Yer Mum dot com: Mind Your Mum.

I Ran To Paradise

2013-05-02T11:30:00.002+10:00

I enjoy the school holidays, I really do. I enjoy my life not revolving around 9am to 3pm.

I awoke on the first day of SH Feeling refreshed and excited at all of the things I would get done. All of the things I save for the School Holidays, like cleaning out the linen cupboard, pantry organisation and giving the fridge a good wipe out. These mind numbing tasks are much easier when I have a small army to fetch things for me and race each other to the outside bin.

Also, I don't feel like I have to finish by 3pm.

Found; The Bi term fridge wipe out, April 13.

While it does mean that I do in fact, only wipe my fridge out once every ten weeks, it gives my children the opportunity to earn holiday spending money. I even managed to pay my four year old in stale bread and a promise to go to the local duck pond to feed them with it, in exchange for climbing into the bottom pantry shelf to wipe the back of it.

So much winning.

It goes a small way to making up for the CONSTANT dobbing and fighting, moans of boredom and mess that come with the SH.

I put a ban on dobbing in the house these holidays, after day two, so then my children began dobbing on each other for being about to dob.

My mental state was rapidly deteriorating, by the end of the school break, and whilst my pantry was sparkling, it was emptier than a politicians promise. It became very apparent that I would be visiting the shops, with the kids, on the LAST day of school holidays.

This should always be avoided if at all possible, I know this... But as I couldn't send the children to school with two hard boiled eggs and a stale Sao wrapped in toilet paper, this was clearly one of those unavoidable scenarios, and what started as an innocent trip to Woollies ended in... Well. Let's just say that the last day of the School holidays... It broke me.

We arrived at Woollies, grabbed a trolley and started our assault on the fruit and veg. The two youngest made a beeline for the grapes and began taste testing immediately, after much pretending I didn't see, I discovered Ms 4 poking tiny holes with her finger in the plastic wrap of pre packaged corn. This was unacceptable so I threatened her with confinement in the trolley and rushed off to get some meat.

The Teen moped behind me dragging his feet, asking at least eighteen times in a toneless voice, if we were almost finished, and peered out solemnly from behind his fringe, or as his father and I refer to it, the hair veranda. No doubt adding up the wasted minutes spent at the shop that would be better spent shooting people via Xbox and shouting the word NOOB.

Master eight, who declared himself a fan of the movie Pitch Perfect these School holidays, was doing the cup song, minus the cup, do he was really just clapping his hands and flicking various shelf items. All of these things I could tolerate, apart from the corn vandalism and the grape theft, things were going OK, but I could feel the tension rising. I was racing the clock of child patience, and I knew it.

My cunning parent Witt kicked in and I sent Master Eight and Master Fourteen to pick out school snacks whilst I raced the clock of child patience throwing in everything I could possibly need when I heard it...

I knew immediately it was one of mine... It was a shriek I had heard many times.

"YOU ARE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!!" I tensed and strained to hear, willing it not to be my children, but knowing... Deep down it was. I didn't have to strain too hard to hear the much louder shriek of “YOU ARE SUCH A BUTT MUNCHER, YOU ARE A MASSIVE JERK BUTT MUNCH" followed by a thump and a noise that would have convinced many people that a small child had been hit by a stray bullet, and as it was at Tahmoor, there was a real possibility this could be the case.

I could deny that the butt munching children were not mine any longer and I marched to the checkout to meet them with a steely gaze which I hoped conveyed my disgust and anticipation of...wait until we get in the car...

My gaze must have long lost its effectiveness because Master eight pummelled toward me, arms flailing out at his sides, his mouth dramatically and annoyingly agape letting out the most ear piercing and over reactive wail, accusing the teen of assault with a muesli bar box. It was uncomfortable to watch.

The teen not far behind him, arms outstretched, eyes wide as to appear as innocent as he could, he began yelling over the top of Master eights shrieking and pointing to his upper arm... "I DIDN'T!! He is LYING, he is such a LIAR, YOU ARE SUCH A LIAR!!" to which I cracked, and instructed them to sit outside and to not even look at each other till I was done or else... "Steely gaze of wait until we at in the car"

The checkout operator gave me a sympathetic glance and assured me that soon they will have moved out and I will miss them and I refrained from clocking her with the dented muesli bar box, which was now referred to as evidence A, and avoided eye contact with everyone else in the store who was now staring at me and feeling like a smugly superior parent.

I wanted to point at them and say, that they too, had left their grocery shopping till the last day of the school holidays, and DON'T YOU DARE JUDGE ME!!

But I didn't. I walked as fast as I could through the car park and into the car.

The three kids sat silently in their seats, waiting for the inevitable barrage that was to spew forth, I said nothing. This made them more nervous, I could tell.

In silence I started the car, flicked on the radio, and drove away with an expressionless face, like a serial killer that had just picked up three hitchhikers.

The three children shifted uncomfortably in their seats, well not Ms 4. Ms 4 was doing her best Taylor Swift impersonation along with the radio.

I slowed down at some road works when the Teen changed the radio station. Run to paradise was on, I smacked his hand away when he tried to change it again, took a deep breath and began tapping in time to the beat on the steering wheel.

Still not saying a word, I began to feel suffocated, the air was hot, and I had a rising panic in my throat. I slowly opened all the windows and put the lock on them, so as they could not be wound up... It was then the Teen turned to me and said...

As if being in this car is not embarrassing enough, can you at least turn the radio down? Or put the windows up? This song sucks and the council workers are staring at us.

This. Song. Sucks. Does it? I am embarrassing you am I? I. AM EMBARRASSING YOU.?? We're the only words I spoke.

I cranked the radio, and began belting out the lyrics as loudly as I could belt.

BAYBEEEH! You we're always gonna be the one..

I accompanied this with some pistol fingers out the window, when it got to the "open your eyes up bit, I began pointing at council workers, stating it was there turn to take it away!

Open your eyes up

Your turn Mr council worker... OPEN YOUR EYES UUUUUUP"

They stared back. The teen and Master eight sat as low in their seats, their fucked up little flat peaked hats pulled low over their faces, Ms four just looked slightly confused.

I continued doing forty long after the road works had ended, mainly be because I did not trust my ability to head bang, shoot gangsta signs and finger pistols out of the open windows, sing loudly and drive safely at the same time, but also to prolong the embarrassment I was bringing to my children.

When we pulled up at home, I declared that the two boys were to bring in ALL of the groceries, and if they EVER, embarrassed me with behaviour like the kind they showed at Woollies ever again, I would purchase a Dolly Parton CD... *steely gaze

I need to hear your tales of genius punishments, in order to enable mine.

Go.

Em xx

The decade that style forgot.

2013-04-23T11:33:00.001+10:00

This post is about a recent event I attended, I was not paid or commissioned to write about it, but I had fun so I did. This post contains mention of brands. If this type of thing hard waters your delicates, you should stop reading now, but please come back, I still love you and I can change..

Meanwhile, On Monday night, I attended a small get together to celebrate P&G's 175th Birthday and the launch of Pantene's new range. I met again with the man responsible for my red hair, Pantene Ambassador and occasional hairstylist to the queen I heard, Mr Barney Martin.

Swoon.

As fate would have it I awoke on Monday with the mother ship of all pimples on my chin.

I have not had a zit for weeks, and every one of those blemish free weeks I have spent at home, with nowhere to go, then it seems that all of the cells in my chin read my invitation to this event, posted it as a public event on Facebook, and conspired to erupt in an inflamed puss party, on my face whilst I slept the evening before.

I spent the morning staring at this zit and convincing myself not to touch it, for I knew that the minute I started interfering, the mild get together on my face would quickly become out of control.

By lunchtime, it became fairly obvious that whether I touched it or not, Lindsay Lohan had caught wind of this acne party, and things quickly escalated.. so I did what any one would do in my situation, and I sent out a self absorbed, first world problem tweet begging for a quick remedy.

Twitter did not disappoint, because there are a lot of freaky people out there doing some disturbing things to their zits. I picked those least likely to involve a trip to the ER and I was instructed to squeeze it, apply haemorrhoid cream, ice it, smother it in rubbing alcohol ( of which I had none, but after further investigation, twitter deemed it acceptable to use Vodka as a rubbing alcohol replacement) and finally, add toothpaste.

In an act of desperation, I deemed all of these solutions to be necessary. Like a full on call of duty black ops assault on my chin.

Firstly I squeezed. Not happy with the results, I began the other suggested treatments. I felt the Vodka begin to work almost immediately, then decided to apply some to my face before I drank it all, so on it went, over the top of cream specifically designed to reduce the inflammation and pain of protruding anus veins and toothpaste. I topped it all off with a good icing, which was refreshing as my chin was now burning from the toothpaste, and I concluded that there was such a thing as mint burn.

It was then I followed the last piece of advice I was given and smothered it in makeup, crossed my fingers and left.

On arrival my face had not fallen off, though it was free of gingivitis and I was pleased to see the familiar face of fellow Pantene ambassador, Mrs Zoe Foster. I made a beeline for her. There was once a time that Zoe and I shared busses to our local blue light discos so that we could pash on with boys not from our school.

Zoe, not deterred by my zit.

Zoe made the mistake of asking how I was, as you do, and this was just the opening I needed to thrust my chin in her general direction and ask her very politely what the Corey Worthington I could do about *THIS out of control clogged pore party* with added pointing to my zit. Zoe took a very knowledgeable look at the problem, well; as good as she could get as I covered in about 4cm of concealer, and declared it immediately to be hormonal. Sadly, there was absolutely nothing other than the hormone pill I could do about it.

We then began talking about hormonal pit falls, namely PMS, and Zoe shared with me a tale of a time that she was struck with PMS so badly, that she almost cried tears of rage that her mashed potatoes were not blending with the peas on her fork. We decided such a level of anger over a dinner plate had to be PMS, and I shared with her the time I offered to pay a parking fine at the local council 5c at a time... from my ass... and was escorted from the building.

There was an awkward silence.

Female bonding at its finest.

After our bonding, it was time to take a quick trip down P&G product memory lane. We laughed, smirked and marvelled at some of the old packaging and sales slogans. It was like opening my Nan's linen cupboard.

My Nan's linen cupboard was crammed full of discontinued products from the seventies, chunky boxes of medicated soap, probably hand whittled by Mr Proctor himself such was its age and other hilarious paraphernalia.

Look what was waiting at my chair. It seems I have been here before.

Next came time to style our hair. This was my before shot.. not so much as a hairbrush had seen my hair that day.

I chose the eighties, because I was born there, and some of my friends still live there.

Noting the hesitation on my face, Barney was quick to tell me that the hair I was to get, was a contemporary take on an eighties style. The eighties were all about no parts, back combing and slick side burns. In his divine accent, the 80's had never sounded sexier.

After... Hello forehead!! Represent.

So after some mingling I headed home to rock my pyjamas with fabulous hair, I awoke the next morning in a back combing nightmare and overnight my zit had tripled in size and I felt strangely as though I really wanted to wear something with shoulder pads.

Luckily for me P&G had also sent some tools helpful in the removal of back combing...

Much like my approach to zit remedies, I opened all of the hair treatments and applied them liberally.

Love.

Whilst I enjoyed my trip down hairstyle memory lane, I concluded that some things, like zits and 80's hairstyles, should be left well alone.

Emma xx

Duncan Gay Don't Care Too Much For Money, But Money Can't Buy Me Love.

2013-04-11T21:17:00.002+10:00

IMAGE

Almost 44 years ago, this photo graced the cover of The Beatles Abbey Road album.

Since that albums release countless tourists and fans have made the pilgrimage to the St John's Wood crossing to have their picture taken on it.

In a time of war, they sang for peace. Many sang along with them, regardless of Government policy, it's war in Vietnam and race riots, (including my parents, whom often went into long winded and excruciating detail when explaining the meaning behind every lyric The Beatles ever sang) but the point is, the message was delivered. The masses agreed.

John Lennon’s Aunt Mimi was once quoted saying to Lennon, that "his guitar was great, but he would never make a living from it."

I'm so glad he didn't listen. The Beatles went on to change the world.

In 2009 Westminster Council, alarmed by the increasing number of traffic incidents on the crossing due to increased sightseeing, began talk of removing the crossing all together.

It was met with such outrage that talk soon began of just simply moving the crossing.

Beatles fans however, were already taking parody photos on crossings north of the famous and iconic crossing, because it didn't much matter what crossing in Abbey Road it was, the meaning behind it was the same.

The crossing was no longer just a crossing, it was a message.

“And, in the end

The love you take

Is equal to the love you make.”

Paul McCartney. The End 1969.

IMAGE

In 2013 the Oxford Street crossing in Sydney became a rainbow, to celebrate 35 years of the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras.

In 2013 Bands are singing lyrics of same love, the majority of Australians sing along with them, saddened that after 35 years that the Australian Government are making rules and regulations on who is entitled to love who.

Countless people flocked to this crossing to have their picture taken. Countless people who support a human beings decision to love whomever they love, without fear of ramification or isolation.

Roads Minister Duncan Gay ordered the removal of the crossing, at the cost of $30000, citing traffic and pedestrian safety and the fact that drunken people might lie on it.

I can't help but feel that the $30000 spent digging it up might be better spent improving street patrols and security, and not spent removing a very visual reminder of the massive support behind Legalising gay marriage.

I say it doesn't matter what crossing it is, where the crossing is or who put it there, the message is the same.

Tomorrow I am off to buy some coloured chalk and I will begin the school holidays by painting my own rainbow crossing with my children in my driveway, and I will take my picture on it.

It is no longer a crossing it's a message.

They can remove the Oxford Street crossing, stating any ridiculous excuse they like. The masses have already agreed.

What the government is saying is not unlike Lennon's Aunt Mimi's quote. ‘being gay is great, but you will never get married'

I'm so glad we are not listening; because we can go on to change the world.

For Duncan Gay might not care too much for money.

Money can't buy me love.

Emma xx

Guess What?

2013-04-09T09:41:00.000+10:00

I have a little announcement to make.. So pipe down.

This happened recently.

Writing and maintaining a blog, takes a huge investment of many things, and although it is a labour of love, I won't pretend that I am not a little bit chuffed about being nominated, and am deeply grateful to whoever took the time to nominate this blog. (Even if it was probably my mum)

I would like to pretend that I don't care about winning this award, because that would help me to appear far cooler than I actually am, but the truth is that I do.

Not only would I get to do some very much needed writing courses from the Australian Writers Centre, but the winner gets to meet with the Managing Director of Random House, so needless to say I would like to give it my best crack, and I would very much appreciate your vote if you do read and enjoy this blog and you are so inclined.

(See?!?!... I used three and's in one sentence, SEE how much I need these courses?!?)

I have some VERY stiff competition this year, stiffer than a honeymooners handle, and I will need every vote I can get.

It will only take a minute, I checked, by voting for myself.

I will accept sympathy votes, mandatory family votes; you have to vote for me because we are friend’s votes, genuine votes and votes just so that I will shut up about getting votes.

I will need them all.

You can vote by clicking on this link, and finding my blog, which is located under E for Emmasbrainblogs.

You can vote for multiple blogs, but you can only vote in the survey once. Please remember to click "Finish" at the end or your vote won't count, and voting closes 30th of April.

I will be your best friend.

Emma. Xx

The enforcer or boundaries.

2013-04-05T11:07:00.007+11:00

The teen wasn't always a teen, surprisingly enough. When he wasn't a teen he would do things like, hide dog chews under buckets in the back yard and lead the dog around them, pretending he was a sniffer dog trainer.

He now looks at the dog occasionally.

He used to spend hours building great big elaborate structures out of Lego. Now there is a big empty space under his bed where the Lego tub used to be.

It now gets filled with empty chip packets and screwed up bits of paper.

He used to jump on the trampoline, now he lies on it, chatting on his phone.

Things never used to annoy him, now everything annoys him. His brother and sister annoy him, his dad and I annoy him, and the cat annoys him. My vacuuming annoys him, life annoys him.

He has attitude, MASSIVE attitude, it makes me angry, and he gets angry back. He is angry a lot.

I have screamed at him. He rolls his eyes back.

This week I used the phrase, "I AM YOUR MOTHER!!" right in his bum fluff covered little face.

I went to bed hating myself.

He doesn't find many things exciting anymore, trips to the basketball, Maccas, the beach, Easter egg hunts... they used to be met with excited squeals and on the spot jumping.

Now? Nothing!! The kid reacts to NOTHING!!!

He doesn't chat much anymore, not to me anyway, unless he is back chatting.

He talks to his friends, constantly. I can't help but feel a little bit jealous of them, Especially when I hear him erupt in uproarious laughter from his room, or when I hear muffled conversation from the Xbox that make him happy, and then when he emerges from his room, his smile is gone and replaced with a look of modest disdain.

The conversations we do have consist of me asking questions and him mumbling monosyllabic answers, when he does initiate conversation, it is often while his head is buried deep in the fridge, and usually it is the occasion grunts of "Wsssfrtea"

Which I think translates to "what's for tea” other times he begins conversations accusingly, like "Where is my..?" or "who's been touching my stuff" or” Why I can’t..?"

He was never any trouble as a little kid. He never got a smack, He very occasionally gets a time out, and he would sit there.

Just accept his punishment and sit there till time out was up. It would make me feel sorry for him, that he was so good.

Now, Sometimes.. I want to punch him square in the nose. Like punch him, punch him. I would never of course, but sometimes I want to.

Sometimes he glares at me, and I find myself glaring back, I AM HIS MOTHER!!

The mother who glares at him.

We had an argument recently, I was standing in the kitchen, making dinner, and he stomped out of his room and into the kitchen to call me a liar.

I looked at him, puzzled, and enquired what it is I lied about.

He replied that I said I would make an appointment for him to get a haircut that afternoon, and I didn't, therefore, I was a liar.

I told him to "come off it, that I forgot"

I wasn't apologizing for forgetting either, he could get fucked. I was busy. It was a haircut for crying out loud. GIIIIT stuffed.

I didn't say that but I wanted to.

Instead I told him to make his own flipping appointment if it was that important to him. I marched over to the phone and prodded him with it, I said,

“Here’s the phone, here, take it... TAKE IT!!" I reminded him that he had his own phone even, the phone that I bought the credit for, despite him not doing his chores twice last week.

Well done Emma... FAAARK.

He was so angry with me, I was now angry with him.

He turned on one foot and stomped off only to return with angrier. His face was red; he was speaking to me as though he hated me. He went on to list three other injustices brought to him as a direct result of something I had done, or not done.

I told him that he didn't even know what he was angry about and to get outside and blow off some steam.

In my mind I screamed, NOW!! Before I punch you in the nose.

He did.

I watched him through the kitchen window, pushing the excited dogs away from him in disgust and I sent silent messages of 'wait until your father gets home' to him.

I thought about him, the little him in time out and I wanted to cry. Where did he go?

And then I looked out the kitchen window.

He was sitting in a chair outside, in his time out, like he was told, just like when he was little.

He sat just sat there.

I gave him a minute and I went to him.

I handed him a drink of lemonade and I said I was sorry for forgetting about his hair appointment.

He told me it was OK.

I told him it wasn't OK to talk to me like that.

He began to talk, not to grunt, but to talk.

It was then I realised it wasn't about me. It was about him. Everything was about him, he was fourteen. Of course it was.

I was taking these things so personally; it had nothing to do with me. Meeting his anger with anger was never going to work.

I told him how I felt, I used me words, I felt like, I thought you..

To my Surprise, he grunted back his own me words.

He felt like, he wanted, he thought..

He agreed to make his own hair appointment, because he was old enough to do that, and then it came out.

He was old enough to do a lot of things, like make hair appointments, but too young to do many more things. He was in between.

Being fourteen is in between and sucks sometimes. I told him I remembered how much it sucked.

My little boy was still my boy, but he is no longer an extension of myself. He is his own person, an almost man.

I was taking so many of his actions and words to heart, but it wasn't about me.

He still relied on me for so many things, Things he wanted to control.

I was the bringer of meals, the keeper away-er of younger siblings from his stuff, the buyer of sports shoes, the maker of appointments and the enforcer of boundaries.

He so desperately wants to be a separate person from me; he wants to control his own world.

The world that is just beginning for him.

He wanted to control his hair and, his world.

I promised that I would try my best to remember his feelings, and that he was his own person. He promised he would try to remember mine, and to put his feelings into words.

I promised I'd listen.

This is just the start.

For now I'm strapping myself in, and learning, as he is learning. I have to trust him, and to trust him, I have to trust that I have done OK as his mum so far. That he knows right from wrong, good from bad. That he is no longer an extension of me, or a reflection of me even.

That it is not always about me.

He is his own, and boundaries are still needed, I just have to learn to make them bigger every now and again. Especially when he is butting against them with anger, I need to listen.

I will

have to continue to make the boundaries bigger, and bigger and bigger, and not always when I feel it is necessary, but when he feels it is necessary. Bit by bit, till the whole world is his.

One haircut at a time.

I was never going to need this, then I did...

2013-04-02T09:15:00.000+11:00

I was never a very good student. Not when it came to the part where I had to sit still, or wear a uniform, or any of the other conforming that I found ridiculous. My grades were good though, I always did well, well, except for maths.

I would sit through maths, roll my eyes at things like algebra and have a complete meltdown of frustration, and bored hysteria.

I was NEVER gonna NEED this.

If the x is 9 then call it NINE, asshole.

If I need to find the value of A, I will ask someone whom loves the Shit out of finding the value of A, and wants to marry it and have its babies, and THEY can tell me what I need to know, and who cares anyway, because I don't need algebra to find Dave Grohl, convince him we were perfect for each other and live happily ever after, which, at the time, was my life's only purpose.

Since becoming a parent, I have found there are a great many skills that I never thought I would need, and it turns out I do, the most surprising of which, is maths.

As a parent, you will do a great amount of counting. You will count the steps you climb, pegs you are handed, and you will also find that one, two, and three, will be most commonly used, and followed with either a Go! Or wheeeeeee!

You will also use a counting system to give your child time to stop and reflect on their behaviour, thus giving them the chance to do the "right" thing.

For example;

Your children will be fighting over....let's say, who fucking cares, but it will ALWAYS be something, they will fight and fight and fight... About everything, it will never stop...

But let's say, for this instance, one of your children has been accused of theft, in the form of a siblings Easter egg.

Theft is not cool; you have a moral obligation to correct that behaviour, so you will begin with,

"Did you take your brothers Easter Egg?" When reasonable guilt has been established, you will continue with;

"Give it back"- Then

"Now" - followed by

"I'll give you till the count of three, to give your brother back his Easter egg" & finally

The count begins.

"One. Followed by... two..."

Hopefully, somewhere around two, your child will give their sibling back their Easter egg, by nicely handing it back, and they won't peg it at said siblings head and call them a selfish.

Thus using the "Till the count of three" for them to reflect on their behaviour, and correct it.

Whether or not you get to three, is a bit, hit and miss. You will be confident of knowing whether or not your child is going to comply by the time you get to two however, and you had better know, that if you get to three, you have to get up and enforce whatever punishment you so graciously tried to help them avoid, before it was so ungratefully thrown back in your face, or pegged at their siblings head.

There are a great many other uses for "Till The Count Of Three" Technique.

You can use the count of three, to buy time to think of a punishment, or to collectively motivate a group of children, for example;

"If any of you are not in your school uniform by the time I get to three,"

OR and most commonly, you will use till the count of three, to avoid stopping what you are doing, or to avoid getting up off the lounge.

One day, you will so desperately not want to stop doing what you are doing, or to get up off the lounge, because you are watching the Game of thrones season two, again, in anticipation of season three, and.. John Snow, whilst trying to follow a crochet pattern.

However your child is past giving a flying about whether they exceed their count limit or not, such will be their Easter egg induced psychosis.

It is then my friends, that you will need fractions.

You need to learn fractions to buy yourself more time from when you begin giving your child till the count of three, and when you actually have to get up and enforce stuff, and as a result, you will not miss a minute of John Snow looking off moodily and determined into the distance.

While you might be tempted, to stretch the count out by using the following technique;

One, two... Two and a half, two and three quarters... Don't.

This is an amateur mistake.

You started at two and a half, cutting out half of the usable fractions that are available to you, straight up, and one day, it might make the difference between seeing John Snow's shower scene, or losing your crochet stitch count, etc., etc...Or not, SO!

I have compiled a list of more useable fractions between two and three, for your future reference, thus giving you more available options. Feel free to use all and any of these, depending on how much time you need.

Two.

2 and 1/12

2 and 1/6

2 and 1/4

2 and 1/3

2 and 5/12

2 and 1/2

2 and 7/12

2 and 2/3

2 and 3/4

2 and 5/6

2 and 11/12

Three. I can help you no more.

Best of luck.

Emma.

Dear Channel 9, RE: Mr Waterhouse

2013-03-27T20:02:00.000+11:00

Dear Channel 9.

How are you? Good Thanks.

I am just writing, to let you know that I observed my two sons playing basketball in the backyard recently, my eldest son bet my youngest son that he could not make the basket from back near the chook shed, and for a small minute my gut tensed and I expected Tom Waterhouse's head to pop up from the back fence and offer him ten to one odds on that.

Its OK though, I have also recently started a therapy class a few weeks ago on the recommendation of a friend. It is a three month intensive class that teaches you to be aware of your thought patterns.

I was given an exercise in which I had to rethink the things that I found overwhelming, and no negative self-statements about my appearance or intelligence were allowed.

I know, I rolled my eyes too, but hear me out.

I chose the email as my overwhelmer of choice, and I had to wait until they were alarmingly and overwhelmingly built up, then... When I opened my emails, I would thank the urge to be overwhelmed very kindly for showing up, and then interrupt its every attempt to come in the door by actually saying positive things to myself like...

"you really don't care how many emails are there"

Then I would get up and walk past the mirror in my hall and say things like, "under eye bags mean you are tired not haggard" and "you can't spell tuck shop lady arms, without Lady!!" as well as other ridiculous bullshiznit.

I had to do it convincingly, whether I believed it or not, over and over again...which... I Must say is actually very difficult, and by some time into it, I really just felt like a massive wanker who sat there breathing deeply at the computer telling LIES to myself, when I was done at the computer, I would walk past the mirror in the hall and say "Hey beautiful" and give myself a wink.

These are not things sane people do and so I entertained the thought of giving up the class, only something magical happened.

I recognised that I was having a negative thought pattern about the class, and that would inevitably end in my giving up, never going again and feeling like a failure.

Still not sold, but Feeling a little less like the class might be bullshit by bedtime, I went to bed, I caught sight of myself in the mirror in the hall and I thought to myself, man I am tired, and it wasn't until I got into bed that I realised I just saw my dark eye bags and my first thought associated with it was that I must have been tired, not anything self-depreciative, but tired.

You following me?

Now, I Know what you are thinking....and yes, this is a long blog post, and yes it has a point, of which I am getting to.

Now.... If I can train my very stubborn brain into changing negative thought patterns into more positive thought patterns, even when deep down I didn't believe them to be true, just by repeating them to myself, then what. The. Fuck. Is Tom Waterhouse's very disturbing head doing, smearing himself and his gambling over every square inch of your NRL coverage?

I understand the games need to find sponsorship, and I really, could not, give 5/8ths of a sweet, sweet feck ALL If Tom Waterhouse sponsors the game or not to be honest, but surely there are other ways of Tom Waterhouse sponsoring the game?!?

The dude. Only. STOPS giving gambling odds and smiling, just long enough to drag his lips back together and re-lubricate his front teeth.

Give me a break!!

And I know... OK, people in glass houses and all that, and I am aware that I said "I Cant Smell any of that" on the TV every eight seconds too, and it was during the Olympics coverage, and I admit that my voice was annoying, but hear me out.

I don't know a hell of a lot about gambling statistics I am ashamed to say, but I do know of people whom have lost everything and everyone because of it. I know gambling is addictive.

I will certainly do my damnedest to make sure my kids know these things about gambling, I will make sure, that deep down, they know this to be true, but if Tom Waterhouse is going to keep reminding them of gambling, then interrupting everything thought my children have about gambling with a message about how fantastic his odds of winning are, convincingly, over and over, even if deep down, they know it is not right, I have no choice but to remove him, his odds, you and their Much beloved NRL games from their environment.

My beef is not with Mr Waterhouse's contract to channel nine commentating, conflicting with his book making, or what logo is on the microphone he is holding, or whether or not there is a disclaimer EVERYTIME he speaks, or any of that stuff that seems to be overshadowing the actual issue, I know it is probably of some importance somehow, but try as I might to give a shaz I really just can't, I have far too many other things to do, I do care about my kids though, and I will drop ANYTHING to protect them.

Microphone or no microhone, disclaimer or no disclaimer..I think we are all getting a little jaded with the attempt to cloud every real issue with confusion until no one knows what they are angry about any more.

It's old, it’s very 1990, and it is reminiscent of a tactic that I affectionately refer to as. 'You can't spell Cochran without Cock'

It doesn’t mean OJ was any less guilty, it just means every one was momentarily confused about what guilty was.

You have no idea how much I pain to get my kids to play outside, how much I want my children to be supporting a footy team on a Friday night, but if it is at the expense of having to invite Tom Waterhouse into the minds of my children, it is just not worth it.

The words Not Worth it..That very much sounds like a negative thought pattern to me.. Lets replace them with "All will NOT be lost." " It is NOT the end my children learning sportsmanship and playing outside ALL Friday night" "I will find something else my children enjoy" "there are other codes!" "Soccer players are attractive" "I bet Ed Sheeran likes the cricket!" "Go HAWKS!"

Help ME- help you, help me, help you... See how that works?

Sincerely,

Emma.

Giant Crap Sandwich- The rumour my vagina had an affair without me.

2013-03-26T09:46:00.000+11:00

Vagina shown, not writers own.

Do you know what I am getting a little bit tired of?

People being awful to Taylor Swift.

There I said it.

I mean, I must admit that I am not the hugest fan of her music; I don't deny the chick has talent; it is just not particularly mah forte.

Her talent of late though, seems to be very over shadowed by the amount of relationships Ms Swift has had, or more to the point, how many public break ups, of relatively short term relationships Ms Swift has accumulated in her mere 23 years.

I googled Taylor swift recently, because she is currently beginning her tour with Ed Sheeran, and yes, that means I still haven't finished THAT post, and marvel of all marvels, I’m researching stuff now..

Anyway, in an organic search for the words; how old is Taylor Swift?

The number one search result was Wikipedia, no Surprises there, coming in the number two spot though, was an article titled;

Taylor Swift, Dumped, for being a frigid old lady.

Keeping in mind that I merely searched for her age, I was further disturbed to see at numbers three, four and five, similarly nasty articles regarding her lack of dress sense, her inability to take a joke, and one article that made reference to her being delusional.

I was momentarily, pleasantly surprised by number six, which appeared to be a gushing article about the singer’s choice of frock, until I clicked and it wasn't.

It was in fact, an article all about her apparent "attempt" to glam it up and look stunning, as she would be attending the same party as two of her ex's.

By this time I was arguing at my computer screen with loud exclamations of “SO fucking what?”

I usually run into an ex when I am in Woollies, wearing two odd thongs, (because navy looks like black in the poor lighting of my bedroom but is very distinctly navy in the harsh lighting of the chicken nuggets freezer), faded tracksuit pants and a paint stained powder finger shirt, accessorized with unbrushed hair and yesterday's mascara, just clinging for dear life in clumps from my eye bags.... but if I had the choice, and you know..A little prior warning, I would definitely go for a look that was a little less, "phew mate, you dodged a tracked panted bullet" and more "suck on a fart, you missed out bro"

Wouldn’t you?!?

Number seven was no better, titled, Taylor Swift, a relationship timeline, because clearly everyone cares, but most horrifying to me was number eight, an article titled;

Taylor Swift’s boyfriends keep dumping her. In which the theory was, that Taylor Swift must be a virgin, that's why she could not keep herself a lad.

I mean why would they stick around if she wasn't going to spread her legs like margarine? She clearly has NOTHING else other that her vagina to offer so why would they?

Sadder still, this article as well as most of the other articles, were written by woman. Faaaaar out.

Sisters are doin it for themselves.

The general argument behind all of this bitter nastiness, was that Taylor Swift had written songs after every one of her break ups, and therefore, was deserving of all and anything handed out to her.

WHO GIVES A FLYING? Isn't that what artists and musicians DO? They channel their emotions into their art? I mean... I once wrote a song called,

"You can all go get fucked, if you think I'm picking that shit up again"...because that was the extent of my emotional turmoil at the time, and let me tell you, it gets a rousing reception at open mike night, about 9:30, down at the local.

I don't see Ringo smashing up Thomas the Tank engine sets because someone misinterpreted the meaning of Yellow Submarine.

It's inspiration. Shut. up. about it.

While everyone was busy screaming burn the virgin at Ms Swift, Rihanna got back with Chris Brown.

Think about it.

I might being a little being a little sensitive about this whole Taylor Swift thing, I mean, it doesn't really affect my time in the house.. Not really. Only it does, and I will explain.

After a recent discussion about some upcoming branded work with my blog, a PR representative made an offhand remark about hearing I had been up to no good. **insert mischievous grin, Lucifer like hand rubbing and a cackle.(Not actually a cackle, but for dramatic effect, lets pretend they did)

I rolled my eyes at first, assuming that it was about the free pass blog post, and attempted to add to the joke by admitting that Benji Madden was my bad.. I will totally take the wrap for that rumour, I started it, but for the eight thousandth time, I didn't touch him... unfortunately for me.

The look on her face though, led me to believe that she had no idea about my free pass post, and I wasn't laughing at the same joke she was, Then it clicked that they didn't even READ my blog!!!

Then it clicked, it appeared my magical PR seeking vagina had been quite the whore without my prior written consent or knowledge.

I demanded to know. EVERYTHING.

I sat there, mouth agape, (but not too agape, lest people assume I was there to offer head) as this woman filled me in on my supposed sexual escapade.

I was fascinated, a little concerned that I may have an evil doppelgänger, slightly impressed that people assumed I had the time and agility for such elaborate sexual encounters and by the end of the story, I was slightly jealous that this stuff didn't actually happen.

I laughed, and wracked my brain to think of anyone who might start such a rumour, or what I may have been doing or where I had been to develop such an elaborate story.

I went back over the evidence,

I have three kids, I married a cabbage going on TWELVE happy years ago, live in a giant crater of the southern highlands of NSW, but it's on a hill, so it's OK...

I drive a Mitsubishi Magna with over 333000 k's on it for crying out fucks sake, the roof lining has come unstuck and when the windows are down, it flaps around for dramatic effect.

My blog is supposed to be facetious.

I go out once a month, to the local, with three friends, one of which is my sister, it closes at 11pm.

I just learned to crochet, I stay up late watching Escape to the country and saying things in a British accent to my cat while my husband reads twitter, and I crochet lopsided granny squares that I NEVER sew together.

In my book that means I NEED an affair, and I can safely say, I'm clearly not even almost having one, not at least, until game of thrones is back on.

Then I was pissed off.

Can I not have a genuine success without rooting my way there first?!? I mean, surely I must have nothing but my Magna driving, post childbirth vagina to offer?!?

My outrage was met with a good old bringing down to earth type

"There, there sweetheart, no one actually gives a fuck and you aren't that important" and the old pearler... ALL publicity is good publicity; at least people are talking about you... Dont worry, No one important talking about you, but people, so it counts.

Only they are-ENT!!! And I don't care WHO said it, they are not talking about anything I wrote, or said, or even anything I Actually DID, They are talking about my vagina!! More specifically, my vaginal ability to have inside out/ upside down fusion sex with a visiting male celebrity whilst simultaneously tweeting AND moon walking to an inner city cafe I have never been to.

Worse still, this was to be encouraged, because it was apparently better than no one talking about me at all, and the things my vagina supposedly did were of far more interest than anything I actually did.

Vaginal ability, is so a word.

So I went home, ON THE TRAIN after deciding to not to do that particular job, and alone for the record.. (There is probably CCTV footage somewhere, if Barry O Farrell hasn't made the cameras coin operated and then fired the guy whose job it is to feed the coins into the camera), I drove my shitty Magna, back home and I told Cabbage of my supposed affair.

I looked at him, and he was LAUGHING at me. I was all sad and disheartened, my faith in sisterhood, squashed and stuck to the bottom of my kick ass shoes, and do you know what he said?

He said,

"Naaaw, as if babe, HA! YOU wish!!"

Because that's what the people who love you should say, and it's only the people who love you that matter, I know that, and I laughed too and promptly forgot all about it.

Reading those articles about Taylor Swift renewed my sense of rage though.

Poor Taylor Swift... Look how sad she is...

(Image)

I can't help but be a little sad myself, at the prospect that a vagina was an acceptable PR tool, and if we can't fight equally, then just vagina the hell out of it. THIS my friends..is where we can't have it all.

I'm angry that querying Taylor Swift's age threw up ten pages on what her vagina did or did not do.

For the love of Adam Levine, (Someone spread that one) We can't keep claiming that our vaginas are the reason we are not equal, when we are more than happy to allow it to be more interesting than we are.

We can't keep allowing the amount of relationships that Taylor Swift has at the age of 23, or whether her vagina was a factor in the demise of such relationships be more interesting than the fact that she was the youngest songwriter ever hired by Sony/ATV music house.

Want to Blame the Internet? We ARE the fucking Internet!! No amount of SEO is going to rank those pages most relevant to the query of Taylor Swift’s age if no one is clicking.

One day, my daughter might Google Taylor Swift, I don't want her reading of those types of Successes' before she gets to the stuff that otherwise makes her a brilliant role model. Our kids should be able to Google things like "how old is Taylor Swift?" without looking up 1000 reasons your vagina hates you.

I don't want my daughter when she is grown, to give a shit how many lovers someone has had unless she is sleeping with them, or feel the pressure to have all of her shit sorted enough by the age of 23 to maintain a long term relationship.

I don't want her to still be fighting for equal rights in her day.

I don't want; to read it, to hear it, or buy it. I don't want to use my vagina so people will talk about me, and I don't want To hear one more person cry Misogyny and then publish pictures of Chrissie Swan Smoking while pregnant, my vagina will grow teeth and bite that person, such is my rage.

True say.

That's vaginal ability.

right there.

Emma.

DPCON13.

2013-03-25T10:20:00.000+11:00

So last week was DPCON13.

I didn't get a lot of time to take many pictures, this one belongs to @TwitchyCorner who very kindly let me use it.

A few more of my favorite people

Left to right

Edenland, Twitchy, Me, DaisyRoo and My Mummy Daze

Even the guy that TOOK this photo had the most divine red hair, he reminded me of Ed Sheeran... have you ever seen so many hot shades of ginge in one photo?

For those who are not sure WTF I am talking about, DPCON, is annual blogging conference, where you get to take classes, and wine is served in those classes and you get to meet people in person that you have only ever met on the internet and do all of the things you would severely punish your children for, if they ever attempted to do the same thing..
Its gold.

Much went down...
This blogging thing is taking off in a big way in OZ, even the PM made an appearance into the blogosphere conference land this year.

Unfortunatley, I had to leave early, and even missed the part in which I got to stand up in front of everybody and talk about myself, which yawl know, is my favorite thing to do, but luckily for me, the FABULOUS Glow, from the hilariously funny Wheres my glow, has a very similar sense of humor to me, and she kindly offered to read my speech on my behalf, and by offered, I mean that I emailed it to her and told her to read it.

I bunked in with Glow and Googs, which are quite possibly two of my favorite people on the internet, and I felt like I was at a sleep over, and I was fifteen again.
There was talk of penis's, crochet, crochet penis's and internet related gossip, topics like trends, trolls, memes, SEO and screen names were met with enthusiastic nodding rather than vague eye rolling.

This year, saw a growing number of daddy bloggers at the conference, and I for one, Like it.
Daddy bloggers.
FTW.

In usual fashion, us bloggers broke the internet in style, and just in case you missed it, this was the speech, Glow so kindly read for me, It is the full version of an earlier post, and it goes a little something like this...

Once upon a time, people everywhere cried out in unison... “What the hell are mummy bloggers? Where did they come from? Who the hell do they think they are?!? And what do they think they are doing?!?

And together they said...

There was once a time, when I birthed a baby, and I gained so many things that a little of me had to leave to make room.

You will gaze the perfection of your infant, even if according to a text book somewhere, they are not.

In your arms is purity, and innocence, the world is yet to touch them.

Your heart will break at the thought that the world will, one day mould them, but you know, you would never let anything within your power hurt them.

They are all limbs curled around each other, perfect pink, tiny little finger nails and scrunched little faces, mouths gaping and pursing.

Little brows furrowing, and squeaks and grunts escaping their little bodies.

They are yours and you know now, what love is.

You have seen this before, in commercials and advertisements, on TV, in magazines and movies and parenting books.

I know about this, because I have been there too.

The marvel doesn't wear off, the love is enormous, and the desire to do only ever the best thing for your child never wanes.

Only you won't… & You won't see that in commercials.

One day, you will yell.

Undeservingly yell at your child.

You won’t love them any less, or ever want to do the wrong thing by your child, but you will look down at that once tiny bundle that is full with all of your love, and be so unbelievably frustrated with it.

I'm telling you, you will.

You don't see that on TV.

One day your child will wake more times than you can pry your eyes open and you will never know a night could be so long, or so torturous.

You will marvel at your sleeping child and never know such love existed, But one day, there will come a time, when your heart sinks a little when they wake from a nap.

You won't read that in a magazine.

You will spontaneously implode the first time your child mutters your name, and you will run to film it or to call your family to share in the marvel. It will be just like in the movies, only better because it is YOUR child that is so clever.

Then, one day, you will hear your name muttered that one time too many in a note does not exist on any music scale.

It is a tone invented by children that travels to your ear via every one of your last nerves, capable of interrupting any train of thought and making any already mind dulling task take eleven times longer than is really necessary.

It is always accompanied by a demand, like Hey ma, wipe my bum, and you must comply, because not doing so… That is neglect brother... So you must, and you will mentally add Ass wiper extraordinaire to your resume while the you, that used to have a much more publically respected Job Dies a little.

And the you, that now has the far more menial task of creating the futures doctors, politicians, tech supports, secretaries and drive through operators will glance at your wedding picture in the hall and hang a finger at your spouse’s judgmental “What did you do all day” look when they walk in the door..

Because some days, all you CAN do all day is try not to lose your shit, you will only collect someone else’s underneath your finger nails.

One day your name will make you grind your teeth to avoid shouting "WHAAAAAT. The flying frosty fuck. Do. You. Want now??!?.

And Your Parenting today, will have been brought to you buy the internally muttered letter F.

You won't see that on the nappy ad.

You promise that you will only ever offer nutritious meals for your child, just like the article on nutrition in the parenting magazine you read outlined. Until you don't, and one day you will find your child eating 2 minute noodles dipped in Nutella from the jar, and you will pretend you didn't see, just so that you can get this ONE thing done.

You will one day convince yourself that the fish food the cat knocked over and your child is now eating by the fist full is a good source of omega three.

The same voice that vowed to only ever let nutrition filled foods pass your child’s lips will now say things like;

Don’t eat your Boogers at the table,

Yucky, don’t suck on the cat and Shhhh, Fine, whatever eat the m&m’s you found under the lounge cushion, get scurvy, look at me not. Giving a shaz.

One day, you will flip open that magazine, or an advertisement will come on the TV reminding you that the first 5 years of a child's life is crucial, everything you do in that time will shape the rest of their life. The same life you gazed at in all their purity and innocence and loved so much, and you will get a pang in pit of your stomach, Because your child watched seven episodes of Babar in a row yesterday while they ate an apple that had fallen on the floor at least twice, and you didn’t even rinse it because you know.. one wrong move out of you and they will realise they are eating something you approve of, and an apple covered in dog hair is still an apple.

You will get an awful feeling because you promised that tiny bundle with all your love that you would always do right by them, but you won't.

No one told you that at birthing class.

One day your precious little bundle will throw a tantrum and all of this fear and anger and frustration will boil out of their tiny little bodies, those tiny little limbs that curled around each other will be flailing and pummelling with pure anger. You will feel helpless and frustrated.

You will look at that once tiny little innocent face and it will still be scrunched and perfect, but it will be scrunched in rage.

Spit and snot will be simultaneously bubbling from that little face, they will be emphasising every word that they have learned to articulate with that once pursed little mouth, will be articulated with an alarming head and knee jerk, like tantrum exclamation marks. Your child will become the tantrum and there is no escaping it.

It will cling to the door frames of every room you are in, it will be under your feet and clinging to your legs whilst you attempt to go about your business, it will kick the back of the toilet door while you wiz and it will bite the cushions of your lounge while you look on, hoping that the bit of lounge cushion they are biting is the same bit of lounge cushion that had carrot smooshed into it, because if nothing else comes of it, at least they will have eaten some carrot today.

One day you will have endured one too many of these out breaks and you will tell yourself that you can't do this.

One day you may feel like you can't cope with all of this love.

& you won't see that on TV.

One day your child will fall over, and they will bleed and your heart will break and you will cuddle them and comfort them and hold them till they feel safe, you will carefully place a band aid over the hurt and want to take all the pain away, just like in the band aid ad...

Then one day, Your child will fall over, They will look first to see if you witnessed this act of unjust from the universe, and if you did... only then, will become the most painful thing that they have ever endured and you won’t care.

You will roll your eyes and tell them to get up for crying out loud, shake it off... Uppy Up… and insist that their scrape does not even require a bloody band aid... And go play.

They CAN’T put that in the band aid ad.

One day you may feel as though you would walk to China to get five minutes alone, (unless you live in China, if so replace China with Australia) you will so desperately want to be alone, but never felt so lonely all at the same time.

One day you will realise that you have not gotten up in the night to your child for a time now, that their minor scrapes no longer need band aids and they can do all of these things on their little own and don't call out for you so much. You will lie in bed and the awful night guilt’s about all of the times you did not keep your promise to only ever do good by them will hit you in the gut all at once, because despite all of your promises and good intentions you cannot keep them all, but you will never love them any less. You won’t want to do anything but the right thing for them any less.

The night is when all of the guilt’s are awake and there is no chapter in the parenting book about that.

It’s a secret.

Mummy bloggers are just like you, and they know that secrets can eat you alive.

You might not read about these secrets in books or publications, you might not hear these secrets on the radio or see them in movies or television, but there are mothers everywhere that have felt the same, thought the same, done EXACTLY. The. Same. Thing.

They are ALL of them, everywhere.

So some, who enjoy doing so write about, not because they are bad at keeping secrets, but because they didn't read about them anywhere either, they didn't see it on the big screen or hear about in on the radio, and necessity is a mother too, the mother of all invention.

And so, MUMMY bloggers were born.

They shared and they laughed and they cried. They supported and they cringed and they shared some more. They were no longer bound to make friendships based on geographical convenience and they spread the word far and wide. More mummy and daddy's joined in and soon, a very happy, content and efficiently self-policed army was built. They were not so lonely anymore.

Those mummy’s and Daddy’s that could not write, read and they rejoiced that they could identify.

Mummy bloggers wrote their own band aid ads, The kind that don’t make you feel like you are a neglectful monster, and they were funny and well received… and Band aid companies said, hey! Great idea, Let me pay you so that you can make a little money for your hobby, and they didn’t stop there.. Mummy bloggers wrote their own parenting manuals, and their own medical text books that showed their child as they saw them, not their imperfections.

They wrote about fashion, and knew that some women needed to consider the fact that their breasts that once sat perfectly on their chests now more closely resembled two empty pennant flags flapping on the line, and that tucking your tits into the waist band of your pants was a viable support option some days.

The Mummy bloggers recognized that it was important to take time for themselves, to do something that they enjoy and do it they did.

They welcomed that not all children nor parents were the same and different ideas and styles were helpful for everyone, even if they did not agree.

Some didn't like it,Um mum muh maaa… some found it threatening, and drew crude cartoons making fun of the mummy bloggers, they wrote articles criticising the mummy bloggers in big papers and they started hateful forums and said snide things on the TV about them. They made fun of their spelling and grammar and photos. They did their best to make the word Mummy as patronising and as dirty as they could so that they could keep their secrets because guilt is a wonderful marketing tool, it sells a lot of things, for every inadequacy there is a self-help book or an article or a product... Did you know you are going to die one day? Don’t Burdon your family with your funeral costs.

** That was Not Sponsored By the way...

But the Mummy bloggers stood firm, their Army was great, not just in size, but in spirit, knowledge and experience.

They were remarkable storytellers and besides..they had heard much worse..

They had all heard the words "I hate you mummy, you are not my best friend" from their child, and nothing anyone says will ever hurt as much as that, because no one else is as important as their child. Especially not the hurtful nay Sayers.

So they carried on doing what they did, because taking the time to share and to learn, to be that little bit of support they could not find and to do things for themselves to keep the mother of their child happy and healthy because that is the best thing for their child. And they promised.

Even if they could not always keep it.

The end.

Once upon a time, there were mummy bloggers..

2013-03-14T11:02:00.000+11:00

Once upon a time, people everywhere cried out in unison... “What the hell are mummy bloggers? Who the hell do they think they are?!? And what do they think they are doing?!?

And together they said...

You have birthed your baby, all going well, you gaze the perfectness of them, the purity. You know you would never let anything hurt them. They are all limbs curled around each other, perfect pink, tiny little finger nails and scrunched little faces, mouths gaping and pursing.

Little brows furrowing, and squeaks and grunts escaping their little bodies.

They are yours and you know now, what love is. I know because I have been there too.

You have seen this before, in commercials and advertisements, on TV, in magazines and movies and parenting books.

The marvel doesn't wear off, the love is enormous, and the desire to do only the best thing for your child never wanes.

Only you won't.

You don't see that in commercials.

One day, you will yell undeservingly yell at your child.

You won’t love them any less, but you will look down at the tiny bundle that contains all of your love and be so unbelievably frustrated with it, I'm telling you, you will.

You don't see that on TV.

You will stare contently at your sleeping infant, you may lay awake, straining to hear a little squeak and you won't mind at all getting up to hold them, to feed them and to comfort them.

Then one day your child will wake more times than you can pry your eyes open and you will never know a night could be so long. But you won't love them any less.

You will marvel at your sleeping child and never know such love existed, but one day, there will come a time, when your heart sinks a little when they wake from a nap.

You won't read that in a magazine.

You will spontaneously implode the first time your child mutters your name, mama, dada and you will run to film it or to call your parents and share in the marvel, it is just like in the movies but better because it is YOUR child that is so clever.

Then, one day, you will hear your name muttered that one time too many in a very distinct and irritating key, you may grind your teeth to avoid shouting "WHAAAAAT.Do. You. WAAAANT. NOOOOOOW.!? One day, you might not grind your teeth, you may just shout it.

You won't see that on the nappy ad.

You promise that you will only ever offer nutritious meals for your child, just like the article on nutrition in the parenting magazine you read outlined... until you don't, and one day you will find your child eating 2 minute noodles dipped in Nutella from the jar, and you will pretend you didn't see, just so that you can get this ONE thing done.

One day, you will flip open that magazine, or an advertisement will come on the TV reminding you that the first 5 years of a child's life is crucial, everything you do in that time will shape the rest of their life. The same life you gazed at in all their purity and innocence and loved so much, and you will get a pang in pit of your stomach, Because your child watched seven episodes of Babar in a row yesterday while they ate a bowl of dry Cheerio’s that had fallen on the floor, you will get an awful feeling because you promised that tiny bundle with all your love that you would always do right by them, but you won't.

No one told you that at birthing class.

One day you may feel like you can't cope with all of this love.

You won't see that on TV.

You will one day look at the father of your child, with so much love, appreciation and gratitude for planting so much love in your belly. You will feel like a team, like all together you are a whole. Until one day... you will look at the father of your child with so much red hot resentment that it could break a window with its power.

Won't read that in a father’s day card.

Then one day, you will tell them to get up for crying out loud, shake it off and insist that their scrape does not even require a band aid... And to go play.

They can't put that in the band aid ad.

The night is when all of the guilt’s are awake.

You won't read about that in the parenting book.

It’s a secret.

Mummy bloggers have a secret too, and that is that secrets can eat you alive. You might not read about these secrets in books or publications, you might not hear these secrets on the radio or see them in movies or television, but there are mothers everywhere that have felt the same, thought the same, done EXACTLY. The. Same. Thing.

They are ALL of them, everywhere.

So some, who enjoy doing so write about, not because they are bad at keeping secrets, but because they didn't read about it anywhere either, they didn't see it on the big screen or hear about in on the radio, and necessity is a mother too, the mother of all invention.

And so, MUMMY bloggers were born.

They shared and they laughed and they cried. They supported and they cringed and they shared some more, they spread the word far and wide and more mummy and daddy's joined and soon they had a very happy, content and efficiently self-policed army was built. They were not so lonely anymore.

They wrote their own band aid ads, and parenting manuals, they recognized that it was important to take time for themselves and to do something that they enjoy and do it they did.

They welcomed that not all children nor parents were the same and different ideas and styles were helpful for everyone, even if they did not agree.

Some didn't like it, some found it threatening, some drew crude cartoons making fun of the mummy bloggers, they wrote articles critisising the mummy bloggers in big papers and they started hateful forums and said snide things on the TV about them. They made fun of their spelling and grammar and photo's. They did their best to make the word Mummy as patronising and as dirty as they could so that they could keep their secrets because guilt is a wonderful marketing tool, it sells a lot of things, for every inadequacy there is a self help book or an article or a product.

But the Mummy bloggers stood firm, their Army was great, not just in size, but in spirit and knowledge and experience.

They were remarkable storytellers and they had heard much worse.. They had all heard the words "I hate you mummy, you are not my best friend" from their child, and nothing anyone says will ever hurt as much as that, because no one else is as important as their child.

So they carried on doing what they did, because taking the time to share and to learn and to do things for themselves to keep the mother of their child happy and healthy was the best thing for their child. And they promised.

Even if they could not always keep it.

The end.

It is a dog act..

2013-03-12T08:58:00.000+11:00

The Oscar for most dramatic performance by a canine after visiting the vet goes to...

This dog.

She is KILLING me.. With the sighing, and the sprawling out dramatically on the lounge and the licking her wound EVERY time you ask her what the vet did..

The feeble attempts at moving around every time she knows someone's eyes are on her, the refusing food so long as someone is watching, the mournful cries whenever someone stops the patting.

The forlorn and rejected look in her eye when she must retire to the laundry for the night.. The scratching on the laundry door when her blanket is disturbed in a way that makes it uncomfortable...

the digging up the vintage lounge to bury various pieces of food found in the chook bin, making the overnight confines of the laundry necessary, the FARTING..

The not drinking unless I take the water bowl to her and place it UNDER her nose..

The panting. The grimacing and wincing on the stairs when she is taken out for a whizz, The getting on. Of the beds...
The knocking everything over with her excited weapon of a tail, like a large rolled up newspaper, banging and whipping when I wake and let her out of the cell (laundry.)

The creepy stares through the shower curtain, you know.. Just in case you forget she is in constant agony when you shower... The whining at the toilet door.. For.. I don't know why. Separation anxiety or some shit...

The desperately eyeing of every meal that passes your lips...

The laughing at me the minute my back is turned and she gets to spend another night inside, whilst I fetch her water, fix her blanket, feed her from the table and pat her bald.

The Oscar for most enabling owners in a canine drama series goes to.

Ed Sheeran concerts, bitches and avoiding fisty cuffs.

2013-03-07T12:56:00.000+11:00

So! I made it to Ed Sheeran.

Hey girl!... Thanks for saving me from a glass vodka bottle!

This post is not the story of the Ed Sheeran concert... No, not yet... It was too amazing to fit into this post, but it is the story of how I went to an Ed Sheeran concert with thousands of twelve year old girls, feel very old, and managed to get into a fight over the front of stage...

It began like this.

I was all prepared to attend the concert Hans Solo, but by a sheer stroke of luck, I got a heads up tweet that they were releasing 7 tickets an hour before the show, and in a further act of good fortune, I managed to snap up another dance floor ticket in the seven seconds it took before they sold out, so cabbage came along. I love you interwebs.

We managed to get a superb parking spot and as we walked together hand in hand (PFFFT just kidding) to Win stadium, cabbage glanced around nervously at the many, MANY screaming girls (some girls were not screaming for the record) and enquired if there would be ANY other males in attendance.

Lucky for cabbage, when we managed to locate our line, (which was a million miles long in the rain, he was pleased to see lots of other dads and boyfriends collectively exchanging nervous glances and making periodic dramatic gestures that drew attention to the fact that they were attending with their girlfriend slash daughter.. You know... Just so everyone knew that they were not in line to see Ed Sheeran by themselves. *rolls eyes and chokes on testosterone ridiculousness.

(By the way, on this point... I was saddened... No wait saddened isn't the word... Violently ill.

I was violently ill to hear this out dated Macho phobic attitude expressed in almost every media interview Ed Sheeran gave in Oz. I don't think I heard one interview that did not make mention the fact that he was not exactly in the “male music listener demographic." GET. THE. FUCK. OVER it People... Stop telling people what they should like based on whether they have a flapper or a hanger between their legs. It's madness. Grow up. Talent appreciation is not gender specific. Yes, I am looking at you, Australian radio... Looking at you, and giving you a superior stink eye.)

Now, for those who don't know me very well, I don't like lines, or people all up in my personal bubble of space, or rain all that much..Actually there aren't many things I do like, because I am a jerk, you will be glad to know however, that I made it through the 2 hour line without incident or complaint. THAT is how keen I was to see this man.

Once inside, despite being insulted at the front door by NOT being asked for ID before they slapped an over 18 band on my arm, *rolls eyes again, whilst grasping my face to prevent eye rolling induced crow’s feet** I was in very excited spirits. I was further delighted to find myself smack bang stage front.

Next to me, on my left, was a sweet girl, of about sixteen, who was decked out in head to toe Ed Sheeran brand clothing with a delightful Ed Sheeran paw print painted on the palm of one of her hands with permanent texta, the other hand clutching a stuffed kangaroo with a little Australian flag, and a red rose. This little girl had come on her own.

The girl excitedly grinned at me as though she may spontaneously explode, exposing two rows of braced teeth, and I was reminded of youth, or more specifically.. The lack of youth my pelvic floor contains and after smiling through her manic chatter about lining up in the rain since lunchtime I just HAD to pee.

So I left cabbage with strict instruction to guard my stage front spot with his life I left to take care of it.

On my return I saw cabbage glancing around nervously, and after thinking that some bitch was about to steal my front row spot, I stomped over with purpose to my rightful place only to see a woman of at least 18 (as she had a green armband), and friend, very aggressively shoulder charging the braced little girl out of her spot that she had lined up since lunchtime in the rain for, knocking her stuffed kangaroo into the dance floor.

The little girl, whom looked quite upset and was now scrambling to save both her well-earned position and collect her stuffed kangaroo from certain stampede, and Cabbage was holding onto the young girls shoulder to prevent her from being swallowed in the crowd, whilst clearing a spot with his feet to retrieve Skippy, when the woman gave her friend a smirk took a swig from a cheap ass mini vodka bottle she took from her clutch and danced away to Passenger (the support artist) whilst looking lovingly up at him as though they were to be one day wed.

The woman's friend who was clearly not as brave, caught sight of my purposeful stride and filthy facial expression born of first division women's rugby union and also surviving the pubs of the Wollondilly.. And tapped the woman on the shoulder to warn of impending trouble.

Now, before I go on, you should know that I am not a very violent person.. I am far better with words than I am with my fists, also the word "assault" is not one I want on my permanent record. But I was Sooo mad. I was mad for this little braced girl, I was mad for my daughter, knowing what kind of bully bitchiness she would endure in her future, I was mad for women, and I was Red hot mad that some people think that they can get out of lining up since lunchtime in the rain and takes someone else's spot, that some people feel that they can bully, push and intimidate others just because they can.

The woman who had been forewarned of my impending approach by her friend looked me square in the eye and raised one eyebrow, a look used by the very beautiful and arrogant as a mark of superiority. An eyebrow raise in a manner that I'm sure she meant as a dare for me, but I saw it as another intimidation tactic used by scruts everywhere for generations.

I'm old remember.. I know this shit.

I took in her skin tight black dress, her very long legs and her beautiful hair and I strode over and stood very close to her face and stared.

The woman stared back, not giving an inch, so I could contain it no longer. I glanced briefly at the poor little braced girl with tears in her eyes trying to resurrect her trampled kangaroo, trying to find the right words.

When I had them, I looked this bitch right in the face again and said very loudly that I liked the dress she was wearing.

She looked at me quite confused, so I went on to say that I am sure I had seen one just like it on sale at the desperate whore store, and if she thought that she could push little girls to get to the front, on the off chance that Ed Sheeran might glance her way and fall madly in love and want to fuck her or something, that she should probably take a trip to the toilets first and attempt to wash the puss like bully, skank of her face, because it was very obvious. *Complete with hand circling face gestures.

She took the stance of cowardly bitches everywhere looked shocked and took a step away from me, turned her attention to the stage with a hair flick and pretended she could not hear me, so I tapped her, very firmly in the soft tender part of her bony shoulder (another rugby tactic) and she nervously glanced at me, not holding my eye so bravely this time.

Her not so brave but wiser friend was desperately grabbing her other arm and trying to pull her to the back, I was shaking inside, I did not want to hit this girl, I didn't want her to hit me, I am not a fighter I am five ft. and one ant.. & weigh 56kg.. I AM A GROWN ASS WOMAN at an Ed Sheeran concert FFS!!! I was in too far, I could not give a speech like that and let her ignore me and continue to enjoy her superb view of the stage from her undeserved position.

So loudly again I asked her if she needed help getting her bully skank ass to the toilet? She ignored me still.

It was crunch time, now or never, so I did what anyone would do in my situation.. I took a quick glance around then grabbed the arm of the closest security guard and yelled in his ear over the music that THAT WOMAN, accompanied by an accusing finger ..had a glass bottle in her handbag, and I heard her laughing to her friend about throwing it at Ed Sheeran.

The security guard gestured to her to come hither, and by gestured I mean that he grabbed her by the shoulder and dragged her out of the dance floor and she meekly walked passed me and I smiled sweetly as he emptied her handbag and confiscated a glass mini bar vodka bottle and sent her to the back with a slight shove and a bored facial expression. I was delighted to see that she was crying.

DELIGHTED I tell you.

I gave the braced little girl a bit of a wink and a reassuring smile and also apologised for my bad language. She looked up at me and smiled, I may have frightened her because she spent the rest of the concert standing very close to cabbage, but she ended up handing her rose and stuffed kangaroo to near by security, whom then placed it on the stage.

All is well that ends well, except that…apparently... I am a grown ass woman, at an Ed Sheeran concert who is not above dobbing.

But the show was FABULOUS!!

If you need a hint at just how fabulous, I suggest you check this one out..especially the 90's kids and fans of Dr Dre. It is not from the concert, but the fabulousness is the same.

Em xx

It's totally not a cult..

2013-02-22T09:40:00.000+11:00

So we are back in our house, so long as we don't go back in the laundry, until after the cleaning mob come again today and the air testing man returns, we are free to roam the main areas of our house, just not the laundry.

I'm not complaining about not being able to do any washing, no... I'll do that when I have fifteen loads to do all at once, but I could not be more pissed off at the people my insurance company hired to fix the broken pipe.

Note to insurance company;

Broken pipes should not require a week’s leave of absence from your house/school slash guitars and electronics, but this happened on account of the contractors hired by you, making my house deadly.

Write that down.

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It is fortunate for them though; that they avoided my pre meditated PMS of last week.

Lucky. I. Tell you.

MEANWHILE!

To take my mind off things, I had lunch with my dad.

We of course could not eat at just anywhere, because it's dad, he chose a local cafe, which is run by a community of people, who live sustain a self-sufficient lifestyle, growing their own everything, pesticide free and trade within other communities, who live a similar lifestyle.

The men all have beards, (seems to be a bit of a theme this week) and the women were all dressed very womanly, in long skirts, blouses and they had their hair pulled into a casual bun at the nape of their neck.

Before you start, It's not a cult & Yes, I asked, because I think things and they just come out of my mouth before I have a chance to check with my brain first.

However, they were very sure it wasn't a cult...Even though they lived in what was referred to as "The compound" and it was set among the same kind of scenery that many bizarre horror films begin with... In the middle of nowhere. *nervous shifty eyes.

After having a quick scan around the room to check that Tom Cruise was not there, I felt comfortable enough and perused the menu.

The food was fresh and beyond delicious. The service was very relaxed and The sandwiches have funky names. The pastry on the pies are homemade, & the pie fillings are divine combinations of various fresh grown ingredients, although they don't have funky names.

They are just called pies.

They also have extensive vegetarian options.

So I made my order of a chicken and leek pie, called chicken and leek pie, and dad, deciding he would use his once a week meat option, had a silverside and sauerkraut sandwich on homemade rye which was called a Reuben. I hardly thought it fair that his had a funky name whilst mine did not, so I decided that I would call my pie, Nana- Batman.

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If you don't watch the Simpsons, you probably won't get that last one... Also we can never be friends.

Anyway... both dishes were to die for, not literally of course... Because it wasn't a cult. *nervous shifty eyes. Dad and I discussed all the things daughters and fathers discuss over lunch, such as the demise of civilization, our dreams and their meanings, various famines, dying, the world ending and deep seated fears.

As you do, (read- this is what is wrong with me.)

When it came time to pay the bill, there was a tense few minutes, when I wasn't sure if we would be free to leave, but it turns out we were. The people there are free to leave at any time.

Its not a cult remember?

Happy Friday.

Emma.

Beard FaSay and the sexist plumber.

2013-02-20T09:33:00.001+11:00

It's Beard FaSay! & the sexist plumber.

Im not sure how many tampons I have flushed down the toilet in a previous life, but it seems my run of bad plumbing luck has yet to run it's course.

It all started on Monday.. Remember Monday? I know it was only two days ago, but you know when so many things happen on those few days that it feels like a long time must have passed?

Monday saw the arrival of the insurance assessor, to assess our claim for the busted pipe in between the bathroom and laundry wall. A lovely man, with a snappy
Little camera, who wore tweed pants and a friendly smile framed by a big white beard.

He introduced himself, I promptly forgot his name, it flew straight out of my head the minute he said it... I think it was because I was far too infatuated with his beard. It was perfectly round, like a paper plate.
The kind cheap kind that pre school children use for craft type things, it was as though someone had stuck one of these paper plates on the lower portion of his face and cut a perfect rectangle where the mouth should be.

Fascinating.

Anyway.. I decided to christen the insurance assessor, Round Beard Facé, like off scrubs, because that is how my brain works. He had a beard, it was round, I desperately wanted to catch cabbages attention, just so that I could whisper, "it's Beard FaSay" but I couldn't, that would be rude, I don't know whats wrong with me.

(Turns out his name was Gary), and I suspect he must have sensed my distraction during our introduction and handed me his card, which I promptly put it in my pocket so I could refer to it like a cheat sheet while he was there.
(However, when he was gone... between you and I, he will forever be known as good old Ed Sheeran's man Round Beard FaSay.)

Meanwhile, Round Beard FaSay was busying himself between staring at my laundry wall as though he were admiring a Van Gogh and knocking on the tiles of my bathroom wall, I briefly thought about knocking back from the laundry, just to freak him out, but I thought... No Emma, don't be a dick, this is important. Beard, and I didn't.

He asked if cabbage and I could please turn on the water, and we obliged.
The water was not on more than ten seconds before he came ball tearing out the back, hysterically hands waving in the air, yelling... "TURN IT OFF!!! TUUURN. IT. OFF!!.

Like that.

He was still instructing us to turn it off, long after it was, such was the importance of turning it off.. So I had a moment a moment to behold his hysteria.

I saw him on the back stairs, one hand still hysterically waving, the other on the stair rail, with his round beard and his eyes large, panicked and just as round.

I thought.. For fucks sake woman.. don't laugh, DON'T. LAUGH. Which was difficult, because it was comical, but I didn't.. I stared off uncomfortably in the distance, furrowed my brow and squinted my eyes at the sun to disguise any involuntary facial amusement.
I also dared not even glance in cabbages direction because I knew.. One look at him and it was all over. We would both be rolling around on the grass with tear inducing soundless laughter.

Anyways, despite my immaturity, our insurance claim was accepted and diagnosed as a definite busted pipe, and so, cabbage left for work, Round Beard FaSay left with a promise that a plumber, electrician and builder were dispatched, and not an hour later, the plumber arrived.

Is is when the all the pleasantness in the world contracted the herpes and died.

The plumber looked me up and down, and asked me where the man of the house was. I told him that I was the man of the house for now, and would he like to come in.
He did, and then promptly told me that he did not take orders from women.

WTF.

I thought this was a bit rich for a man who spends his day in the company of stool, but as I make a living, (not a very good one either) from complaining about things, and pretending I know about things. I thought I'd best just bite my tongue.

I know.. Don't say it.. I am just as disappointed in myself. It Seems my dance with Karma may have damaged my smart ass, because all I did was call cabbage & explain (all be it loudly), that there was a Neanderthal in the house, and he would have to return to rescue me, also make all the important decisions, so that I could call the plumbing police and report him.

This confused cabbage greatly, so he hurried home expecting a mental health emergency, and as soon as he was in the door, I picked up Andie and together with our useless vaginas, stormed over to the neighbors for a coffee and a whinge, also to bitch about it on twitter. I have powerful friends there.

Seething slash spying on him from the safety of my neighbors verandah, I saw him packing up his tools so I left Andie to play with my neighbors children and stomped in to inspect his handy work.

I know what your thinking...
Is this blog post over yet? and no it isn't.. Because I walked in to see many broken pieces of fibro from my laundry, all over the floor.
I demanded to know what the fuck he thought about the asbestos risk?

He replied.. Wait for it...

Not my problem lady, you have mopping to do, whilst gesturing to a large body of water in my hall and then asked where my husband was.

I have to stop here For a minute to breathe deeply, but not too deeply on account of the asbestos..

I told him that the mopping was my husbands job, and that he old now get out of my house, because the bullshit intolerant job was mine.

He left, I then called Round Beard FaSay, who promptly ordered our evacuation, offered his sincerest apologies for the behavior of the contractor, and made a further promise to immediately dispatch an emergency asbestos team and whoop some contractor ass.

So that was Monday.

The asbestos team have been done the clean up and gone, the risk was deemed quite low, as the fibro was wet from the broken pipe, also this particular type of fibro is more hazardous if it has been exposed to fire rather than being disturbed.
Good to know.
currently there are various whirly machines collecting samples of air from my house, I'm not sure why, but I expected people to go in with sample jars catching air from inside my house in them, but no.. They do it with whirly machines.

The results when collected, take 24 hours and until then, and pending the all clear, we are not allowed back in our house.

I am writing his blog post from my driveway, on my iPad which is infuriating if you have ever attempted to do so, you know my pain, so please excuse any grammar or spelling errs, also the lack of witty pictures..it's all just too hard.

For now though, I'm better safe than sorry, a whinger, slightly shitty, a little hungry and I have the shakes from drinking too much coffee, but I do feel a little bad ass from staking out my house from the car, drinking coffee like I am on law and order or something.
Beard.

Chat soon, hopefully
Emma. xx

Fourteen is Harlem Shake.

2013-02-18T10:10:00.002+11:00

So the Boy turned fourteen last week. We had his favorite sushi, a few of his mates around and went to the basketball.

He is a special kind of kid that one. He is just good, all the way through. I never need to worry about him, he is smart and kind, he is fair and considerate. He texts when he is going to be late, he looks out for his younger siblings.

He is content doing his thing and he couldn’t care less what anyone thinks.

I really hope that sticks with him, the not caring what people think... I want to tell him that people are jerks, but I don’t because he has a way of loving everything, even the stuff that is hard to love.

I don’t want to break that.

I worried a lot when I had him that I wouldn’t have enough experience to teach him about life, but I don’t need to teach him about my life, I just need to be there for his.

He wants lots of things, and he will have them all, he knows that the world is beginning for him.

He is scarily smart, can’t wait to get a job, he saves his money.

He is brave, he won’t put up with any crap, he won’t tolerate injustice or prejudice., or (in his words) “The massive shit stains that think they smell better than any other shit stain, because at the end of the day, it’s all crap”

The world is full of people pretending they aren't shit because they live in a shinier toilet. He gets it.

He knows that it is not about “Not Swearing” that it is about knowing when not to swear, and that it’s not about acquiring things for you, it’s about acquiring things that make you.

The kid is going to be all right...

He wanted a sleep over for his birthday. Sleep overs are tricky at fourteen.. Too old for lolly bags, too young for going out.

They were pretty content with shooting hoops, watching scary movies with microwave popcorn and playing the playstation.

His sleep overs are easy for me, the thought of a house full of teenage boys sounds ridiculously like hard word, but they aren't, probably because he has had the same friends since Pre School and kindergarten.

The kind of friends that have been around so long now, that they know where everything is, they know the rules of the house. They are comfortable here. They are good kids too.

He was always a little slow to make friends, not because the other kids didn’t want to be friends with him, just because he likes to observe things.

He likes to take his time; he likes to watch the situation for a while before he makes any decision, including friendships, I guess that’s why he still has the same friends; he made sure he picked the right ones to begin with.

I asked him what kind of sleepover he wanted, Do you do themed parties at fourteen?!? Apparantly not, because he said he wasn't fussed.. That is another trait of being fourteen. They don't care too much about the details of anything. His only request was that he wanted to do the Harlem Shake. If you don't know about the Harlem Shake, you should google it, because I don't know how to explain it without sounding even crazier than I already appear.

We of course, obliged, because the kid can do anything...

Luke's Birthday Harlem Shake.

(Huge thanks to the neighbours, M & E who joined us for some Harlem shaking, most deeply appreciated xx)

Happy Birthday, to our biggest little man.

Too Much drama, and those are the days of our lives....

2013-02-15T12:34:00.000+11:00

So this week can go get. Other than My eldest boy Luke celebrating his 14th Birthday, (I'd include a pic, but he is a little blog shy) This week has been a nightmare.

I have had so much drama that I have been practicing my slow determined stare in between dramas.

Like this..

So first off, we had a pipe burst I between the laundry and bathroom wall. A hot water pipe, and hot water was pouring out from underneath the skirting boards of the laundry.

I hope it is covered by our insurance, we will find out when the insurance assessor comes on Monday.

Later that day, Andie engaged the checkout lady at Coles in conversation, and explained that we were waiting for the Ed Sheeran's man to come and look at mum's broken pipe.

She meant Insurance man, but I did nothing to dispel the rumour and I took a mental note to stop talking about Ed Sheeran... But before I do, I will have you know, that I have floor tickets to Ed's Wollongong gig on the 28th.... Gasp, pant, and gasp. *Dies.

I have to go Nigel's, but I Don't even care. I have never been to a concert by myself before, but I assume it is the same as going with someone; I will just care less about how much of a dick I look like when I am dancing. I'll be all like... "I don't know you!" boogie.

Meanwhile, one of our cats went missing, for a WHOLE night.

I silently seethed at everybody on my street, (except for you Mandy, I know it wasn't you, I was with you when the cat went missing, your alibi is solid) but I seethed whilst peeking out from between the blinds trying to pick the guilty culprit.

Turned out he was under the house the whole time, so it wasn't anybody, Sorry about that. Carry on.

I also had to visit the School twice this week, and not for award type things. For meetings. I HATE school meetings.. I don't. Want. To talk about it.

Next, just when I thought things might start to settle down, there was a knock at the door..

I opened it to see a woman standing on my porch, obviously intoxicated, because she smelt like an infected ass fell into a wine vat, crawled out and died.

She was swaying on my front porch, and introduced herself, (I won't repeat her name here), but she then insisted I leave, because this was her house, and I had no right to be in it, also she had to come in, now and what the fuck did I do wiv all er' maams plants?

I told her that I could call her an ambulance, or the police, or a taxi but she would have to leave. Now.

She began kicking things on my porch, well, kicking them as well as a very intoxicated person can, which wasn't very well as she had a hard time keeping upright when standing on one leg, so call the police it was, and she left.

One of the neighbours from across the road came over and informed me that the same woman had let herself into her house the other day; she came in from the clothesline to find her sitting on her lounge. WTF!? *locks the door.

Damn I gotta move.

I spent the next six hours reassuring the children she would not return, and Andie that this was in fact, our house. Short of showing her the deeds, which would be redundant as she can't read yet, and has no concept of what deeds are, also impossible as the bank has them, I did the best I could.

And now, I have had it.

I'm tired, and worried about having to give out wristies from the back of the BI-LO car Park to pay for the water damage to my house, of which the children are now unsure whether or not is actually ours, and I have a headache, and I’m a little bit hungry. I am also bracing myself for an en mass teenage boy gathering at my house on Saturday night.. Which is a whole other post, but send reinforcements, wine and chocolate, also something savory... like toobs, PLEASE!!!

So I bid this week a good riddance, and you, a Happy Friday, with hopes for a much more boring next week.

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You said it dude.. L for love.

Happy Friday.

Emma xx

So much Bull Shiz-Nit.

2013-02-13T16:53:00.000+11:00

Valentine’s Day is such a crock of shit. & I’m not saying that because I don’t get any valentines, which I don’t... but if I did, I would still think Valentines Day is a massive crock of shit.

It is my most hated and despised of all shitty and useless holidays.

Cabbage bought me a valentine’s gift once. He learned and will never do it again.

What pisses me off most about Valentine’s Day is not hallmark, or the commercialism or any of that kind of stuff. Well actually, having said that, it is kind of the commercialism that pisses me off, but I expect that of massive corporation, it angers me, but not as much as the thought that we as humans need a day to remind ourselves to let someone know we love them.

That we can have one day to celebrate love, but don't have enough respect for love to make it legal for gay people to celebrate it the same way straight people do.

So I am Boycotting V day this year.

Valentines day just makes love a huge competition of who loves who more, with the bigger gifts, and better flowers. Social media becomes a hot bed of whose spouse hired a sign writer to write a sonnet and baked a heart shaped cake and didn’t buy flowers from the servo.

Equally annoying, is that we can take something as beautiful as love and turn it into a big dose of inadequacy for those who are single.

In your face!!! Happy Single awareness day, you massive lonely loser!

Seriously, eat a dick; must we shit on everything sacred?!?

I went to the shop yesterday, to buy cabbage a chilli plant. Not for Valentine’s Day, but because he likes chilli, we have a new veggie garden and I love him.

I was saddened to see that Valentine’s Day had even put its dirty juice all over PRODUCE!! I bought it anyway.

Fourteen years ago, I spent Valentine’s Day in labour. Not extreme labour, but restless, annoying and exhausting pre labour.

My waters had broken, and I felt like I had severe wind and I was terrified. I had people fluffing in and out all day expressing their excitement over the prospect of a valentine’s baby.

I was in pain and wanted them all to choke on their heart shaped chocolates.

The next day when Luke decided to make his screaming entrance into the world, I finally saw what love was.

It was toiling and sacrificing and pain. It was doing all of these things without a thought for yourself. It was looking into a newborns eyes and seeing heaven and the purity from wherever they had been before, waiting for you to love them, and knowing that you would gladly do all of the toiling and sacrificing and pain over and over just to have them, just so that you could love them.

It was looking at cabbage and seeing the same love in his eyes, and the wonder that he could love something so, even though it did not grow inside him. It was looking at each other and knowing that we knew nothing of anything together.

Like this. Excuse the photo… but I had to edit the vagina out of it.

Love is scary, Love is blind, love hurts, and love is painful, exhilarating and exhausting.

How fucking sad that we only reserve one shitty, pink and red heart shaped day for it and make it exclusive for those who conform to the heterosexual agenda.

It is not for rubbing in the faces of others, it’s not for boasting, love is not about screaming it as loud as you can so that everyone else knows it. It is not for making others feel less loved or lonely. It’s not for one day and should never be a source of profit or superiority.

How is it that we can go so ridiculously over the top in the name of love, and celebrate a day exclusively for it? How is it that we can spend millions on pink white and red stuffed toys, flowers and chocolates yet we don’t respect love enough to allow gay marriage?

Love is not exclusive. It’s for those whose spouses earn more, or have more time, or not for those who have no spouse or exclusively for straight people, or only for Feb 14.

Valentine’s Day is just a huge wank all over love, it is self-gratifying and empty. Gag, it makes me physically ill.

Happy Valentine’s Day Boycott.

Emma xxx

Up Cycled Trampoline Veggie Bed, and why I don't pen my chooks.

2013-02-13T09:43:00.000+11:00

Up Cycled trampoline veggie bed.

You all know my love of my chickens,

Mrs Trump. The Poser.

Legs. (Skeptical of my phone)

& Mrs Nuggets.

They free range around our backyard during the day and sleep in the Chook-Mahal with a sign on the door that reads "Le gals" at night, except for Mrs Nuggets… she sleeps in the dog kennel with the dogs, and no, they have no interest in eating her, or the other two, I don't know why. They have happily coexisted in the backyard for three and a half years. We are an extended clan of weirdo's even our animals are odd.

I love all three of the chickens, but none more than Mrs Nuggets. I know you shouldn't have favourites, but stiff. I do.

She is my favourite for several reasons, but mostly because she loves nothing better than a good cuddle. (Superb Photo Bomb by my little brothers dog Janice).

Mrs Nuggets suffered a stroke a few months ago, which left her unable to do much more than walk in a circle. The next day she slipped into a coma, and spent the next day unresponsive on my bathroom floor.

She was breathing unassisted, but her neck was bent over her body at an odd angle, one wing droopy at her side. She did not appear to be in any pain and would drink water from a dropper, but that was about it.

I dropped water into her beak which is all broken and deformed from her time in the cage, every two hours, hoping that she would come good.

As an Ex battery hen, she had known so much suffering at the hands of man in her short life. When I brought her home from the 'farm' and I use that term loosely, the 'farmer' (also a title used loosely), told me that she was at the end of her life, she was no good for laying anymore, and that I shouldn't waste my time with her. That was three and a half years ago. She still lays an egg every couple of days.

Misogyny.. so hot right now..

I won't tell you what I said to the farmer because this is not an angry post.

Anyway, I spent two days in the bathroom dropping water and apologising for how humans had treated her. I wanted her to go peacefully, knowing kindness. Also, I'm not exactly normal.

The next day, cabbage announced that I was creeping him out, and I really needed to take poor Mrs Nuggets to the vet to in case she was suffering. So that morning, I placed her on the grass so that she could feel it under her scaly feet for the last time, she sat there, head bent, not moving, just breathing as though she was sleeping and I went inside to call the vet.

He was out on an emergency call and his receptionist sympathetically told me to bring Mrs Nuggets in that afternoon. I left her on the grass, a place she was happiest, in the shade.

At lunchtime I heard a scratching at the back door, I opened it expecting to see a bored dog or similar, only to see a very conscious, very hungry Mrs Nuggets, one wing only slightly droopy, a bit shaky on her legs, but very much alive and with us.

That day I was reminded of miracles and the fact that I know nothing of anything.

I'm not ashamed to say that I wept and wept... and cuddled, and wept, and kissed her crooked little beak. I sent an excited picture message to everyone who patiently listened to my sorrow over Mrs Nuggets for the past few days, even if they didn't understand it, and I marvelled and Andie ran around excitedly saying, “Nuggets waked up!!”

It was a joyous day.

Now, I refuse to pen the girls, it’s not that I think there is anything wrong with penning chickens, It certainly is not cruel when done correctly, it’s just that when I brought Mrs nuggets home for the first time, and she fell forward, unable to walk because she had never had the freedom to move her legs, therefore didn't know how, I vowed I would only ever pen her for her own safety at night.

However, this also means that any attempt to grow anything in my backyard is thwarted by three deformed beaks and six scaly feet.

With winter approaching, my favourite vegetable growing season, I needed to come up with a chook proof garden, but could not afford to buy any elaborate set up, what I did have though, was an old trampoline rotting in the backyard that had a perfectly good frame.

And so, with less than $50, about two hours, a four year old up cycling apprentice and some imagination, the veggie patch was born.

After posting a picture of the veggie patch on Facebook, and receiving many questions as to how I made it, I decided to do a how-to post, but as I didn't know I would be blogging it, so I don't have any photos of its actual construction, and had to make do with some crude drawings, but still, I hope it helps.

Tram-ap-oline Veggie bed.

1-take an old trampoline. We had a rectangular one, but I assume a round trampoline would be just as effective

2- Remove the springs, but keep the actual trampoline matting for an excellent recycled weed mat. It is also great for lining hanging pots and alike.

3- Place the trampoline frame upside down in the desired vegetable patch location, and mark around the inside of the frame, I used a shovel, you can get all fancy with string and chalk if you like, but I have better shit to do.

Then move the trampoline right side up again, somewhere out of the way.

4- Remove the grass and dig a shallow trench from inside of the marked area. I am a bit lazy so I did not dig very deep at all, about 15cm, but you could probably go a bit deeper.

5- Place the old trampoline matting on the bottom of the trench to act as a weed mat.

6- Return the soil, turned with some good quality potting mix and chook shit into the trench, to make the garden bed.

7- Take the frame, right side up (it's easier) and secure some chicken wire around the outside of the frame, everywhere the chicken wire met the frame. I used plain wire to secure it, but next time, I will probably use cable ties, because the wire is sharp and I am a bitch about getting my hands all cut up, also my nails are pretty gnarled and I have mannish hands from playing the guitar as it is.

I used pliers to pull the wire very tight, and used about 8.5 metres of standard chicken wire. (I had some left over from a 35 meter roll that cost 49.95 from Mitre ten but you shouldn't need that much, but measure the circumference of the widest part of the trampoline)

8- Place the trampoline frame, with the wire secured, upside down again, over the garden bed and neatens any loose patches of wire.

9- I added some garden edging, made from split treated copper logs, at a cost of $19.95 for a 5meter roll from Mitre ten. And wooden stakes, $2.00 for four.

I only needed one roll of garden edging, as we placed ours on the fence, but if you wanted to completely trim the trampoline you will need two rolls.

The garden edging is to keep the soil from washing away and to make it a bit prettier, and easier to maintain the grass around it.

My mother will undoubtedly make disappointed type sounds at my use of treated copper log edging, but I am cash poor, and saving a trampoline from land fill, not running for Gandhi.

10- get smug and Send me a picture. That’s it. It is really that easy, takes very little time and is a fun weekend project the kids can help with!

FYI- late February, early March is a good time to sow seeds for the last batches of carrots and turnips for the beginning of Autumn/winter crops, also salad onions cabbages, oriental salad leaves, broccoli and cauliflower.

Enjoy, you up cycler you!

Emma. X

Karma is a bitch, when you are sweetheart.

2013-02-11T13:30:00.001+11:00

IMAGE source HERE

This weekend heralded the arrival of PMS.

Not just any PMS.. But Megatron PMS, the kind of PMS that comes only with a new moon, and its red hot anger is felt in every fibre of your being.

It's not the sneaky kind of PMS, that you are completely unaware of, that sees you blow your stack and have a good cry, before you realise what it was all about.

It is a simmering ball of rage that there is no pacifying. You are completely aware that you are suffering PMS, you just couldn't give a fudge cracker.

You are conscious of the fact that it is not exactly acting like a reasonable and stable person, and yet, don't care. While you are more than aware of your PMS, it is NEVER Ok for anyone else to acknowledge it,

It’s the kind of PMS in which you are tempted to stroll down a street of the most undesirable neighbourhood with all of your electronics, jewellery and a fifty dollar note hanging out of your bag, in the hope that someone will attempt to snatch it, just so that you can feel the sweet relief of hammering someone over the head with it.

On a criminal scale, it is what is referred to as Pre Meditated PMS.

Anyway, after spending most of Friday evening having a good cry, because everyone else in the entire universe is a fuck Witt, I decided that the best thing for the weekend ahead would be to stay as busy as possible, and as far away from my usual episode triggers as I could.

My usual triggers are mess of any variety.

During my premenstrual moments, I take every crumb left on the bench, every wet towel left on the floor, every piece of pointy Lego left out of the tub, every weed that dares to sprout it's fucked up little head in my garden and every piss the dog hangs, as a direct and personal slight.

Tasks that I would usually complete without a second thought become red beacons of exactly how unappreciated I am and exactly how selfish everyone that comes into contact with me is, and exactly how much I hate everything.

Yes my friends, I am a tiny bundle of rainbows.

Anyway, Saturday saw the temperatures soar again, and excessive heat and Megatron PMS are almost deadly, so a trip to the beach was decided.

Feeling surprisingly serene at the beach, I decided to take a dip. I swam as far out as I could, till every asshole was out of earshot, past the breaking waves to the calmer waters that lift you high and gently place you down again and then continue their way to the shore to hopefully pick someone up and dump them, comfortable in the fact that if a shark attacked, my excess rage would render me safe and the shark very sorry.

I was floating in the water, my ears under, eyes closed, soaking in the serenity when I heard a splashing sound. I opened an eye to see a mass of paddle boarders taking equal advantage of the beautiful day.

I swallowed down some bitter, reasoned with myself that the beach was there to share and I moved out of the way to give them adequate room to do their stupid paddle boarding and for me to enjoy some serenity again.

Not ten minutes later, the paddle boarders were all up in my space again, so very patiently I moved again, only to have the selfish dickheads follow me and get all up in my serenity ten minutes later.

I was contemplating whether or not I would just go back in or eat them alive, when I copped a face full of splash from a particularly inconsiderate paddle boarder.

I was all like... You. Today, it is going to be you. Welcome to hell.

I wiped the splash from my face, gained myself some sturdy footing and shouted.

"Oi, Dick face!"

The guilty paddle boarder turned toward me.

I couldn't stop it... I should have stopped it but the urge was too great.. I flung my arms in the air to gesture how much space the ocean has and I said... I said.

"Look at the ocean! There is soooo fucking much of it, LOOK AT ALL THE ROOM WE HAVE FOR ACTIVITIES!! " and yet... YOU have to follow my ass around?!? We're you born that selfish Or did something happen to you that made you think that you are the only un-fucking-coordinated grain of sand on this BEACH!?!"

The paddle boarder eyed me cautiously, I assume, trying to decide whether I was mentally unstable, which of course I was, but said nothing, which was very wise, and I assume he was married, and savvy in the ways of Megatron PMS.

His lack of reaction, and the slight hint of fear in his eyes saw me stomp, well, not really stomp because I was in five ft. of water but, fling myself unceremoniously back to the shore where I promptly fell on my ass on jagged rocks.

It wasn't just any fall either, it was the fall when one second you are standing and then the next you are on your ass with a face full of sea weed, for no reason.

Karma pushed me.

To make matters slightly more embarrassing, some of the paddle boarder’s friends rushed to my assistance because cabbage was too busy trying to catch breath from laughing so hard. I looked up at them; they looked down on me, faces full of concern, asking if I was OK?

I replied that I was OK, I wasn't hurt, and that I was just very, very embarrassed.

One of the paddle boarder’s friends grabbed my arm and helped me to my feet, and smiled reassuringly and said, don't be embarrassed, be proud. That was a Heller stack.

I wanted to cry, but I didn't. I began to laugh, and I continued on my way to my towel, all the while pretending that my knee cap didn't feel as though it was about to fall off, because it's far less embarrassing to fall and not hurt yourself.

Touché Karma, well done my dear friend.

And with that, all the dickheads in the land were actually alright, and my Megatron PMS was left behind in the ocean, and cabbage said nothing about a missed funniest home video's opportunity, because he knows better and was probably scared.

Karma is ALWAYS a bitch when you are.

Emma. Xx

Giant Crap Sandwich, Bone Lazy.

2013-02-08T21:29:00.000+11:00

Scandal of all scandals, I had my first child when I was in my teens. I was not the first, won’t be the last, Not ideal, life goes on.

I had a lot of support but I mostly heard a lot of negativity, whatever, people are well meaning dick heads.

I decided to focus on the positives of my situation, one of those being that I have an uncanny knack of remembering what being a teenager was like. It has held me in good stead so far and has proven to be invaluable now that I have a teen myself.

One of the things that I have been completely unprepared for though, is the laziness.

Not just any type of laziness, but bone deep, teenager laziness.

I hear from a multitude of mammas that this is normal, and yes I do remember being teenager lazy.

I recall my mother grabbing wildly under my bed for the source of the latest bad smell and pulling out a rotten apple and seven petrified Sao's, and me shrugging my shoulders in a 'meh' fashion when confronted with it.

I would defend my space and tell her that I know where everything is, while inwardly suggesting that if she didn't like it then she should just stay the fuck out of my room, like any normal teenager.

Mum would say things like, 'your fathers art group is coming over tonight for an independent film night and a Steam Boat, what will they think?'.........And I said, that I would be more concerned about why your nit infested hippy freak friends would be wandering in my room for, it's not an open house'

And I got grounded.

Anyway, it's time for Friday's Giant Crap Sandwich.

The latest resentment filled, PMS inspired shit fight in our humble little home, centres around the laziness of all those in it, me feeling unappreciated and has left me on more than one occasion screeching at the top of my lungs 'WHY DOES EVERYBODY IN THIS HOUSE GET A MAID BUT MEEEEE.!?!

Followed by mutterings of "Wouldn't work in an iron lung.."

And I don't even know what that work in an iron lung means, or who coined it, or even why anyone says 'coin a phrase" I dropped out of high-school remember and hate researching stuff, But I say it anyway, because my dad used to say it, such is the frustration I am dealing with right now.

I'm not just talking a usual level of teenager laziness OK? get this;

Yesterday, I heard the familiar and slightly annoying bell of the home ice-cream man. For those of you unfamiliar with home ice cream, it is a franchise that offers ice cream and other iced treats, in bulk quantities, for a very reasonable price, with EFT POS facilities, delivered to your door once a fortnight and his/her arrival on your street is heralded by a large clanging bell.

So yesterday, we heard the bell, and this bell is usually followed by a sound not unlike an elephant stampede up my hallway, followed by excited screeching of "Maaaaam can we get ice cream?” in various squeaky voices.

Yesterday however, the stampede was short some footsteps, and came in only in the four year old variety. My blood turned cold at the lack of reaction, so I wandered up the hall to find one of the usually excited for ice cream clan on the toilet so that explained that, and the teen sprawled over his bed texting someone, probably the girlfriend.

I handed the teen 20 bucks and informed him that the ice cream man was here if he wanted to go grab a box, because I am clearly a fun person, and the home ice cream man comes late on a Friday afternoon when most parents are into a wine and clearly more inclined to buy ice cream.

Sneaky bastards.

Meanwhile, I'm standing there, handing out $20's like I'm Al Capone giving the kid free reign over the fortnights ice cream selection, and teen shrugged his shoulders in a familiar 'meh' manner, and said " I don't want any ice cream, it's too hot to stand in the driveway and wait for him"

Whatever the loving fuck? How can one be too hot and lazy for ice cream? I mean, the dude delivers it for crying out loud, to your driveway, a mere ten meters from where the teen was sitting?!? And yet he reacted as though I had asked him to walk across to the cattle paddock across the road, rope and milk a cow, churn it into cream, source the cocoa from West Africa, return, mix, freeze an package it himself.

Sadly this is not an isolated incident, most of my very reasonable requests lately are met with eye rolling and followed through with exhausted body language and half arsed attempts at completing the task.

It’s what I affectionately refer to as the can’t give a stuff stage.

It doesn't matter what I do,

Can't play the PlayStation,

Couldn't give a stuff.

Can't go to Macca's on Wednesday,

Couldn't give a stuff.

Can't leave your room,

Couldn't. give. a flying. Stuff.

I don't recall my teen laziness ever getting in the way of something I really wanted to do. I certainly would not have volunteered to wash up at home, but I willingly and enthusiastically scrubbed dishes at the restaurant of a local pub till midnight on Saturday for the seventy bucks I needed to buy Jebadiah tickets.

After careful consideration, I decided that the teen was really not that different to me as a teen, he just wanted for less.

He really was quite capable of doing anything he set his mind to should he want it bad enough, he had proven that with his improvement at school, so that he could stay with his friends and girlfriend, and his keeping his room in a general state of almost tidiness, to prevent me from entering it or any reason.

The success to surviving the teen laziness was to find out what it was he really wanted, and apply sneaky motivation type activities associated with it.

I'm a genius.

The problem is though, that he doesn't very badly want anything. He will mow the lawn for phone credit, improve his grades to stay at the school he is in and empty the bin and dishwasher to avoid me screeching like a banshee, all the while earning himself an Oscar for his lead role in, Exhausted.. A tale of the hard done by, but doing them all the same.

Right now though, I'm fresh out of ideas, and rapidly running out of the motivation to motivate.

Also, does anyone know what "wouldn't work in an iron lung" means?

The latest, GCS, brought to you by PMS.

Happy Frahday.

Emma.

The most romantic thing, cabbage has ever done. Ever.

2013-02-05T10:35:00.000+11:00

Last week, I decided to take an impromptu weekend getaway, inspired by a hot date I had earlier in the week, with fellow blogger, Tina. I love catching up with fellow bloggers outside of the blog world, for no reason at all, just to chat. There is something wonderful about being able to talk about blogs with friends who know exactly what you are talking about, also our husbands have formed quite the bromance, it really is a beautiful thing.

On the day of the date, the weather was glorious, the sun was shining, the temperature sat around 34 degrees which for all of you Fahrenheit-ers is a steady 93.2.

The drive to the date involved a coastline view and was fabulous. Well as fabulous as a ride in our car gets, as our car is best described as...... economical.

Which basically means that we don't owe any money on it, therefore, it’s perfectly affordable. It also means that we have to forego modern luxuries such as a radio that is not attached to a tape player, yes a TAPE player, an A/C that cools the car without putting too much strain on the engine, and a lining that sticks properly to the ceiling of the car.

So, sweating like a who-ah in church, staring longingly at beach with the windows down ah- la 80's, I looked enviously at the people frolicking in the water, and fishing with their children.

I turned to cabbage and announced that we were going away for the weekend, somewhere near the beach, and he replied.. "Cool" so it was decided.

As soon as I got home I checked the financial situation, and was slightly disheartened.. But after checking out a few places, I decided a beach weekend away was completely do-able if we stuck to Motels or caravan parks. So within ten minutes I had booked our weekend getaway, I had everything covered... It was close to the beach, close to restaurants, had safe fishing spots for the kids; I was a weekend holiday planning ninja... Except that I failed to check the weekend weather report... Which was predicting not the fabulous 34 degrees I had envisioned, but high winds, cold temperatures and frequent storms/rain.

Never one to admit that I may have acted a little rashly when booking our weekend getaway, I refused to let the prediction of bad weather ruin our weekend of frolicking on the beach and fishing with the children.

We fished, in the wind... The children swam in the freezing temperatures, we took long walks on the beach with the wind eroding the sand banks and the sand giving our legs a sandblasting exfoliation as we strolled, we ate out and played UNO.

It also brought about the most romantic gesture from my husband that I had ever seen, even trumping his proposal... Which isn't really that hard if I am completely honest.. Because he proposed to me, on blended knee... Naked.

There is nothing like the sight of a naked man on blended knee, balls scraping the carpet, to get a gal to say yes.. But that post is for another day.

His far more romantic gesture began when I was helping Ryan cast in his fishing line. On my wrist was one of my most prized possessions.. A soup can bracelet, hand made by Ed Sheeran's mum (also a post for another day)

I baited up Ryan's hook, patiently explained to him the casting method, and flung his rod high over my shoulder.

I watched the line travel into the water, followed by a satisfying plonk... And then another far more frightening plonk.

I looked down on my wrist to discover.. No soup can bracelet. Not one to panic.. I wailed and collapsed on the ground. My bracelet was forever lost in the murky depths of Lake Illawarra. All was lost and hopeless.

Cabbage wandered over to check on the cause of my distress and after explaining to him what happened, he infuriated me further by asking incessant questions like, "which direction did it go?" and "how far in did it land?"

I explained to him that I had no fucking idea and it was gone forever.

Busying myself with fishing and pouring a large glass of wine I accepted the fact that I would never again feel like I was wearing Warhol around my wrist... It was then I looked up to see Cabbage wading into Lake Illawarra... Jeans rolled up, shoes off, scrambling over oyster infested rocks and sea grasses that could have hidden a multitude of creatures, when not TWO FUCKING MINUTES later..

Success. Seriously.... What are the chances?!?!!!!

Words do not describe how much I love this man.

Thank you cabbage.

In other news, thank you to all that entered the Sony giveaway, picking a winner was difficult for cabbage, as you all put so much time into your answers and they all did amuse us to no end, however I only had one prize pack to give away.. So a huge congratulations to Veggie Gal, who is the winner, with the answer:

Veggie Gal

−

The Cyber-shot would win cause you can take pics of the record you are hearing, throw your hands in the air, start screaming. I say Ed, you say Sheeran!!

Please email me at I won shit at emmasbrain @hilarious.com to claim your prizes.

Emma xx

I sent Cabbage, A Sony Give Away.

2013-02-01T11:18:00.000+11:00

Just before Christmas, I was invited to attend the launch of the Sony Vaio tap 20. I RSVP’d because I own a Vaio, and can speak highly of it, also, because Ben O Donoghue was cooking.

On the day I couldn't attend. I dared to send cabbage in my place.

The following is the story of what happens when you send your husband to do your job for a day.

I was not paid to write this post, however you should know that it does contain mention of the Sony Vaio Tap 20 event and a giveaway.

Just so's you know.

I sent cabbage.

When you get invited to eat food that has been cooked by Ben O Donoghue, you just don't say no, I know this, because I have been fortunate enough, to have eaten Ben's Lasagne before, (not a euphemism)

Now, it was not just any lasagne, it was the kind of lasagne that renders all other lasagnes that have ever been eaten before and after it, cardboard.

As well as eating Lasagne, I cracked hilarious jokes, and everyone laughed.

Not really... we did stand around taking 'Light and casual chatter' PR Photographs. I'm not very good at it, because my talking face is not very photogenic, I tend to look like I am trying to hold in a sneeze. I vowed that day however, that I would once again, meet and eat, with Mr O'Donoghue.

I got my chance at the Vaio Tap 20 Launch, only late in the eve of the next time I would eat Ben's food, our dear old puss, Justin Timberlake Hasslehoff. God rest his soul, began acting poorly.

By 8am the vet announced that poor old Justin must be put to sleep. His old kidneys had failed him. I was inconsolable.

I considered emailing Sony and telling them that they must cancel the whole event and rename the Vaio Tap 20, the Justin Timberlake-Hasslehoff in puss's memory, It would be the right thing to do. But then I remembered that there were other media attending, I’m not actually very important, also that I am a drama queen.

I then thought about calling and explaining the situation, but I just knew... the minute I said the words My cat died, and I received the obligatory Oh no! I'm so sorry, how sad... That I would burst into tears and the rest of the conversation would be spent with me screeching *something incomprehensible, JJJaaaarrrrssstin *snot bubble.... whaaaaaaay DO THE GOOD. DIE. SO. YOUNG.!? LEAVE BRITTANY ALONE!!!

So ever the professional, I turned to cabbage and asked if he would please do it, and at the time I meant make the phone call, but he turned to me and said, "But what do you do?"

I paused for a moment, to pondered how I was going to explain that he should dial the number and CALL THEM without swearing, when I realised that he thought I meant, for him to attend the event.

Now, as we all know, Angry is my go to emotion, so when I replayed his question in my mind, my lady ears transformed his "But what do you do" as a direct dare, much like he had just asked me what it is I do all day.

I was emotional OK? Don't you dare judge me.

So, anyway, I turned to him and said this is what I do.

You go.

You tweet about going.

You get there, you take a picture of what the place looks like before you unleash our children on it.

you listen, and by listen I mean you tweet.

you eat Bens food, after you have instagramed it.

You decide if you like the product, you tweet accordingly,

you chat to other internet folk you recognize the twitter avatar of, then.... smart arse..

you come home and write about it, but you must remember to write it as though you haven't got a house plus , YOU LIVE ON A COUCH, SO PEOPLE LIKE IT BETTER WHEN YOU WRITE IT OUT.. Then I remembered that the last bit was just me reciting an Ed Sheeran rap, and I burst into fresh tears, because Justin Timberlake-Hasslhoff was also a ginger, and I still don’t have Ed Sheeran tickets.

In between my sobs I thrust my car keys at a confused cabbage dramatically kissed the top of my children's heads and retired to bed.

When I heard the car back out of it the driveway, I burst into fresh tears at the thought of cabbage not having to check behind the car for Justin before he did so and suddenly... I came over all icy at the realization of what I had done.

I had just sent cabbage. To Do. What I do.

And do it he did, Video-FEAT: Cabbage and two of my three adorable children.

He did my job so well in fact, that I now have three children that must have a Vaio Tap 20 or else one direction will break up and the world will implode, I also have a prize pack from Sony, (who still love this blog despite meeting cabbage) worth no less than $772.00 To give to one of you.

The prize consists of;

1x Sony Cyber-shot TX20 valued at $249.00

1x Sony Reader RRP valued at $179.00

1x Signed copy of Ben O’Donoghue’s ‘at home with Ben which is priceless, but the book itself is valued at $49.95.

1x Merlin Entertainments family pass valued at $295.00

ALSO, a Sony Summertainment towel, Frisbee and beach ball and picnic basket,

So much swag.

All you have to do is check out THIS Facebook page, It is Sony's Summertainment, like it if you do, (and I know you do because you want to win their stuff, as well you should), and the prize will be awarded to the first person to deliver to me, back stage Ed Sheeran passes, OR, failing that, tell me in the comments section below,

Who would win in a fight between a Sony Reader, and a Sony Cybershot TX20.

If you want, tell me why.

It will amuse me to no end.

Cabbage will pick the winner, who will be announced here on the blog on Tuesday 4th Feb 2013.

I know what your thinking... That's some fine print you have there...

Firstly, thanks, it is...

Secondly,

The give away opens 11:30pm Thursday, 31/01/13 and closes 11:59pm Monday 03/02/13.

The give away is open to Australian residents only.

One entry per person per day.

Judges decision is final, no argument will be entered in to.

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If the prize remains unclaimed, a redraw will occur.

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Also, none of your information is stored, sold, passed on or kept for ANY reason, other than to deliver your prize. Your dirty little secrets are safe with me.

Good luck.

Sometimes I am hypocrite. An apology to David Koch

2013-01-22T18:43:00.001+11:00

Yesterday, I called Kochie a dickhead, and made reference to him being bald. it was was really just a light hearted dig at what scandals I had missed in my time spent in a self imposed Internet ban, which other that Ed Sheeran tickets, (FML) was pretty much nothing, and I'm sarcastic, it's the only way I know how to be funny, also, no one cares what I say.

When I caught up on the whole scandal, I rolled my eyes at his ignorance and thought to myself, that his offense was because he viewed breasts in a sexual way, making their exposure slightly confronting, rather than viewing them as they were biologically intended, and that was his fucking problem. He is also bald, and I like the word dick head.

Not seven hours later.. And I can't believe I am even going into this.. But not seven hours after I hit publish, I had a phone conversation with my mother, in which.... I expressed feeling slightly confronted, and I think I even used the word disgusted, when I was asked, in all seriousness, if I would mind breast feeding another woman's baby. ( yes I said disgusted, dear lord, please don't eat me alive)

OK, I know it isn't even the same thing, but hear me out.

It is important that you know, that I came from a fairly "free spirited" upbringing, in which my siblings and I affectionately refer to as a fanny hair from the commune.

Tits were always around, nude artworks hung from the walls, breasts fed infants, sometimes more than two infants of different ages feeding at the same time from the same mother. Not a single fuck was given through out the land, but thats not the point.

Breast feeding was not something to be hidden, it was celebrated, and breasts themselves were viewed as neither sexual or biological, rather as a marvelous and beautiful creation of mother nature, to be appreciated and celebrated in all forms.. There is a moon for it. I shit you not, but anyway I won't go into it, but tits happened, every where, all the time.

We were introduced to cultures in which sisters breast fed each others children, and I remember being slightly disturbed by the theory at the time, but when an Aunt of mine asked if I would breast feed a starving infant if I could, I answered yes, without a doubt.

If it was starving.

Also if there was no other conceivable alternative.

I can't tell you why I feel like this, I have absolutely no excuse, I am not ignorant, or ill informed. I spent a total of three years breast feeding my infants, and have been angered by my fair share of discrimination during that time. My feelings regarding feeding another persons baby, just are, that I am uncomfortable about breast feeding another persons infant, for reasons I am not quite sure.

So now you know that being asked to breast feed another persons baby was as normal as a Vegemite sandwich as far as dinner table conversation goes in my family, I will explain how I came to write this post.

When I was asked if I was capable of breast feeding a newborn infant, who's mother was in need of some respite for a few days, inside, I recoiled in horror, outside, I politely declined, as I my last drop of breast milk shriveled up in the great PND of 2008, but had I have been able to, my answer would still have been no.

GF.FO.

I then phoned my mum to express my... Distaste, at being asked, and although my mother tended to agree with me, she gently reminded me that I called Kochie a bald dickhead for almost exactly the same ignorance earlier that day, and perhaps the only difference was that my argument was slightly more socially acceptable than his and that I didn't say it on National Television with a primary audience of SAH parents, and that for someone who has spent as much time in social exile for my upbringing and my views as I, I was quite willing to hand it out to someone else, whom in all fairness, was probably from a time when his opinion was not so outrageous.

She went on to say that this was how wars started, and a little tolerance goes a long way on both sides of the argument, she then brought up something that happened back in 1972, and I tuned out.

It got me thinking though, about many things, mainly, just how fucking Bizzare my family is, and I also thought about a time when I was completely unaware of just how fucking Bizzare my family was.

I also remember a time when brought a breast fed, newborn baby boy to the home of my in laws, whom are saints by the way, and their extended family, whom had all gathered to delight in the new baby.

So there I was, weilding a squishy newborn babe, in all my Fan hair from the commune glory, perching myself up on the lounge and releasing my breasts to feed said newborn, without much of a thought, as well I should be able to.

I distinctly remember my husbands Nana affectionately touching me on the shoulder and smiling at me, remarking about how amazing beautiful breast feeding was, and wasn't it fabulous that I could feed whenever the baby was hungry, rather than having to feed discreetly as women did in her time.

It wasn't a passive aggressive gesture to get me to be more aware of my surroundings, there wasn't an aggressive bone in her body,

She genuinely marveled at the changing times, at how far women had come, with a twinkle in her eye, and I remember thinking...

Where is this alternate universe where breast feeding was not publicly celebrated, with a moon and a fucking parade and a collaborative independent art exhibition and or film festival?!?

It was then I looked up, and saw the mild discomfort of the male relatives around me, although their discomfort was foreign to me, it was perfectly clear that their discomfort was not intended to make me feel ashamed, or to starve my infant for their comfort, their discomfort came from a time when it wasn't the done thing.

They didn't see breast feeding openly, two infants at a time, swinging from each nipple like I had my whole life.

Their discomfort came from not knowing the etiquette in where to look, whether or not to make eye contact with me or engage in conversation while I was exposing a breast, they were concerned above all for my discomfort, for having to feed in a room full of men, it was rightly or wrongly, foreign to them

In all of my mung bean flinging glory, I fed my infant, despite their discomfort, I let them know that their presence did not make me feel uncomfortable, that I would be regularly flinging out a tit should the need for feed arise, and that I did not know of another way to do it.

They were honest about their discomfort, I was honest about my not giving any fucks about their discomfort, which in turn made them less uncomfortable to know that Imwas OK with their presence and eventually, they got over it.

I'm not saying that what Koshie said was excusable, or that women should hide their breasts when feeding to appease the discomfort of people who may be confronted by the sight of their natural use.

I realise Koshie is in the public eye, and his views are out dated, and ignorant, but I couldn't escape the feeling that calling him a bald dickhead was out of line, and also hypocritical after my conversation about breast feeding another persons baby.

That perhaps Koshies expression of discomfort was just an honest, all be it a little misguided and irresponsible statement in which he shared a view that was not uncommon among his demographic.

The only thing I know to do, in this situation, is to feed anyway despite his discomfort till everyone gets over it and as we all know, I apparently I have no plans on doing that.

For Anybody.

So I will leave the arguing to the currently lactating, whom have my full support, and I apologise for the earlier unnecessary name calling.

I also apologise to anyone whom may be offended by feelings on communal feeding.

I am also going to leave now, before another apology is necessary.

Hypocritically yours

Emma.

I'm ba-aaack.

2013-01-21T11:37:00.001+11:00

I went away for a while. I do that, Even in real life, well not actually go anywhere, but I have a profound need to retreat and be still.
For someone who spends as much time in their own head as I, it is necessary.
I do it all the time. It's infuriating to all around me, but I can't help it, I will never change.

This time, I went on an impromptu, self imposed Internet/social media ban. For a month.
I know right.

I like to think that I enjoy the Internet, but sometimes, I don't want everything NOW, or to know everything NOW, I appreciate a little bit of shoosh, and I take a minute to remember that, although I will not be reading about it as it happens;

People will still be beautiful paranoid arseholes,

Koshie will continue to be an offensive dinosaur, (and can I ad....for someone who clearly knows the sting of male pattern baldness, he sure hangs a lot of sexuality on natural biology.... Wait..HA!. Never mind.)

I will continue to think things I should never say.

Taylor Swift will still have public fights and still come out smelling of Spring scented Ambi Pur,

I will eventually not care about what emails I am ignoring.

Oprah will still interview people, and Lance Armstrong will still deny any wrong doing, even with the beady eyes of Oprah looking into his very soul.

Zac Effron will still visit sex shops. Perez Hilton will still care.

Gay marriage is still illegal.

AND

Ed Sheeran tickets will still be released... and people (Read: AHoles) will still buy them ALL, regardless of whether I am informed about it or not.

Fuck it to HELL I missed out on and Sheeran tickets, other than that, in my absence, Nothing dramatic, mysterious or serious happened here.

Getting a skip bin and having a huge throw out was probably the highlight of my holiday, and even as I write that last sentence I can SEE the SAD.

This year our Christmas festivities stretched out over two weeks, and I must say, I am never, ever, ever doing it like that again.
On a fabulous note though, I saw ALL of my many siblings, and some cousins I have not seen forever, a few I met for the first time.
I managed to finally kiss the adorable cheeks of my niece, found out that I am going to be an Aunty again, and TWO babies were breast fed at the Christmas dinner table, zero people were offended.
It was glorious.

But that was about it.

I missed you internet.

Emma. Xx

Proud.

2012-12-14T08:44:00.002+11:00

Today, I await the teen’s end of year school report.

For those who actively follow my social media channels, you will know that we had a small incident with a certain person, who shall remain nameless (It was the teen's) Half yearly report.

I am not going to go into details about it, but let's just say that the letters D and F were thrown around, and abundant.

This led me to have a minor... Moment and many discussions were had of the C word variety, and before you go phoning the department of child services, the C word in our house stands for Chev, which is a semi local, and much feared private school.

The C also stands for cash, of which you need plenty of to attend said private school, C was also the lowest grade required to avoid going to the first C word, and avoid me having to possibly give out sevices from the back of BI-LO car park, to find enough of the second C word, to send him to the first.

Are you following me here? Good. Let's never speak of it again.

The teen really stepped up the second half of this year, could it have something to do with the newly acquired girlfriend, and his dependence on staying at the same school as her?

In part yes.

Could it have something to do with the fact that cabbage and I rock at being fantastic parents, and that we were armed with the readily available and generous advice of a certain ex Principal and all time beautiful person, Denyse (Ready Set School) via twitter? Yes.

However, what it boils down to is the teen put his head down and bum up.

He took ownership and accountability.

He completed homework tasks with effort and thought.

He listened to his parents and teachers.

He saw the bigger picture; he made improvements and revaluated his peer groups.

When certain children made fun of his intelligence, he came up with the line “I will pay your wage one day" in response, and he carried on learning to the best of his ability.

He did all of these things, and more to better his situation.

He did that.

Yesterday I attended a special achievement award ceremony at his School. I sat it the second row, camera in hand, smug with the knowledge that I had received a letter to inform me that the teen would be receiving an award.

As I sat smugly, waiting for the show to begin, Hawaii five O playing from the school band rather loudly in my left ear, I contemplated the teens turn around for the second half of this year, periodically pausing in my reflection to tell Ms 4 to cease and desist kicking the chair of the person in front.

I glanced at the program and noted that the year seven awards were first, which pleased my impatience, but I also mentally calculated how many awards of other people’s children I would have to sit through before it finished.

Don't look at me like that... We all know everybody does it.

So the year seven awards begin, and the teens name was called, the year adviser followed his name with the title of his award. First in marks for PE and health.

The teen sheepishly took the stage and I snapped away with my camera.. Only the year adviser went on...

Also head teacher’s award for visual arts.

AND technology's

AND a special mention for the state maths competition.

I stopped snapping away, and stared in awe and bursting with pride at my first born on the stage.

My eyes welled with proud tears as he gave me a wave then posed for his photograph taken by several photography students.

He exited the stage and I sat there, so proud, I can't even articulate it into words.

Today, the teen receives his end of year school report. I don't even care what it says.

It's not about being the best at everything; it's about being the best he can be.

I already know he gets that.

I'm off to have a bit of a proud cry again.

Happy Friday.

Emma xx