsessed side of my kids’ lives.

The trick to navigating this is balance, which I can tell you from experience is not an easy thing to find. It involves give and take, trial and error. We have spent a great deal of time giving and taking, trialling and making many errors when it comes to finding that balance in our family.

I am going to share with you some of the many errors we made along the way.

Our usual game routine before was fairly flexible, homework and responsibilities were taken care of and game time could start, but generally games were turned off for the day before dinner. This worked for a time, but pretty soon we encountered a problem in that, this one time, I got up around midnight to find the boys tucked up in bed, playing their DS ™ under the duve. They had developed an intense love for all thinks Pokémon™ I liked this game for the kids as it wasn’t violent or graphic in nature. It involved problem solving and adventure. Pokémon has been a constant in our family game library, and seems to be one of those games that are as enjoyable for the six year old as it is for the sixteen year old. They became obsessed with it, so much so that they would be playing it under the covers at all hours. I don’t exactly know how long this had been going on for, but it sure did explain a lot of tired mornings, short tempers.

We worked out this kink, by having the kids hand in their NintendoDS™ after dinner. Before long though, we noticed that homework and after school responsibilities were becoming rushed. Not a great deal of effort was put into homework, and simple chores like unstacking the dishwasher were becoming a nightmare. My cupboards were dishevelled with the haphazard attempts to put things away in a rush to begin game time. Dirty dishes were being placed back in the cupboards; clean clothes were being dumped in dirty clothes baskets in an attempt to clean bedrooms as quickly as they can. Their race to indulge in their game was becoming a problem. In an attempt to fix this, we decided that game time would be limited to the weekends only, very limited game time would be offered as a reward for great school effort and doing a great job in contributing to the household chores.

This worked for a while, in fact we worked with this system for over twelve months, but what I found was that I had unwittingly created a golden idol out of game time.

Game time had become so limited that time spent on the games became their number one objective, and time spent playing games began to take priority for them over other activities, like family picnics or a family ball game outside. Pretty soon we found that this system wasn’t working as well as we had planned.

Around six months ago, we began a new routine when it came to time spent on games, a series of rules that helped maintain a better balance and so far this has worked out really well.

It was time to make game time my friend, and not the source of constant battle.

We have found that the PS4console could actually be an invaluable homework tool. After speaking to the parents of a few of the boys friends, we decided that they could begin a virtual homework club on a Monday.

On Monday afternoons the boys take turns in meeting their friends in Minecraft™ on their PlayStation ™. they organise a group chat with a few of their friends, and together they do their weeks homework together before they begin their game. This requires a little supervision to ensure they aren’t simply copying each other’s answers, but I can’t begin to tell you how great this has been. They help each other with problems and offer ideas.

This has been so successful l that some boys from another local school have joined in and it has been great for them to explore the things that other students from different schools are learning about too. It also creates a network of parents who are all taking turns to help the kids with their homework. This has been invaluable as I work from home. Any extra help from our parenting village is most welcome! When the kids are done their homework is checked and the children from the homework club reward themselves with an hour of Minecraft ™.

The next change we implemented was getting rid of using game time as a reward system for general household contribution. Chores are expected in our house, as everyone must contribute to the household. General chores are divided up amongst the three children. In our house, the general chores are;

Emptying the bins.

Unstacking the dishwasher.

Setting and clearing the table for dinner.

Keeping their rooms tidy

Putting away school notes and lunchboxes on the kitchen counter.

Organising their school clothes and bags for the next day.

Instead of rewarding this contribution, we replaced it the option for the kids to earn game time by helping out with some household tasks that are outside of their general responsibilities. This has worked wonders. The game time earned is dependent on what extra chore is done, and how well they do it.

Extra chores are given depending on the child’s age and ability. Some extra chores include;

Wiping over the kitchen cupboards.

Hanging out a load of washing.

Wiping over dining chairs.

Dusting skirting boards.

Watering household plants.

Sweeping the porch.

Cleaning out the endless water bottles from the car.

There are a plethora of small, very mundane chores that need doing, but you don’t always get time to do that the kids are quite happy to help with to earn some game time. Sometimes I make a list of things that the children may want to do as I see them when I am doing the daily clean.

So far this has worked really well for us, as the kids are actively seeking out chores that they may help with. Keeping these chores separate from their contribution to the house has stopped the expectation that every task they do requires a reward. Making the game time dependant on how well the chore is done has helped in making sure that the chore is not rushed in order to get to play the games faster.

By placing less restriction on the game time my children are allowed, it meant that time spent playing games was not a golden idol, and they began to enjoy doing other things like picnics and playing outside a little more.

This may not work for every family, but it has certainly made a difference with ours, and if you are struggling to find a balance, it may be worth giving it a try.

Pregnant in less than ideal circumstances

2015-08-17T09:53:00.003+10:00

This post was written in collaboration with Hello Mama's!

I was a teen mum. I made decent grades, I had a long term boyfriend, and I had plans and aspirations for my future. These plans didn’t exactly involve having a baby, and boy were people quick to point out that all of my plans would never come to fruition.

This is one of the things that really grates my cheese looking back on it all now. I am sure I am not alone in this, and it is not just teen mothers who were on the suffering end of falling pregnant in less than ideal circumstances. It seems that pregnancy is a joyous and miraculous occasion, but only if you do it right.

To be entitled to share in the joy of becoming pregnant, you first must do it at an optimal age, and after you are married, and after you have travelled and obtained a degree, and then after you have bought a house and renovated that house and then sold that house and bought a better house, and then only after you have firmly established yourself in a career, and then only if you planned it.

Don’t get me wrong, being a teen mother is tough, it isn’t ideal, it is hard a hard journey. My decision to keep my baby was not an easy one; it wasn’t made lightly or through rose coloured glasses. This isn’t the case just for young mums, anyone who has happened to fall pregnant in less than ideal circumstances would agree.

The discovery of my pregnancy didn’t fill me with joy, wonder and excitement. It was filled with fear, anxiety, decisions and a fight or flight response that doesn’t normally accompany such a joyous occasion. Announcing my pregnancy didn’t involve planning a cute and unique Facebook picture, it involved more fear and disappointment.

In between the fear and emotions felt after finding out I was pregnant, and then making a decision regarding the pregnancy and before the struggle of what was to come after the baby was born I found myself with a new battle. You see as my pregnancy was not planned, it was not optimal timing, nor were my circumstances ideal, this apparently excluded me from being on the receiving end of normal social niceties regarding my pregnancy.

When my bump grew, I found myself on the receiving end of dirty looks, rumours, disappointed sighs and smirks. People were absolutely busting to inform me of all the things I was giving up, all of the things I would never be able to do, all the things that were not ideal about my situation as though I had not spent enough heart ache, sleepless nights, tears and time already considering this before I had made my decision. This news was delivered to me through disappointed tones and patronising facial expressions.

Apparently I would never finish my HSC, I would never travel, I would never buy a house or obtain decent gainful employment. The father of my baby would never stick around; I would be alone because it is difficult to find another partner willing to take on another man’s baby. I should seriously consider the feelings of infertile couples who were far more deserving of the life growing inside me, I should feel so very lucky that I wasn’t locked away to have my baby away from judgmental eyes like people in my situation before me. I was a baby myself, what would I know about raising a baby? I was now a bourdon on society, and it was everybody’s job to remind me of this. People in baby shops, in the supermarket, at Drs visits, pre-natal classes and at the gym.

Ha!!! Just kidding, I have never been to the gym.

I stopped going to my pre-natal classes, because I was judged, the medical staff were politically correct, but patronising none the less. The other parents in the classes gave me wary side eyes and excluded me from discussions as though I was not entirely qualified to share in their age appropriate joy. I stopped going out much at all really, I stayed in with the family and friends I was lucky enough to have that supported me, where I could learn to become excited and to bond with the new life inside me. I stayed only in the company and very few places that allowed me to chatter about baby movements, wee little onesies and the many other tiny joys that come with bringing a new life into the world.

I tired of almost everyone else speaking of my pregnancy as though it was simply an unfortunate situation. Those who didn’t acknowledge my pregnancy with a smile, or an excitement but with a polite

“Oh, well, these things happen”

I was tired of my battle already and it had not yet really begun.

I would like to say to those who have been through the heartache, fear, anxiety and many sleepless nights and made the decision to have a baby in less than ideal circumstances, that my baby is now sweet sixteen. He is and always has been a constant joy. He never saw the less than ideal circumstances we were in, he didn’t see a young mother, he simply saw his mother. We had it tough, we grew together, we had so much love just like any other parent and child. Exactly the same!

He is a typical teenage boy, in school, with a part time job at Maccas, saving for a car. He plays sports, tries to keep out of trouble just like any other teenage boy. He makes his father and I so proud every day, he is a superb big brother, he volunteers to referee junior basketball during the week, he has great morals and a cheeky sense of humour. I may have been a baby myself, but it turns out I knew enough to raise a pretty decent person.

I have travelled. I recently completed my HSC equivalency and am enrolled at one of the greatest universities in the country, I have married my sons father, who did actually stick around and we have been together for almost eighteen years now, I am not alone, I have decent gainful employment and have managed to buy a house.

I have however, as yet joined a gym.

Your journey although not beginning under ‘ideal’ circumstances will be the same as any other parent. The joy, the love and fulfilment you will feel is the same, your struggles may differ, you may do things differently, but your destination is still exactly the same as any other parent, and that is what you make it. You are entitled and deserving of the life you have growing within you.

Hold your head up high; know that other than the reactions of some other, very insignificant people in your journey, are none of your business. Just like your decision is none of theirs. The only part of my young mama journey that in any way reflected the disappointment I received from others , was that I didn’t get my own MTV show.

You’re doing OK mama, you will be OK.

Jessie J & Why we need to stop telling women what to wear.

2015-08-03T16:42:00.001+10:00

I watch The Voice for a plethora of reasons. I know what you’re thinking right...MADDEN,

BUT! Another thing that I love about watching the voice is twitter. While it may seem like twitter has recently turned in to quite the dull thunder whore, tweeting while watching TV reminds me of why I am even still on twitter at all, and the twitter feed for The Voice is one of the main reasons I watch it.

Imagine you are watching one of your favourite TV shows from the comfort of your couch, only now you are watching that TV show with thousands of other people, and it has turned into a huge hilarious party full of witty people, sharing commentary, opinions and outrage over how many fucking ads there are.

Seriously. So. Many. Ads…

Now, I missed The voice last night, because… (It is a long and dull story) but I had a friend’s birthday party on Saturday night… let’s just say that several gin’s later, I had a less than productive Sunday and I found myself still washing school uniforms on Sunday evening. Anyway that isn’t important, what is important is that I missed it.

I found out this morning however, that the party had been gate crashed last night by ill-informed hoards of the perpetually outraged.

Their outrage of choice?

Jessie J’s Bewbs.

Source- Instagram

This dress, and its lack of cleavage covering ability sent many Voice fans into a rage induced nose bleed. I am not going to link or screen shot to these people, but I read the words; ‘Cover up your tits Jessie J’ So many times that my eyes got irritated and I needed antihistamine.

References were made to not only the size of Jessie J’s chest, but the shape of Jessie J’s chest, the way in which the size and shape of Jessie J’s chest sat in the dress, as well as other garbage commentary from those outraged by Jessie J drawing attention to her chest, ironically drawing more attention to Jessie J’s CHEST!!!

*Punches Keyboard.

Next were the perpetually outraged parents. Fuck they are the worst aren’t they? Those parents who were all like

‘MY LITTLE TRUDY DIDN’T EVEN KNOW THAT PEOPLE HAD BREASTS AND NOW I HAVE TO EXPLAIN IT TO HER, THANKS EXCLUSIVLEY TO THE VOICE FOR THAT AWKWARD CONVERSATION I WILL NOW HAVE TO HAVE’

*Facepalm. *Forecfully shove in the opposite direction to me *Shut the fuck up.

I can’t even. No wait yes I can…

Do you know what outrages me a hell of a lot more than Jessie J’s chest? People telling women what to wear. MAN it’s tired.

People outraged up to their own modest titties over the sexualisation of women that they can’t see that their outrage is the problem.

Being outraged by the chest of a human being and looking past the function of that chest, or the freedom of expression in how one covers or doesn’t cover that chest is a bigger problem.

The PROBLEM is the people who feel the need to commentate despite the fact that the size, shape and covering on the breasts of Jessie J have no impact on her role or ability as a judge for the show.

This is the reason women are STILL paid less than their male equivalent and the reason that 50% of women will become victims of gender based violence, right there. The reason this problem will not go away? OUTRAGED PARENTS. There I said it.

Parents so hung up on protecting the innocence of their children that they hide anatomy as though it was something to be ashamed of.

What if instead of being outraged over how exposed an area of the female body is for the benefit of your children, or being outraged by having to explain the concept of human nipples to little Johnny and little Trudy, try instead to send a message to your children that Jessie J is a woman, an accomplished artist with many years of experience to share as a judge on the television show that they are watching.

Try explaining that the fact Jessie J has breasts, how much or how little she covers those breasts actually has no bearing on her abilities as a person and perhaps that commentary on them is wrong.

You don’t actually have to do anything in order to accomplish this. You just have to NOT SAY ANYTHING!

(Yes I see the irony of me writing this post, but shut up I am telling a story)

Honestly, how hard is it? Is it that difficult not to be filled with moral outrage long enough to demonstrate to your children that the female body does not have a lesser value and should not be held to a different standard to that of a man?

How about instead teaching little Trudy that she can wear whatever she fucking likes and whatever makes her feel as fabulous as she is without fearing a social consequence? That accepting anything less than this is a problem.

Perhaps in doing so you would stop sending the message to little Johnny that women’s bodies are to be sexualised, and if women are not covering them it is acceptable to be outraged by it.

How about teaching your children to respect the abilities of a person regardless of their bodies. Teach them that a woman’s body and choices are to be respected and these expectations are not open to the interpretation of how someone chooses to perceive it.

Perhaps then we won’t have to teach Trudy that she will never ask to be raped or become a victim of gender based violence and we won’t have to teach little Johnny not to rape.

FAAAARK.

STOP TELLING WOMEN WHAT TO WEAR, HOW HARD IT IT?!

*Punches Keyboard

*Glares at the cat.

On the public vilification of game hunters

2015-07-31T14:19:00.000+10:00

I had to stop looking at images of Cecil the lion. I couldn’t read another article, I couldn’t take in the sadness, or cruelty and I certainly couldn’t listen to another entitled life claim their right to end the life of something else for sport or relaxation, under the guise of being on the top of the food chain.

I have mixed feelings on the public vilification of those that make mistakes, or simply stand by their right to do something that differs from the norm. The ability for en-mass harassment and public shaming that come with the ease of venting ones frustration on social media makes me a little uneasy. I to some extent feel that these torrents of perpetual outrage pointed squarely at a person who happened to err that day take away the constructive ability to learn and grow from ones mistakes.

I like to believe I am accepting. I like to believe I can understand that what makes me tick is not necessarily what makes others tick. I like to believe that I can relate enough to the human experience to accept the actions of other human beings can differ from my own and not make them wrong, because even if I can’t relate to what it is the other person’s passion is about, I can relate to their passion that is usually enough.

Not this time though. I simply can’t. Not when it comes to taking the life of an animal for gratification.

How have we not evolved past this yet? How can we have come so far as a species and yet still have to accept that it is a human right to kill something else for the joy of it? Not for food, not for necessity, simply for the joy and trophy of pointing a machine at the life of something, and snuffing it out with the pulling motion of your finger? That is not a sport, there is no superior feat of strength or skill involved, you are simply a psychopath.

I have a finger motion too, and it is currently erect and alternating between shaking with rage, flipping birds and pointing squarely at these people who claim this act is their deity given right to do so for their own joy. I have had enough.

I do not, can not and will not accept that a human being has a right to do this any longer. I refuse to accept that your right to kill another life from our planet, simply because it delights you is copacetic. I truly believe that your right as a human being on this planet does not grant you you divine enfranchisement over what is and isn’t allowed to live on it. I am beyond disturbed that there are people who get enjoyment from taking the life of something else. To those people I say this;

I honestly feel that if you must take the life from something in order to relax than you should not have access to a gun.

I would go as far as to say that if you need to kill for relaxation and enjoyment as well as doing so under a deluded sense of entitlement, then you require a serious assessment of you faculties in order to be able to have the right to full access to walk freely on the planet you feel so superior on.

While I am at it, I truly do believe that you there on your throne at the top of the food chain is what will be the demise of this planet, and guess what? This is my planet too. It is my human right as a member of the human race on the top of the food chain to declare that I will not accept this.

I honestly, rightly or wrongly feel nothing for the people who are being publicly hounded, harassed and vilified for their actions when it comes to the killing of an animal. That kind of a reaction is merely the sound of the people on this planet who do not agree that killing an animal for no reason other than personal delight is acceptable. From what I can see they greatly outnumber the people who do.

This is the one time I have been absolutely delighted in the public vilification of someone across social media, if not simply because I feel they truly deserve it, but more than that I cannot continue to take in the stories like Cecil the lion, day in and day out and feel that there is just no hope for the human race or this planet.

The noise I hear coming from this public assailment such as those given to the man responsible for taking the life of Cecil the lion, knowing that those who are outraged by these actions greatly outnumber those who feel these actions are just give me a sense of hope that we may not be as royally screwed as a species as I sometimes suspect.

Sometimes I really need that...

An angry letter to my phone and internet service provider

2015-07-22T11:05:00.002+10:00

Remember when I used to write angry letters? I haven’t written one in a while, that was until yesterday…

Dear phone and internet provider,

I would have called to voice my complaint instead of posting here, only I can’t because I can’t use my phone line.

Again.

My home phone is making a static type sound reminiscent of 1999 rural area of NSW dial up and screeching louder that Courtney Love when she discovered that she didn’t actually inherit Kurt Cobain’s fan base after she killed him.

You guys are already aware of the problem as I called a few days ago in the forty minutes I did have a functioning line.

Before I start you should know that there are several things that frustrate me enough to produce a rage induced nosebleed.

1. Bigots.

2. People who say Aks instead of ask

And

3. Being unable to have full use of my home phone and internet despite sporting a pair of seat less chap pants and touching my toes in order to pay for it every month.

We had a similar problem once before remember? When every time it rained water was getting into the line at the exchange, only we weren’t actually sure of the exact nature of the problem, so you sent these two guys to dig up my front yard. Well… More specifically one guy dug up my front yard and the other guy watched and cleared his throat every five seconds.

I mention this because it wasn’t a polite clearing of the throat, it was that unquestionably disgusting cough followed by a hacking sound, followed by a snort which resembled an elephant giving birth. Wait, that isn’t entirely fair, I mean I haven’t actually heard an elephant giving birth before and they really are graceful creatures so that may not be a fair comparison... You know… For the elephants.

You should know however, that being forcefully subjected to the presence of other peoples mucous annoys me almost as much as monomaniacs, people who mispronounce three letter words and not having access to a functioning phone and internet service.

At any rate, these guys came and were digging up a large patch of my front lawn only… and wait this is a funny story, you will laugh… They found that the problem wasn’t actually IN my front yard... I know right? This was pretty unfortunate for my front lawn, the guy who did all the digging not to mention Harry Mc ‘Hack-it-up who evidently caught himself a throat full of dirt particles. It was however pleasing to my two cats, as well as every neighbourhood cat in an eleven kilometre radius of my house who absolutely delighted in having a fresh patch on newly turned earth in order to lay their own cable if you know what I mean.

Nevertheless, the problem was eventually resolved and I was once again able to work, send emails and converse with other adults that were not my neighbours.

Man. That has to be hands down my favourite part of having a functioning phone and internet service. I am so thankful for everyday that I do not have to rely on geographical convenience in order to socialise. You would be too if you had my neighbours.

There’s this one guy… *Robbo, he REALLY likes that song Khe Sanh by Jimmy Barnes. Who wouldn’t right? It’s a fucking great song. The problem is that it is the ONLY song Robbo likes, and he plays it on repeat loudly every Friday and Saturday night.

I met Jimmy Barnes once, I was going to tell him about Robbo, but there was this whole thing… I was sitting next to Jimmy Barnes’s wife, only I didn’t know it was his wife... and then I made a dick of myself and I couldn’t bring myself to tell him It’s a long story anyway, I’ll tell you if you ever come and dig up my yard again.

Point is, Robbo loves the SHIZ out of that song.

He also likes yelling “WATCH THIS SHAZ” While he rides around his backyard on his kids Pee Wee 50. Robbo also misplaces his footwear a lot, a problem he blames Shaz for entirely for some reason. I know this because I can also hear him yell “For eff’s sake Sharon, where are me effin’ fongs! How many times to I have to aks ya not to touch me effin stuff!!!”

Poor Sharon is probably beside herself trying to figure out what he is going on about because aks is not even a word.

The other side isn’t much better. I think they are competing in some sort of unopposed lawn Olympics. I am unsure of the rules, but it seems that the aim of the game is to mow, weed, edge and fertilise your lawn as often as you can. I don’t really mind, but the fertiliser really stinks when you end up down wind.

Not that I can talk really, because I sent the better part of seven months with my entire front yard pungent with the scent of cat turd, which wasn’t entirely MY fault. Just saying.

Anyway that isn’t really all that important, what is important is that I need my phone line and internet service to work, so that I can work, which results in me getting paid and in turn I can step into my seat less chap pants, bend over for England and pay my phone and internet service bill.

I don’t actually mind paying my bill all that much, seat less chap pants look amazing on me I have a nice bum, I am proud of it. I work it out regularly because I have this thing about farting in front of people, I mean it’s an actual thing. I can’t even fart in front of my husband of fourteen years. I am also lactose intolerant and have several food sensitivities. This makes for a lot of clenching and as a result I have a fabulous arse. I can tell you though that I would definitely enjoy paying a little more if I was paying for something that worked on a consistent basis.

So anyway…Please consider this my formal notice that I will be deducting the days that I have not had full use of the service from the total of the bill. I will also most likely be paying my bill late.

Thanks for taking the time to peruse my complaint, venting like this helps reduce the incidence of rage induced nosebleeds also I needed something to do seeing as I can’t do my work as my phone and internet service is still not working properly.

Just saying.

I sincerely hope that Sock Puppet Johnson, Diggy Mc’Dig-Up-My-Yard, Throat Hack Harry and the rest of the gang have a fantastic day, (and access to a working telephone and internet service).

Cheers,

Emma.

Is the word Mummy Blogger offensive?

2015-07-20T11:50:00.001+10:00

The Mummy blogger debate is up and running again. It may seem that everywhere you turn you run the risk of offending the perpetually offended yes? Wording that pitch or writing that article seems fraught with danger, is it OK to use the word busy mum? Mummy blogger? Mum who blogs?

Is the word mummy blogger offensive?

Short answer yes with an if, Long answer no, with a but...

Confused?

I am going to weigh in to help explain, because I am a commentator of things that both DO and don’t concern me. This one happens to concern me and it concerns me more than it probably should.

The truth is that women who blog or write on the internet are honestly not offended by this word.

Not everyone minds being called a mummy blogger. Some people I know rock it, own it, are immensely proud of it and they are superstars. Others like me loathe it, full stop. Spew. The title of mummy should really only be used by my children as far as I am concerned.

I can tell you though, that even those who own it, and don’t mind in the slightest being called a mummy blogger will take exception if you are using the phrase to somehow de-value what it is that they do.

I am looking disapprovingly, accusingly, somewhat condescendingly while pointing in your general direction Mark Latham.

I have personally been called a mummy blogger both to my face, in PR lists and in the media. I can tell you that at no time was I actually offended, because despite the fact that I really dislike the label, the term was used to genuinely describe a collective group of women who happen to be mothers and who write. Also the word was simply just ‘all the rage’ at the time and I could tell that no offence was genuinely intended.

Having said that; I have also been lumped in the mummy blogger basket, mainly within a small group of threatened media, and been collectively identified as a mummy blogger by those who have used the word for the sole purpose of devaluing the contribution women in independent and creative media make. More often than not, the word Mummy Blogger is used as somewhat of a slur against women who write and are parents.

That is when it becomes offensive.

The word ‘Mummy blogger’ has been used like a dirty word to dismiss the contribution of these women, as though the fact that they are parents results in their benefaction to anything of relevance as laughable, and should be dismissed as merely the hormonally challenged rantings of a bored and unfulfilled housewife with far too much time on her hands and a slight social media addiction.

The notion that women who are parents diminish in value, much like a new car leaving the car yard. The suggestion that these women are mothers now, therefore they should busy themselves exclusively in the nourishment of their children. That as a consequence of becoming a parent, somehow women are no longer entitled to have their own experiences, opinions and stories.

The sad truth is that women, whether parents or not are STILL continuously fighting for their value in society. To be paid the same sum as their male contributors, doing the same position with an equal level of experience and skill. Women fight for their value as a person when it comes to their safety on a daily basis. Whether it be the disgusting statistics on familial violence or simply walking through a darkened car park. If you question this, ask the nearest male to you when the last time was that he texted his friends after a night out to let them know he arrived home safely? Ask the nearest women to you that same question.

Every time the word mother, a word sacredly used by our children and earned by our hard work love and sacrifice for them is used to cheapen this battle, is where the offence comes in.

Does the fact that someone is a father ever weigh in to their ability to do their job? If you are unhappy with the service of a Doctor, accountant or lawyer are the words Daddy Doctor, Daddy lawyer, Daddy accountant used to cheapen them?

Collectively fighting for the most basic of human rights is what women do. Together they are powerful. You need only to turn on your television and see this, count how many times an ad is directed to busy mums. COUNT HOW MANY TIMES THE WORD BUSY MUM IS USED!!!

These same women, in the face of funding cuts to the mental health of women, the leviathan in gender inequalities and the constant ridicule of their contribution have become the mothers of invention. Carving out spaces in independent and creative media to share their value, their experience and their stories.

They challenge the notion that women exist fundamentally for the nourishment of the people that depend on them.

Together they are a wealth of experiences and opinions. They are the support for those who are doing it tough, they aid charities and give words to those who are fighting battles within themselves in regard to mental health. They have created fashion empires and communities of women who may have really needed to know their best is good enough. They offer encouragement and advice to other parents. They have stories and a valid contribution to those who may be struggling with social isolation and friendships within geographical convenience. They share talents, passions and their lives.

They are simply people with value who were gifted with ability to word that value in a way that it resonates with others. There was a gap in this market and they filled it.

Most writers I know are not offended when the words Mummy blogger are used offhandedly as an empowering word for that assembly of contributors. However, when the word Mummy is used to devalue this contribution then we are going to have a problem.

To be safe, unless invited otherwise, try simply calling us writers, bloggers or our given names will be sufficient enough... & Please... Don't even get me started on the word Mum-trepreneur.

This post was inspired by a brilliant opinion piece written over at BIGWORDSBLOG in response to an article written by an Adelaide Columnist. You can read it HERE & a conversation started over at DIGITAL PARENTS COMMUNITY

This is what is wrong with me, right there.

2015-07-17T11:49:00.003+10:00

So it’s Friday, and Fridays are for sharing the ridiculous. The most ridiculous thing to have happened to me in recent times, happened last night.

There’s a bit of a back story though, so if you are new here, you may need to catch up.

Remember when I started making crochet penis bags? I called them Cock-Bags. I made one for a hens, then got a few orders, made a few more, got a few more orders and I toyed with the idea of buying up some Etsy real estate and selling them there? Well, I have been stocking up on them, just in case I actually get around to doing that.

Then last night, I was texting my mum a few photo’s, as you do, and I was fondling the notion that each bag needs a name and a bit of a back story.. You know.. Because it would be funny I suppose. Also, these guys don’t come from a pattern, because it doesn’t exist surprisingly enough, not that I know how to read a pattern properly anyway. So I figured if each one is unique then each one should have its own name.

Like this;

Meet Dave.

Dave is perfectly average in every way. He spent his youth playing B grade football for the local team and now spends his Saturdays cheering the perfectly average 2.3 produce of his perfectly serviceable member from the sidelines. Dave is unapologetic about wearing speedo’s.

Meet Channing.

Channing is attractive, and awkwardly oversized. It took quite a while for Channing to become comfortable with his proportions and as a result he is a little reserved. Despite his ability to intimidate others in the locker room, Channing is quiet, shy and respectful of his lovers. He keeps immaculately clean and trimmed and is proud of his foreskins ability to heighten his sensation.

Meet Mayer.

Mayer is impressive and he knows it. Good looking, arrogant and talented he gets around. This one owes it’s rather odd colouring to lashings of fake tan, and a mix of ointments. Mayer wasn’t always circumcised, having made the choice to do so in the late 90’s stating the importance of good looks and streamed lines to him as the reason, although rumour has it that the procedure was done to rid himself of a rather unfortunate case of genital warts, and the operation held his only chance for a permanent cure.

Meet Ricky.

Ricky is a little on the girthy side, which gives him a decent dose of self esteem. Ricky is a comedian, a career born of the confidence he gained from having an unusually, eye wateringly wide penis, which came as a surprise to most of his lovers as his overall stature is on the smaller side. Ricky can be found making hilarious jokes about how small his penis is at the pub as he delights in the look of shock his conquests get when he reveals his girth.

So there are several more, but you get the picture yes?

Meanwhile, I was going through a few of the unique qualities of each bag with my mum via text message last night, and she was helpfully and traumatising-ly describing in great detail the other types of bags I could make.

She continued doing this for several hours despite my less than enthusiastic reactions.

At some point I told her I was sharing this on twitter. This didn’t deter her, in fact, this seemed to only encourage her further...

I received a short respite because she loves the shit out of Masterchef…

My break was short lived because as soon as Masterchef was over she was straight back into it.

Then I told her that I was turning this conversation into a blog post entitled; This is what’s wrong with me, because this is exactly what is wrong with me, right there.

Then my phone went flat. I didn't put it on charge right away...

So! Does anyone want to help support my mental health and much needed therapy? Want to buy a cock bag? If not, please feel free to share this post around, some one you know may want one yes?

Happy Friday.

The best I can

2015-07-16T21:16:00.001+10:00

*This post is not sponsored, but does contain a link to a site I am writing for.

Want to have a sneak peak at my next Hello Mama's post? I am a bit nervous about it, because it's one of those parenting type pieces that makes it glaringly obvious that I have no business writing parenting style pieces.
I will be perusing the comments nervously.

Here tis.

I AM DOING THE BEST I CAN

I am a bad parent, just ask my kid. She is currently six years old. She loves the hell out of rules and structure, she enjoys school, reading, gymnastics, pushing our cat around in a dolls pram and pointing out my flaws, which according to her are many.

Like this one particularly bad parenting day… I was tired. I had deadlines, I had four hundred and fifteen urgent things that needed doing and I hadn’t brushed my hair in three days. It was just one of those days.

I was stretching out my jeans, because I dried them in the dryer. I was getting down, kicking my legs out, doing squats and pushing my gut out trying to get them to stretch a bit. I was mid squat when my kid walked in. She looked me up and down and with a look of distain she remarked

“Why do you always do things that make it look like you are taking a dump?”

I was all like… Wow. ALWAYS? Really? Always is a strong word.

I don’t know what else I do that makes me look like I am taking a dump, but I am doing the best I can, and I am OK with that.

Not ten minutes later, the kid came running down the hall.

“I heard a sound on the porch” She said all round eyed and suspenseful like.

“It was probably my boyfriend” I told her. “Quick you had better go hide because I haven’t told him I have any kids yet”

Eyes as big as saucers at the scandal of it all she whispered; “Whose your boyfriend?”

I crouched down next to her, and whispered in her ear…

“Channing Tatum”

“you’re an idiot” She said as she realised my joke, and she rolled her eyes before saying “I’m telling dad when he gets home” and she walked off.

I may be an idiot sometimes, but I am doing the best I can and I am OK with that.

After that, I heard that I apparently need to take a parenting class; my kid actually said this to me in the midst of a small emotional episode she was having. The small emotional episode began when I dared to take away her screen privileges for pegging a ball in the general direction of her brother’s head because she wanted to see the iPad and he wouldn’t share.

The ball lightly skimmed her brother’s ear, so naturally he collapsed in a heap and wailed like someone was breaking into the house. It was bad; it was all dramatic, mouth agape and uncomfortable to watch. I don’t know what annoyed me more, the ball throwing in temper, the violence, the not sharing or the melodramatic reaction. At any rate, I just blanket banned screens for the rest of the day.

I did it with that superb parent reaction where I stomped over to them and took the iPad. I told them I have had it up to HERE and I used an appropriate hand gesture to indicate exactly where I had it up to.

Then I told them both to ping ding.

I’m not proud OK; I am clearly not smart either, because banning screen time affects me the most.

Now before you start, I know I shouldn’t be relying on an iPad to amuse my kids OK? I know this and yet I do, probably more than I should, but I don’t care. I am doing the best I can with the staff and resources I have available to me.

What I wasn’t OK with was the way in which Ms Six carried on about it. I know I shouldn’t write parenting type articles admitting things like this… but sometimes this is what parenting looks like in my house. If my parenting thus far is offensive to you, then I suggest you stop reading here, because it gets worse.

My kid carried on about how unfair life was because she couldn’t watch Barbie swan something or other on the iPad, because I was mean. This went on till 10:15pm that night. I wish I was joking, but honestly, my kid strolled out of bed at 10:15 to whine about it. When it was clear she wasn’t going to win, delirious from tired, she glared at me.

I know right? Actually squinted up her tiny eyes, pursed her lips and fixed the rest of her features to display the most amount of disgust she could summon and quietly she said…

“You should probably take a class on bringing up kids”

Hey, maybe she is right. I mean considering I have a kid that is still getting out of bed at 10:15m to be a wise ass, she makes a fair point.

I simply looked at her and said “I am doing the best I can”

And I may or may not have flipped her off behind her back as she walked back to her room, but that isn’t important, because I really am doing the best I can.

I could beat myself up for all the things I am not doing right, or I can be thankful that for all my flaws it is clear that I am still raising a strong independent little lady, who is smart, witty, hilarious and not afraid to speak her mind, and I really am OK with that, and I am sure that in time, she will be too.

School Holiday Catch up

2015-07-10T16:39:00.002+10:00

Hey hey!

So I have been crazy busy.

Did you hear Kimye threw a basketball party? … BEIBER was there… UGH *Rolls eyes. Fuckers.. stole our idea.

Ours was way better anyway. I went all Martha on everyone’s ass. We had basketball themed EVERYTHING, including curried egg rolls that we called Steph Curried Egg, and cheese and bacon balls that we called Bogut’s Balls... There was so much orange and so much round.

I should add here that it wasn’t a dress up... I am just sad. At any rate, it was still WAY better than KimYe-s

Meanwhile, I attended a class at the Australian Writers Centre that showed me how to shove my book in the retina’s of people who can sell it for me. I had help with my pitch, what was expected of me, and what I needed to know about getting paid and contracts... *Heavy breathing. I learned the ins- and outs of how the publishing industry works… and MAN. There was so much I didn’t know. Now I do... I am so FUCKING learned.

SOURCE

I have also been chatting with THESE guys

& I've scored them agreeing to play a local gig... You can click on their pic and learn more about them if you are that way inclined. I CAN NOT WAIT to show you what they can do. They are currently in the US. I made them promise me that if they ran into Ed Sheeran over there, that they would sniff his hair for me.

They promised they would.

Speaking of Ed, OUR Ed, the cat…

Look at him..

"Hey girl.. Whatcha thinkin' about?"

He is at that delightful age where he climbs all over the curtains and breaks shit all over the place. He can be always be found, in our house, destroying stuff, climbing my leg as though it were a tree, or sleeping.

The other night, our youngest kid crawled into out bed at three AM, because honest to FUCK I think she will ALWAYS do it, and she may still be doing it when she is twenty one… Ugh. I hope not, but time will tell... at any rate, she climbed in the bed at 3 AM and she trod square on the cats head.

Don't laugh it wasn't funny..

There was much squealing from both parties, and little Eddy crawled out from underneath the duve and was shaking his head and sneezing and FOR FUCK SAKE the PANIC.. *Heavy breathing…

Anyways, turns out he is OK. You can laugh now.

HE’s OOOOOO-KAAAYYY!

I cleaned out my fridge; remember I do that in the school holidays? There are so many bacteria in there, including a tub of what was probably egg at some stage. It smelled so bad. Does that happen in your house? Or is it just mine? Stuff festers in the fridge and every time you open it smells like Bigfoots cock sharted then died in there? The dog comes running into the kitchen, all nostrils flared, sniffing at the air, and the kids wail “WHO FARTED?!” and accusingly point at each other every time someone opens the fridge?

No? Just me?

It is the school holidays, so my kids took a break from accusing each other of breaking wind, dobbing and telling me that they are hungry every eight seconds to go down to their Nan’s down the coast.

How’s the serenity?

I tell you what; I needed them to go for a bit too... The youngest kid is learning the art of emotional manipulation. She accuses me of bad parenting ALL the time and she says it like that… All “You are a bad parent”. She went as far as to tell me that I may need to take a parenting class.

I have sadly passed on my wise ass gene and it isn’t pleasant.

Oh! I saw Magic Mike XXL. Christ... What the fuck? It was bad... MAN it was bad... But CHANNING!!! AND BOMER... I can’t even… *Fans face and faints. As bad as it was there were lady boner bits that made it worth watching, and I say this as a dirty, filthy pervert. No amount of bad acting will make me clean enough not to go see it.

Honestly though… If I wanted to watch man bitching about insignificant shit I have no interest in whatsoever I could have done that from the comfort of my own lounge room, and I wouldn’t have dropped fifty bucks on it and ended up with popcorn in my teeth… But whatever.

Channing…

On that happy note, I am off.

I hope the school holidays are being Kind to you. Xx

You need a village

2015-06-15T10:07:00.000+10:00

It’s new button Monday! Which isn't a real thing. I totally just made it up because I have new buttons. You can check them out over in mah sidebar ->

One of them is for Hello Mamas and I have some exciting news!! I have joined up with hello mamas for the next six months to share some of my words. This is the first of them and it’s about the importance of finding your village when becoming a mum, and social isolation.

This is not a sponsored post.

You need a village

I suffered from PND after the birth of my third child. It isn’t a secret because it should never be a secret. Although sometimes it is hard to articulate into words, because anyone who has ever experienced PND will know, that there are just no words to describe the emotions you are feeling.

Not yet anyway.

You aren’t sad, that’s not the right word, you are more than sad, but sad is the closest dictionary definition to the emotion you are having. Saying I am sad though, feels wrong. It isn’t enough.

It was like having your arm fall off and telling everyone you scratched it because that is the only word you know to describe your injury.

No one seems to understand that you simply can’t pick yourself up off the floor, because you said it was a scratch, even though you are actually bleeding and you only have one arm because the useless thing tumbled off your shoulder onto the floor giving you yet ANOTHER stinking thing to pick up.

Others look at you and say, “You said it was a scratch, now pull yourself together”.

No one would ever tell you to pull yourself together if you told them you severed your arm. They would gasp; they would probably dance around, hands flailing in a panic at the seriousness of the situation. They would understand immediately why you couldn’t get up off the floor and insist you got help.

We need to develop that same kind of language to describe the severity and gravity of the emotions someone with PND experiences. We develop that language when we speak about it which is why it should never be a secret.

After seeking help from my doctor and receiving the right treatment for my PND, I found a great amount of healing in sharing my experience.

I learned that coming out the other side of PND I was left with a great deal of guilt. Like when my daughter developed an obsession with dolls, she was freaking mad for plastic babies. She would coo and fuss over them. She would clumsily shove dummies in their mouths and push them around in little prams and I couldn’t help but feel that her obsession with these dolls came because she missed that from me somehow. I would swallow that down and simply watch her play, grateful that I had left that dark cloud behind.

I would watch my daughter playing with her dolls with such love and pride. She was so good at playing by herself, she was so independent and entertained herself so well, but I found myself feeling guilty. Of course she was great at entertaining herself, she had to be. How lucky I was that she was so independent, but let’s face it, she had to be.

I found that I felt a great sense of loss. I looked through old photographs of my daughter as a baby, and was devastated to see her tiny face. I couldn’t remember her looking so tiny. I felt robbed and cheated. I felt tired, when would I be completely free of this damned thing?

It was when I spoke to other survivors of PND and found that I wasn’t alone. These emotions were a really normal part of surviving PND. I was reminded that I won a most remarkable war, and that there would be losses involved. Rather than swallow those feelings down, I learned from other beautiful mama’s that had been there before me, to simply feel them, to allow myself to grieve for my loss. I can’t tell you the difference this made.

Having these other mama’s in my life was such a gift; it really does take a village to raise a child. I was really aware however, of the difficulties in surrounding yourself with your village, when sometimes being a mum can be one of the most socially isolating things you can ever do!

There are so many reasons parents may find it difficult to find their village, you may be the first or last of your circle of friends to become a parent, your old social network may have been heavily reliant on your working situation which may have changed since having children. Perhaps you have moved to a new area and don’t know anyone yet, or perhaps you just haven’t found other parents that gel with your life and parenting style.

So when I was recently approached by the gorgeous team over at Hello Mamas to join them and share a few of my words with other mamas who may be looking to find their village but haven’t quite been able to, I jumped at the opportunity.

Hello mamas is a new social networking place that matches mamas to others in their area. You can find mum’s with similar interests, parenting styles and working arrangements to you.

If this sounds like something you are looking for, you can check out the village of other mum’s looking for the same at Hello Mamas and join for free!

If you or someone you know is struggling after having a baby, please call PANDA on 1300 726 306 or contact your local GP. For more information and a list of signs of PND Visit Beyond Blue

Five threat filled news headlines more interesting than bigots

2015-06-11T13:58:00.000+10:00

I opened my browsers this morning to see that a pair of small minded asshats had publicly declared to all and sundry that if the government went ahead and allowed those homosexuals to get married, then they would just go right ahead and get themselves divorced. They declared it like that, and I can’t be sure, but they probably pronounced homosexual as Homma-sex-suals.

I shook my head and I had a slight look of disgusted distain on my face and I thought, Wow, who fucking cares if you get divorced?

I kind of hope they do get divorced now, I really do. I also hope that they get stung by a bee, both of them, and preferably in a sensitive area. Like… I don’t wish them any great harm, but I kind of REALLY hope that they experience some discomfort, swelling and I hope when the sting is healing it gets REALLY itchy, I also hope that they receive no press over their inevitable divorce and they just have to sit there and be divorced and no one knows about it but them.

WHAT?!? I can’t fathom it. It is the front page equivalent of a Dad sitting in the front of the car saying... “One more argument, I mean it, Peter, you keep your damn hands to yourself or I swear to heavens I am turning this car around”

DAD ACTUALLY TURNS CAR AROUND AND WENT HOME. Details at five…

It got me thinking though, the next time I need free press or feel very strongly about something, I am just going to have a tanty and threaten to do something that in the end will really only negatively affect me and have a front page headline.

There are several things I feel that strongly about, and I have a few demands and have come up with Five Major news headline threatening tantrums that are more interesting than Bigots.

ONE-

WOMAN VOWS NEVER TO WATCH GOT AGAIN IF JON SNOW DIES.

If Jon Snow dies… I am never watching Game of thrones again. That’s it. End of story, they would have done their dash and my retina’s will never again send upside down images of sword fights, fabulous costumes, and siblings having a root to my brain to turn the right way up again. Nope I won’t stand for it.

Take that HBO and George RR, stick that up your fucking jumper.

TWO-

FORGOTTEN SUPER CHARGE SAUCE, FORCES FRIED CHICKEN BAN, WOMAN'S ARSE THANKS HER.

The next time I go to KFC and they don’t put the super charge sauce in, that’s it. I’m never eating KFC again. Have you tried to digest those nuggets without sauce? It’s like chewing on a salty condom you found in the back of John Mayer’s car. It’s dry, crusty, probably riddled with disease and I need the super charge sauce to trick my brain into thinking it’s a good idea to eat it.

Suck on than Colonel Sanders.

THREE-

WOMAN WILL PRESS THE TV MUTE BUTTON IF YOU DON'T FUCK OFF WITH THE BMW ADS.

If Foxtel don’t sign up a major advertising client to partner up with Showcase other than BMW i8 series, I am going to turn the sound down in the ads.

Nuh…Too bad… I’m doing it.

I have seen that fucking ad, and heard that irritating little trumpet solo a bazillion times; it gets more and more annoying every time I see it.

I have news for you guys… anyone who can afford a BMW i8 isn’t sitting at home on the lounge, cutting the roof of their mouth on Dorito’s and binge watching the Walking Dead OK? They are at work.

Every time I see a BMW now, which I admit is not very often because I live in Sydney’s South West, but on the odd occasion that I do, I don’t think… Oh… BMW Connected drive, I think... “Shit! Did I remember to record VEEP?

The Ideas of tomorrow, delivered today… *Annoying trumpet solo. *Presses mute.

How do you like them apples BMW?

FOUR!

CANDY CRUSHES FRIENDSHIP

The next person I see threaten to delete someone from Facebook because of game invitations, I am deleting off Facebook.

Hows the irony... So much irony...

seriously though, I doubt very much that anyone has ever missed any major life event because they got a game notification. I get that they can be slightly annoying when you don’t play the games, I know this because I too don’t play Facebook games. (That’s not to say that I don’t play games, I have a high score on bejewelled that is pretty fucking impressive I must say)… but honest to fuck... It’s one little red notification flag. It doesn’t warrant ending lifelong friendships over OK?

Hey, Guess what? If you are SO FUCKING BUSY and important and far too grown up to be THAT outraged by a friend needing a candy crush life, then you are far too fucking busy and important and grown up to crack a sad about it by writing a threatening status about your distress over a red notification on Facebook.

Honestly darlings, I love you guys but... CHANGE YOUR SETTINGS so that you no longer can receive game invitations and calm down.

*Pats shoulder.

FIVE!

WOMAN CAN'T EVEN

While I have my curser hovering over the delete friend... yes. Do I really want to delete friend YES buttons, The next person I see share a Boycott Halal page, I will presume you are very uneducated, ill -informed and a bit of a dickhead. There I said it... Nuh.. Too bad.

I don’t like to judge like that, I too struggle with spelling and grammar and I know this doesn’t make me a bad person, but for fuck sake… Read a book. Learn a little, investigate what it is you are sharing, then when you do curl up in a ball and cringe that you were ever that much of a dick to share a boycott halal page.

I promise you that Halal certification does not affect you in anyway, you will be forced into the Muslim faith if you eat Cadbury chocolate, and you will not be lining the pockets of terrorist organisations every time you schmear a bit of vegemite on your toast.

Much in the same way you won’t automatically become a first world Buddhist if you purchase something that is certified Vegan, you won’t contract a food intolerance, or fart as much if you buy things that are certified gluten free.

*Sigh.

I am off now, to check if any of my headlines are winning the internet today, also to finish the thousand things I have to do, because I have my finger in a lot of pies right now. I am eight fingers, knuckle deep in a whole lot of different pies, just fingering away… Trying not to have a nervous emotional episode over trying to balance them all.

Hope you are all good.

Em xx

Can we talk about Rebel Wilson for a second?

2015-05-22T12:18:00.001+10:00

I wasn’t going to weigh in on this debate. I chanted to myself... Don’t be perpetually offended… Don’t be perpetually offended… Then I said to myself, you don’t want to give more attention to the ridiculous thing... Don’t do it...

Then I tried to convince myself to write nothing because I didn’t want to offend anyone who wrote for the publication, or on the other hand, anyone who was vocal about not liking the publication. I know right… I am such a people pleaser can’t you tell? Then there was the whole… I wrote for that publication… So I should probably just shut up.

But here we are, starting sentences with ‘But’.

Sometimes, when something annoys me, I think about it obsessively. At first I am annoyed, then I have an argument in my own head about the reasons that I am annoyed. Before I know it I am outraged and rage filled. Those who know me well know that when I feel outraged by something, I probably won’t be able to keep my mouth shut.

It is like a rage gag reflex.

If I feel an injustice is committed, then chances are, I am not going to care who you are, or where we are, I am going to spit out a good telling off. Much to the detriment of my sense of shame, I am painfully good at giving an exceptional telling off…

Whilst I have learned to become choosy with the things that outrage me, despite not learning to use a better word than ‘Choosy’, and with time I have learned to pick my battles for the greater good, but if I am given a chance to run with an argue in my own head… Then…

Image Source

IN THE DEN!?! May god have mercy on us all.

So I am just going to say it yeah? *Flaps hands nervously.

Rebel Wilson.

*Pauses for dramatic effect.

If you have been living under a rock, there was a whole… and I am going to call it… “A flog off” in a publication that I am not going to link to because *Ugh. Insert frustrated noise. (Remember when we used to do that though? Link to stuff that annoyed us? HAHAHAHA... Punches self in face)

Anyways, there was this whole flog off about Rebel Wilson’s age. Something about her lying about her age, or some insignificant wank in the bank of NOBODY-FUCKING-CARES.

There was the usual kerfuffle about feminism and meninism surrounding this, and the customary commentary ensued, clouding the real reasons that women are limited in this country as per fucking usual.

This was followed up with another needy and cringe-worthy attempt to poke at the perpetually offended hornets’ nest about the ad Rebel made for Stan TV. I am not going to link to the ad either, as hilarious as it is. I think we all grow weary of advertising agencies and publications making everyone affronted and convulsed for the free press it brings. I will say well done AJF Partnership. *Bows. Good job.

Apparently though, certain publications like to aid AJF Partnership, and the Fairfax/Chanel nine joint TV streaming ventures, by trying to convince us that parents should be outraged at the woman paid by these companies to appear in their advert.

Namely, because this ad has a cat in it, and that cat was a euphemism for Fa-China and Rebel said ‘Pussy’. This was all crammed in the face of your three year old during prime time.

I mean, never mind the ad’s for life insurance that remind your children that you are going to DIE one day that are shown every five seconds, or the ads for premature ejaculation that shame the sexual prowess medically speaking “ perfectly average” ejaculation time period for a healthy male being aired on radio during the school ferrying hours, and let’s all not give a Mc- Flying- Fuck about the constant bombardment of unhealthy food that is thrown at our children on a daily basis, because Rebel was in an ad.

Pictures of Rebel were grabbed by Facebook, made extra-large and she was somehow made accountable for the timeslot that this rather risqué ad she was in, was shown. *Rolls eyes.

I for one can say that I am not offended by this Ad; I have no problem with the time slot in which it was shown. I fail to see the how Rebel herself has any relevance or involvement in the timeslot chosen. I also see little relevance to the age or accurate age of Rebel Wilson to the fundamental needs of a feminist movement in the grand scheme of things, I feel that trivialising the opinions regarding the external validation of women as a feminist cause to be a bit ridiculous really, also tiresome.

In all honesty, I think it shadows the real reasons that women are limited in this country. When you consider that statistically speaking, the fact that you are born with a vagina means that either you or the woman next to you will be subjected to gender based sexual or physical violence in her lifetime. So I find that my box of fucks is pretty uninhabited for the opinions anyone holds over my physical appearance, age and ensuing worth. That is simply my opinion.

What offends me most however, is the willingness of the Australian media, (Some, not all) to enthusiastically stomp on Rebel Wilson. Not to mention the hand rubbing glee of free press that follows for all involved in both Rebels ventures and those who are doing the stomping. (I know right… I get the irony that I am writing this post about it, but I swear I have a point)

We can be outraged by these things should we feel outraged, we can show the ireful jury on the perpetually offended doll just where the story offended you...

We can shout and we can call everyone out on tearing women down. Or we can not click, look away, refuse to support those who do until we are heard, because if tearing women down in a needy and desperate attempt to grab clicks didn’t work, it wouldn’t be done.

What if instead of clicking, sharing and writing status’s demanding outrage at publications that tear women down, we used that outrage to build women back up. What if enough offended voices used that offence to say something kind about the woman they see being torn down, and it made those who choose to tear us down struggle to be heard?

Rebel Wilson is a fabulous, talented, beautiful and successful woman. I love everything about her. I will pay good money to watch her in anything, simply because she is in it, such is my love for her ability to entertain me and her unique sense of humour. I am beyond ecstatic to see her success; I am full of joy that she is an example of a successful woman to my children, my daughter, my nieces and sisters.

The next time I see a status tearing Rebel down, the above is what my Facebook status will read. I would love more to see more women building in my timelines when stuff like this happens. I would chose to read that instead the garbage that simply preys on my ability to be perpetually offended and unable to keep my mouth shut about it...

I know right?

THE IRONY.

That’s all I have to say about that.

Happy Friday. xx

Every train of thought I had, derailed.

2015-05-18T10:47:00.002+10:00

It is Monday people. Normally I whinge on a Monday, because you know… For crying out Pete’s , sake it’s Monday again, and the weekend is over and mind numbingly mundane routine takes over, and the kids are fighting my attempt to get them out of bed, and Monday is a thunder whore that hates my face.

Today however, I am standing in my field of freedom, which is completely barren of fucks about the fact that it is Monday. I am twirling and bursting into song like that chick with the dildo haircut in that movie… What’s her face... Sound of music.

Why? Because last week, I had all of my children home sick for the week. The whole stinking week. Don’t get me wrong, I felt a bit sorry for them because they were feeling poorly and all that, but….

And I just need to have a sip of water and massage my temples for a second…

The fighting.

Having children pretty much guarantees that you will never, ever have an uninterrupted train of thought ever again.

They won’t tell you that in the parenting books.

When you work from home this is not only problematic, but it is INFURIATING. My work week comprised of; half an idea... Leading to a great idea… Then the kids would have a fight and my idea was gone.

Start again... Get half an idea, kind of remember the first idea, get excited that you remember the first idea, the kids would fight. Idea was gone.

Start again.

There are only so many times that your train of thought will derail before the tracks bend and the train just won’t go anymore.

*Rubs face in an infuriated fashion.

It wouldn’t stop... It was endless, WON’T SOMEBODY MAKE IT STOP!!

So, I gave up by Tuesday afternoon and I began to compile a list of the things my children fight about. Mainly because I was losing my mind, but also because I knew when they went back to school I may find it amusing. You know… Hopefully one day I may be able to laugh about it. It’s funny because it isn’t happening to me anymore.

Kind of like when a celebrity dies, and enough time has to pass before you can joke about it…

Michael Jackson- YES

Joan Rivers- Nearly…Not yet

Richie Benaud- *Gasp!! You shut your damn whore mouth. NO.

(*Once again I would like to take this opportunity to profusely apologise for the Catalina-fucking-wine mixer joke I made during the Logies broadcast OK…I get it… Too soon. My bad. Please stop writing to me about it, I just don’t care and probably won’t even read it. Please just calm the fuck down OK....

No one cares)

*Awkward silence

ANYWAYS… This is the kind of stuff my kids fight about, and it is important that you know, all of the following began with a large MAA-Uhhhh-AAARRRM, starting off in the key of B flat and working its way up to a High E at the end.

MAAA-Uhhhh-AARM;

· He farted near my lunch.
· She won’t stop stepping her toe into my doorway. (I am not even fucking kidding)
· She twerked near my face
· He won’t stop singing while I am trying to sing.
· He hovered his finger near my sandwich.
· I had the kitten first
· She said the kitten hates me
· He swiped a booger across the iPad
· She said she likes broccoli, and she is a liar, she doesn’t and I liked broccoli first (I wish I was lying)
· He called me a racist because I said ‘a brown car’
· He watched a vine with a swear word in it
· She put my pillow on the floor and trod on it
· He is bouncing a ball in the house when you said no bouncing balls in the house,
· He bounced the ball on the wall near my head
· He bounced the ball on my head
· She is dobbing on me
· How come Her breath smells like Nutella, I thought we ran out of Nutella, she ate Nutella.
· He is drawing something I was going to draw
· She farted near my library book and it belongs to THE LIBRARY.
· He said my face looks like a smashed up, avocado sandwich.
· It’s her turn to pick a movie, but she is only picking the movies I hate on purpose
· He said the cat is his.
· She said the cat hates me
· He stinks
· She stinks
· Yes Mr Sherman… Everything stinks.

IMAGE SOURCE

· He is taking my blanket, It’s my blanket, GET YOUR OWN BLANKET
· He drank my drink
· Her stuff is on my side of the lounge
· He is breathing loud on purpose
· I can’t.. I can’t go on…

The list is so much longer than this, but at some point my ear hairs caved in and I stopped hearing it and curled up in the foetal position and imagined that Ricky Martin and Manu Field were taking it in turns to read me poetry while stroking my hair and whispering, “It’s OK to cry darling.. It’s OK to cry” In their divine accents.

*Heavy breathing.

So, today is Monday. A School Monday. The children are well enough to go back to school, Imaginary Ricky and Manu have gone and all I can hear is silence but for the deep rumble of my train of thought engine starting up again.

HAPPY MONDAY INTERNETS!

(My commenting system is still down, I’ll get to it eventually. Meanwhile, if you want to tell me what your kids fight about, how I can stop my kids from fighting, how I can better cope with parenting, to send me pictures of C-Tates, Ed Sheeran, Adam Levine, Food, or cats to cheer me up, or if you are of the perpetually offended variety, and simply just want to complain about my Catalina-Fucking-Wine mixer joke, you can head over to FACEBOOK or TWITTER and do it there)

Em. xx

Backstreet Boys. Obsessive fans.

2015-05-11T15:25:00.000+10:00

I have an update on the stolen gear from the last post.

Friends of Kasey Chambers Music, MACRON MUSIC on the Central coast sorted them out with new gear.

See there are awesome people!!!

Picture Kasey Chambers Music Instagram

Meanwhile…

Got a question for ya, better answer now…

Am I original?

*Squints uncomfortably into the sun to disguise any involuntary facial amusement.

Am I the oh-ooonly one?

Ummm. *Shrugs. Nah.

Am I sex-u-al?

Yeah, OK. That’s probably a bit inappropriate, also it’s not really a question you should ask more than once hey... You might wanna.. You know… write that one down.

Am I everything you need?

*Stares blankly.

You’d better rock your body now!

Now that might sound a little... Mean… But I can safely say however, that the Backstreet Boy’s field of fucks is barren about anything I think.. Why?

Because they are KILLIN-IT. Absolutely Killing it. I am not going to pretend that they are my cup of forte but, they are SO ENTERTAINING, and they have a formula that they are STILL KILLIN IT with packed out concerts of screaming fans these many, many years later.

I know what you’re thinking.. How do I know right?

Well.. It’s a funny story..

I have this ‘friend’. For the purposes of this blog post we are going to call her Psycho Backstreet fan, because she is, also we call her that to her face all the time so she won’t be offended.

I have never met anyone in my life that is as excited about the Backstreet boys as this chick. She has NINE TUBS of BSB memorabilia in her house.

NINE OK?

TUBS...

This includes those little sticker albums from 1996 that have all the stickers placed in them perfectly over the EXACT outline they are supposed to be in. exactly square, you have never seen anything like it.

She also has collectors cards, numbered and in a collectors album that we aren’t allowed to touch because she knows we will put them in the wrong order to be a dick, because she knows us too well and it would be hilarious to see her face if we did.

I have absolutely no idea how that kind of obsession happens.

*Sips coffee

*Strokes the fluffy head of Ed Sheeran the cat.

Meanwhile, Psycho BSB fan is one of my very best friends in the entire world. She is the kind of friend that would do anything for you. She is our party and event planner, the remember of birthdays, the person who will come in the middle of the night to watch your kids if you need, she is hilarious, loyal, stunningly beautiful and perfect in every way. Our group of girls loves her to bits.

Every time one of us girls has a birthday, or hens, or need for a night out, Psycho is there with her vista-print loyalty card, making invitations and printing banners and sash’s. She is making bookings and collecting monies such is her level of organisation.

Psycho’s birthday however is very close to Christmas, so every year we get together in advance and plan on repaying the favour with a huge bash for her, only we are lost at organising things without her! And we ALWAYS just end up drinking in her garage listening to the Backstreet boys and SHE NEVER COMPLAINS about that.

This year though… Psycho got wind of a BSB concert in Oz from one of the many fan sites she belongs to.

Quietly she booked six front row tickets. Even quieter still she put them in an envelope. Calmly she sent us all a text reading;

I have booked BSB tickets for everyone on the 09.05.15, be at my house by 4pm for pre-drinks. I don’t care that it is mother’s day the following day. I don’t care what you have on or how sick you may be on the day, we are going. This will make up for every birthday of mine you have ever missed, every event I have ever planned, every phone call I have ever made, every sash I have ever printed.

No excuses. Be there.

Ok, I did kind of take creative licence with the wording of the text, but it was the general gist.

SO!! The Ninth of May arrived at we dutifully got to Psycho’s house at 4pm, well… Kez and I were a bit late because she got suckered into playing netball.. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

In a leotard.. BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Anyways, we got there, and Psycho had the BSB playing and frozen cocktails prepared. Make-up and hair styling tools were plugged in and set up on a table in the garage because she is SO FUCKING ORGANISED. Several boyfriends and husbands mingled in the back ground drinking beer and exchanging nervous glances at each other, waiting for us all to get ready and fuck off out of there.

So we did.

We all sat Kez’s seven seater, looking blandly out of the window and sipping cocktails from drink bottles while Psycho fan screamed, cried a little bit, hyperventilated, counted the tickets 327 times and squealed whenever we got a kilometre closer to the event.

It was so unbelievable awesome to see her so excited, it was also slightly annoying, but any annoyance was overshadowed by just how excited our gorgeous little BSB psycho fan was.

The event itself, whilst not exactly ‘mah thang’ was really well done, and if you are a Backstreet fan, even if you aren’t as… dedicated as our Backstreet fan, you would love it. LOVE IT.

The performance was full of the classic songs with original dance moves, loads of eye contact and personal interactions with their adoring fans. It felt personal, was a blast from the past, it was highly entertaining and if it’s your thing then you should definitely go see them.

Would I go again?

Probably not, once was more than enough.

Am I glad I went?

I am, because I will never forget how much it meant to my gorgeous friend, how excited she was or how much she LOVES them.

It was pretty damn entertaining I must say...

So.. I wanna know.

Am I original?

Am I sexual?

AM I THE ONLY ONE?!?

Wait you can't answer those, because my commenting system is DOWN!! IT'S DOWN!! We are working on it, and it should be working soon.. I hope..

*Cries.

WANNA SEE THE REST OF THE PICTURES???

Back Streets back baby...

Mah Tat sleeve stops where mah actual sleeves stop. Makes it easy to hide it from Nan.

I know. This pic was a bit 'Crotchy' Stop looking.

Hey Girl! Hey!

Who farted?

Also has a strict Nana.. Unless it's the same guy.. Might be the same guy. I dunno.

More crotches

This pic reminds me of the Jimeoin Keyboard Player sketch... Man google it. Hilarious.

Looks a bit suss.. *Shifty eyes

You.

Am I sex-u-al? Dude stop asking me that...

Spiffy little keyboard player dropping a fart on the end there..

Happy Monday guys!

A Rant on things that get stolen.

2015-05-08T14:53:00.002+10:00

I already posted twice this week, which is pretty much the limit of my creativity, however I am angry today. Not just a little bit miffed like that time Karma pushed me and I fell over at the beach, or moderately angered like that time a gossip columnist I have never met told twitter that my posts make him hate bloggers more, or even truly enraged like that time I invited the local council to inhale the monies for my parking fine, five cents at a time, from my asshole. Remember those? Well this time I am beyond engorged with IRATE.

Wait, I want to explain something first...

I, like so many other bloggers spend a great deal of time, energy and effort on this blog, I turn down many sponsored post opportunities, because although I need to make some money, I want to ensure I can write something worth reading about it first. Blogs are an important marketing tool; there is great exposure in working with bloggers. Bloggers are fast learning their value and the rules are slowly changing in our favour.

Mid last year I changed the way I do promotion this blog. I made the sponsored opportunities by invitation only, so that I ensured I worked with people who respected and valued what it is that bloggers do. At the beginning of this year, I changed the rules again. I still will work only with known and trusted brands that value the work and contribution bloggers make, only now I work with brands that support this blogs ability and value to promote, by putting the money I make on this blog toward road trips that promote other things that I love and believe in. Stuff

that may not ordinarily get the kind of exposure they deserve because they can’t afford it. Promoting the things you love is the best kind of blog promotion because your readers identify with you on some level. That’s why they read. If you love something, chances are they will too.

There is a lot of work that goes on behind the scenes with this kind of promotion. I help with media kits, I share the knowledge I have gained in Search engine and social media optimisation. I create and explain social media platforms and share all the unwritten rules that the internet operates on to the best of my ability and knowledge and I create content that is amusing to read, even if the only thing I can do with that content is get people familiar with their name, brand or music. It involves time away from my family and often much of my own cash.

This means that I ONLY EVER do this kind of promotion for people that I feel really deserve it.

I Have to tell you that THESE guys REALLY do deserve it.

Remember when I took that road trip with Kez to the Central Coast to interview that band, and I was all secretive about who it was and I wanted to build it up and make a huge ‘thing’ about it, because I really want to give these guys the best exposure I can? I did this because I would love all of the people that identify here to know about these guys.

At first I wanted to promote them because of their huge amount of talent and I believed in the contribution they would make to Australian music. Then we began talking and I wanted to promote them more, because they are down to earth people who are passionate about what they do. They took time for their fan base; they tried their hardest to learn from everyone around them. They went on huge tours with the likes of Kasey Chambers and the Eagles and came home the next weekend to play a local gig at a small town pub because someone from their original fan base was having a birthday.

Then I met them and I wanted to help promote them because in a world of musicians who beat their girlfriends, or graffiti the buildings of the countries they visit, THESE guys are the kind of band you want your daughter to listen to, and your sons to aspire to. They are respectful, kind, ridiculously talented and they are the hand on my heart, the kind of creative humans that deserve a chunk of the many millions spent on the music industry each year.

I wanted to share who they were and what they did on this blog with an interview we filmed with a Go-Pro on a cheap tri-pod in a small dark motel room in the back of a Central Coast pub. The interview was unreal, we laughed and shared a few drinks in the rain and spoke about a great many things that I can’t wait for you to hear. One of the things we spoke about in the interview that didn’t make the cut was the attachment a musician gets to their instruments, and also the labour of love it is to do something creative.

All creative people know there is not a great deal of cash in their trade, especially when they are starting out. Bloggers know about this most of all.

Grizzlee Train know this.

I am not going to get to reveal who these guys are with this video though; I won’t get to SHOW you the brilliance I see in these people just yet, because it is still being edited. I want to tell you about them now though, because last night their gear was stolen from a gig in Darlinghurst.

Mic equipment, leads and a treasured collection of pedals were stolen including;

A silver pedal Train guitar pedal case,

A SOUL FOODS overdrive pedal,

A GREEN delay pedal,

An octave pedal and a WHITE drive pedal were among the many treasured things stolen from these guys.

These things not only hold great sentimental value, but are very costly and not easily replaced on the salary of musicians who play local pubs to make ends meet. The loss of these items is a huge blow to them, and I cannot begin to tell you how much success these guys deserve. This success will hampered by the loss of this equipment and man, it pisses me off. It makes me angry and upset and reminds me that the world is full of assholes who take advantage.

It is at times like these though, that I like to remind myself of the 5:1 asshole ratio rule that I absolutely made up and have no scientific basis whatsoever. But I truly believe that for every asshole, there are at least five great people. I know this because I see it every day.

I am asking that those great people keep an eye out for this missing equipment on their local trading sites, hock shops and garage sales. If you see anyone carrying equipment with a Grizzlee Train sticker similar to the Grizzlee Train part of the drum pictured below;

Please report it to crime stoppers. 1800 333 000, and leave the details of Grizzlee Train and the theft from Brighton Up Bar Darlinghurst.

Or if you can possibly help with any replacement gear that you no longer need please email emmasbrainsponsored@Hilarious.com

There are a huge amount of Sydney siders that read here, google analytics tells me so. There are SO MANY Sydney people who read here that if I think too much about it I would never share anything again, one of you, or someone you know may be able to help. I don’t often ask for assistance, but if you possibly can share this post, information or help in ANY WAY, please do!

Pretty please with Ed Sheeran, C-Tates AND Adam Levine on top.(Yes, I know right, never have I used all three descriptively, but YES ALL of them, that is how strongly I feel about this one guys.)

Em xx

I helped at the Mother's day stall to make up for my other crap parenting of the week.

2015-05-07T11:32:00.000+10:00

I helped at the Primary school Mother’s day stall yesterday. Stop laughing. I did.

I helped at the Mother’s day stall mostly because my kids were really excited to see me do it. Also, Helping at the Mother’s day stall kind of balanced out all of the other crap parenting stuff I had done during the week.

Like when I told my kid that Gymnastics didn’t start back until next week, which was a massive lie. Gymnastics was on, it was full of chipper children, tumbling and coming three cm away from kicking each other in the face all over the place, but I had a headache and REALLY couldn’t bring myself to sit through it for two hours.

Or like when the particularly competitive child lost a game of FIFA on the play station, and he cried and yelled and threw his controller and told everyone to get out of his room at the top of his lungs. He then went on to scream about everything he hates, which apparently includes me, peas, his bed, this house, wearing a uniform to school, our car and going to IGA.

I told him that there was no more PlayStation ever, and even as the words came out of my mouth I knew I could never back that up. That’s shit parenting right there. Empty threats are no one’s friend when it comes to discipline. I had said it though, so I took the controller to show that I was somewhat serious.

The next day, he did his chores with no complaint or prompting. He then finished his homework, fed his guinea pig in a similar fashion and proceeded to sheepishly ask if he could play his PlayStation.

I conveyed in child friendly terms that he could fucking forget it, and then he then began to beg. Eventually the begging got so annoying and desperate and uncomfortable to watch, like his little fists were balled and held in a prayer like ensemble. He was on the spot jumping with the despondency of the situation, his brows were furrowed and his eyes pleading for mercy.

Fuck, it was so annoying. I said the usual parenting lines... like;

“Well you should have thought about that before you carried on” and

“Games should be fun, it didn’t appear to me like you were having any fun at all with the way you were carrying on” and

“It’s not OK to behave like that”.

Eventually he resorted to “But Maaaaam” to everything I said...

SOURCE

Yeah, like that.

Do you know how fucking irritating that is? Children do, that’s why they do it, and eventually it wears you down.

I tried to ignore it by putting my headphones in my ears and listened to my iPod to drown it out, but... and here’s the thing. We got a new cat… His name is Edward Sheeran, and he is divinely cute, Look at him in his little crochet mullet….

But that gorgeous little kitty face chewed through my earphones so only one earbud was working, so every song I listened to sounded like a remix of “But Maaaaam”

The Hilltop Hoods Walking Under Stars remixed with But Maaaam, Cindy Lauper’s body acoustic duet with “But Maaaaam” Grizzlee Train’s EP FEAT “BUT MAAAAARRRRM”

I just couldn’t hack it. I am only human. So I had a small internal emotional episode and I told the kid that he could play the PlayStation for half an hour ONLY if he could do it without carrying on, and to be sure he knew how to do that, he first had to write me a one page essay on

Why it is not OK to carry on while playing the PlayStation

His essay had to include;

The definition and examples of ‘Carrying on’

The reasons that he ‘Carried on’

Whose fault it was that he was that he ‘Carried on’

What would be a better way to handle the situation the next time he felt the need to ‘Carry On?’

The conclusion had to contain an apology to me.

I admit, it was half ass parenting at its best. I mean, I could explain and dissect his behaviour, get him to take a look at his actions and help him develop skills that would make him less of a fucking sore loser, but... For crying out loud... I am not Saint Joe-Fucking-Frost, I am a human being and I have feelings and needs and I REALLY just wanted to have a coffee, get dinner on and for everyone to just shut the fuck up and leave me alone for five minutes.

*Heavy breathing.

I figured that getting him to write an essay dissecting his own damned behaviour would get the same result and I would get some quiet time to start dinner and have a coffee.

Winning.

SO anyway, he was so desperate to play FIFA, that he ran off to get a paper and a pen and he began scrawling immediately. About half an hour later he returned with his essay, which... to be honest was a bit shit bless him. He started off strong with his definition and his explaination that he could only blame himself as he chose to react to losing a game of FIFA by, and I quote;

~going off my chops.

But the apology part was a bit half ass, and was pretty much just SORRY MUM, in really big letters to take up the rest of the page.

Whatever… It was good enough, it was also very insightful and FLIPPING HILARIOUS. So I filed it away in the stuff I want to keep forever so that I can re-read it when they finally move out and I miss them annoying me all the time.

Tomorrow is another day yeah?

Unpopular opinions from the weekend

2015-05-04T11:25:00.000+10:00

There was so much happening this weekend, a royal baby! A homophobe and a sicky wife beater punched each other in the face for a sum of cash that would have done a great deal of good in Nepal right now, then there was the Logies... THE LOGIES! Who doesn’t love watching the people you see on the telly everyday get steadily intoxicated and chair dance.

It’s kind of like our family Christmas, Great Aunt Mary begins the festivities with a stuffy look of distain plastered on her face, but give her a few brandy’s and eventually she cracks a smile, drops her walking cane and boogies along with everyone else, while we all swap raised eyebrowed glances of “See, told you she didn’t actually need that cane, fucking faker..’

Man I hope great Aunt Mary doesn’t read this blog, but you know... If she does, it wouldn’t hurt to be less of a Stuffy Mc Crack-a-sad, you know it’s true, just saying.

OK.

The first unpopular opinion I am going to share on the weekend’s news is about the royal baby.

Don’t get me wrong, I love myself some great baby news as much as the next person. What’s not to love? But since I have been absolutely done in the having my own babies department, my joy for someone else’s baby news is more of a warm happiness at their delight if that makes sense.

If that isn’t clear, I will demonstrate in picture form what happened to me when I knew I was done making any more babies of my own.

I know how wrong that is to actually say out loud, or write on the internet for that matter, but it is what it is. I’m not going to lie.

My good friends that know me well already know this, they make fun of me for it, but they also know that I am genuinely REALLY happy when a baby is born. I am happy, I remember that joy, I am beyond excited that people who are having babies get to experience in that joy.

But I just really don’t want to hold your baby…

Not so much. I don’t know why this happened, or how this happened, but it happened OK, I’m not going to pretend it didn’t.

The second unpopular opinion I am going to share, is about the “fight”. For starters, I guess I just really can’t bring myself to delight in people punching each other in the face as much as some. I don’t understand it, I don’t like the sound of it, it’s just not mah forte.

If you don’t get this picture reference, we can never be friends.

I try my very best to be the vault of no judgment however, so if the boxing is something you enjoy, then you go my friend, I am just a little bit miffed at the human race that we can send so much money to cheer and watch a man convicted of assaulting five women, and another man who actively petitioned against gay rights and birth control, beat each other…. Wait... No the fact that they both copped a punching of the face is actually OK with me, but the money just annoys me, and the cheering about the money annoys me, especially when we all got perpetually offended with channel nine for sending a doctor to Nepal. I just... I can’t.

This is why I hate people.

Speaking of Channel nine, let’s look at the TV Week Logies .2015

I am going to say that I found this year’s Logies a tad on the boring side.

I did. I tried to be entertained, I REALLY TRIED, but I couldn’t quite sit through the whole thing. It was kind of like sitting through a school award ceremony, watching EVERYONE elses kid get an award.. You know, Yay for you, but I honestly couldn't care less.

There were a few moments of greatness don’t get me wrong. The best part of the Logies was obviously Carrie Bickmore, and everything about Carrie Bickmore. Her speeches, her dress, her contribution and her raising awareness for brain cancer, she is just amazing. So amazing in fact that a little bit of me wanted the camera to pan to Patty Newton’s face whenever Carrie was delighting everyone with her sheer amazingness, just once I wanted to see Patty Newton give Carrie Bickmore a bit of a stink eye about being de throned.

The second best part of the evening was the Richie Benaud memorial. DO you know why it was the best? Because the man was so damned respected by Australians that they played Por Ti Volare during his memorial and there was NOT ONE Catalina fucking Wine mixer tweet. Not one, now that’s respect right there, and damn well deserved I may add.

Marvellous.

The worst thing about the Logies though, apart from it being a little on the yawn side, was the lack of Australian musical talent.

Why do we insist on bringing imported talent to play at the Logies when we have SO DAMNED MUCH local musical talent? Is it that we feel we aren’t ‘cool’ enough? That we have to have a big international name to give the Logies more cred? Or are we trying to give the Logies more international recognition? IT WON’T WORK! For several reasons.

1. Importing talent to give you more cred is possibly the lamest thing you can do. It does the opposite of giving you cred, it draws attention to the fact that you feel you have no cred of your own, therefore you have to import it.

2. It is grossly unnecessary to bring in musical arrangements that don’t know what the fuck the Logies are or why they are even there... This is blatantly obvious in Meghan’s face right here…

What the actual fuck is going on?

3. For the sweet love of Powder Finger, why not use an Australian Award Show that recognises the immense creative talent Australia has to offer to showcase the massive Australian musical talent we have? It just doesn’t make sense?!

*Sigh… Meanwhile, this could quite possibly be the dullest rant I have ever written. For that.. No wait I can't even be bothered apologising because it's Monday people, MONDAY.

Now, before you start, please don't write to complain about my unpopular opinions, well... write if you want, but chances are I will neither care, nor read it.

Happy Monday.

I went on a road trip and a Bogan neighbour update.

2015-04-30T12:45:00.003+10:00

I know I said I was going to be funny again LAST week, but I was busy taking a road trip with Kez to the Central Coast, where we interviewed some very talented musicians, Kasey Chambers was there... That’s a clue for you, but I can’t tell you who they were just yet, but I can’t wait for you to see the video we made.

HILAR.

Not so hilair was the storm carnage up there, we left the day after the rain started and getting home was slow going. One part of the train journey involved a guy in the seat behind passing out and rolling into the walkway of the train carriage. We stopped at the next station, the ambo’s came, it was all very dramatic.

Anyway, I have been busy editing video, which isn’t very fun or easy. Fun and easy are pretty much the main criteria that must be met for anything I do, so I have not been a very happy camper of late. Add to that, the news is depressing, the weather is depressing, my house is depressing...

I fucking HAAAATE housework. I loathe it. I despise it with the fire of a thousand suns.

Unfortunately for me, I also despise sitting in mess. If I could be one of those people on hoarders, who can simply clear a little burrow in the corner somewhere, just push aside the rodent carcasses and newspapers and just pretend that I am not actually surrounded by filth, I reckon I would be a lot more relaxed.

I can’t though, and man, it pisses me off to no end. It gets to a point where I start resenting everyone in the house. Does that happen to you? The feeling grows with every discarded sock, every snack refuse or cereal bowl I pick up, every towel left mid hallway, YES MID- FUCKING- HALL WAY. I have no idea why there are towels in the middle of my hallway, as it seems like a strange place to drop a towel.

Perhaps it was dropped in order to treat someone to a show of dick flapping. That happens a lot around here; the minute nakedness occurs it seems that the most natural thing to do is to flap your dick around and around, jutting it in the general direction of the nearest person.

I don’t know why. I don’t have a dick… Maybe if I had one I would understand.

I am getting a bit off topic here… Point is that I am full of resentment at the unfair distribution of domestic responsibility in my home. This happens a lot.

You know that scene in Liar liar where Jim Carey’s character, I can’t remember his name.. *Clicks fingers…. FLETCHER! When Fletcher gets his car impounded, and it’s scratched and the impound guy denies that he scratched it.

Jim Carrey goes; “You know what I’m going to do about this?”

And the impound guy says “What?”

And Jim Carrey says “NOTHING! Because if I take it to small claims court, it will drain 8 hours of my life and you probably won’t show up, and even if I got the judgment you’d just stiff me anyway. So what I’m gonna do is PISS AND MOAN, like an impotent jerk and then bend over and take it in the tail pipe”

That’s pretty much how I feel every time I piss and moan about the unfair distribution of domestic duties in my home.

Remember the last time when I was having one of these resentment filled overflow attacks, and I had that argument with the guy down the road... In the middle of the street? Hmmm Remember that? I am pleased to say that there have been some developments in this.

If you are new here, I’ll quickly fill you in because I can’t be bothered googling the post I wrote about it.

This one time, the Bogan a few houses down (*Robbo) had a few too many drinks, he started on at my next door neighbour about her cat... I don’t know, shitting in his yard or something I can’t remember exactly. But he was being a jerk, and he was in her face and I was so mad, and full of resentment and… probably had PMS, whatever, I couldn’t stand it.

So I marched over there and gave him a telling off. I am pretty good at telling people off, especially when I am angry. So it worked, and Bogan guy sheepishly walked back to his house, while I followed, jabbing a finger and yelling stuff. Anyway, this all happened on the day that new people moved in across the road.

So there I was, mid street, no shoes on, finger jabbing, yelling and head bobbing all over the place in front of the new neighbours who we hadn’t met yet because they had just moved in that day.

Classy hey?

So these new neighbours refused to make eye contact with us... Even after I sent them a Christmas card.

The card read;

Hi New neighbours!

I looked around to find the right card to welcome you to the street, but unfortunately hallmark do not make, ‘I’m sorry you had to witness that screaming Bogan argument yesterday’ cards, so I settled on a Christmas one.

We are so terribly embarrassed.

Unfortunately, a few doors down have been having a hard time of late, and an argument erupted over cats, I think?!

We would like to reassure you, that you have not moved in to an episode of Houso’s, and this is not a regular occurrence, in fact, that was our first ever bogan street argument, so I am not quite sure of the etiquette in apologising to your new neighbours you have not yet met.

Anyway, WELCOME to the neighbourhood! & our sincerest apologies.

Forever embarrassed,

Emma and Cabbage (across the road)

No reply.. Rude, Just saying..

Anyway that’s what happened the last time I was this full of resentment, but I am pleased to report that a few weeks ago something miraculous happened in the no eye contact situation. Three years I have waited to prove to them that I am not that much of a Bogan OK? Three years... Then;

It was a sunny Monday morning, I was out collecting the mail and the male of the neighbours who don’t make eye contact was bringing their council bins in from the kerb.

It was one of those uncomfortable situations that I had found myself in many times before, what should I do? Look up and attempt to make eye contact?

Do I gesture with a wave?. Do I say “Hey! Lovely morning, did you get my hilarious Christmas card that I sent you three years ago?”

Usually I will glance in their general direction to see them hurriedly finishing whatever they are doing and keeping their eyes firmly on what they are doing, or the view, or their feet, pretty much anywhere that does not involve my general vicinity, they don't make eye contact, and rejected I walk back inside REALLY wanting to explain myself, to somehow justify my bogan-ish behaviour from three years ago.

Not this sunny Monday morning however.

I glanced in the area of the male neighbour who can’t make eye contact, the sun was shining its through the trees, the birds were singing, butterflies danced around the geranium bushes that were in their yard. (The very same geranium bushes that are now in my own garden, because I stole a few cuttings before they moved in).

And then, as though it were in slow motion, they raised their head, their eyes drifted from their drive way, slowly their head lifted and like magic their direct line of sight snapped with mine.

The man’s lip began to quiver, slowly it formed a smile, then a friendly grin overcame his face showing just the right amount of teeth. His shoulder twitched, his arm extended above his head and his hand made a waving formation. His smile gave way to a melodic...

“Heeeey!.. Lovely day!”

I couldn’t quite believe my eyes, and it must have been the shock of the whole experience, but my arm also extended, I waved and smiled, and said… Wait..

I can’t.. I just need a minute.

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I said…

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“How’s it garn?”

Like THAT!! Like CARL BARRON!!

I DON”T EVEN SPEAK LIKE THAT!!!

THREE YEARS I SPENT TRYING TO PROVE I WASN”T THE STREET BRAWLING BOGAN THEY THOUGHT I WAS, AND I SAY HOW’S IT GAAAARN!!!!

He smiled... nodded and walked inside.

I said how’s it garn.

I just… I can’t even. *Shakes head sadly.

So that’s that I guess. Luckily for me I won’t be leaving the house for a while, because it is full of other people’s crap I have to pick up.

Hope you are having an excellent week.

*Robbo is not Bogans real name.