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Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don’t.Mary Schmich


Fek me Mary! I don’t like where this is heading.

Do you really want me to perform a slow strip in front of all these people? Do I really have to expose myself, one painful revelation of dumbass at a time? Button by button? 


Have I ever known what I wanted?


In High School I aced English and Lit, but my teacher was a smarmy bastard with a porno moustache and squinty eyes. The Graphics teacher on the other hand was young and cute. Suddenly I wanted to be a Graphic Designer. 


I walk stage left and begin peeling off one long, elbow length white glove. 

I drop it to the floor. 


Here’s the problem… I was shite at graphics and very ill-prepared to boot. 


I walk stage right and work the other glove…

I’m rolling it down to reveal a smooth bare arm…

I’m  peeling it off slowly finger by finger…and then…

I wait for the perfect drum beat,

the perfect dramatic moment to flick it hard to the floor.


At Uni I fell into an English major, stirring in a little education degree on the side. Everyone was convinced that I’d be a great teacher. And at some point everyone convinced me. But at graduation there was regional work and a few nail-biting gigs teaching year nines. The effen little horrors.

Suddenly I was no longer convinced. 


I return to the middle of the stage and am grateful for the lights that shine into my eyes.

I begin unbuttoning my blouse starting at the unobvious bottom.

Slowly…I undo them and  push one shoulder forward,

exposing pale glowing skin and a peek of cleavage. 


Then a job that unexpectedly fell into my lap became somewhat satisfying. Marketing in the pretty-pill-whorehouse of a multi-national pharmaceutical company. 

It had never been in my dreams, but there were words and brain usage beyond what I had experienced. And it was a comforting way to pretend it was all I’d ever wanted. 

Until the day of the big whoop-it-up congratulations-to-us marketing meeting.

An A-List product had hit a milestone of dollars and sales worthy of tooting trumpets. The product was an anti-depressant. And during the back slapping and champagne corks I felt no less than emptiness.

With pin prick focus all I could see was the sheer volume of money being spent by all those depressives and the irony of toasting the good health of this product. 

Hooray! Hooray! For all you sick-with-the-business-of-livings out there! 

It was time to go. 


I stay centre stage and know it’s time for a bit of skirt…I unzip it at the back and shimmy, shimmy…


I’ve always had this niggle of a feeling, of tickets in my hand that held promises of excitement and adventures to come. But when I look at them I’m painfully startled by the realisation that they are stamped use-by the early nineties.


Well my friends there’s little left between you and me ‘cept for these heels and this ridiculously long and cleverly placed black feather boa.


Fek it.

Sorry, but I’ve never once desired to be the perfect-stay-at-home-mum.

I had itchy feet and itchy palms and an itchy need to find that something I could do, something I could call my own.

But I never picked up my pen.

I answered that call stupidly inhaling the cafes one by one until seven years later I am all coffee beans and gen-y staff and freakin’ cake crumbs. And the deep secret that the thrill of the treacherous learning curve was over, far earlier than anticipated. 


I know I’ve wafted through the last seven years of my life under a radar of sorts, dodging the admiration of my friends who all look at me as if I’m some kind of 


successful business woman.  


I understand why they think that way. But it can only feel like fraud to me.


I’m all feathery black and ivory…

and then suddenly

I’m sick with the realisation of how close to raw-exposure I’ve become.

I clutch at the curtains and wind myself around and around, until I’m deeply wrapped in a warm red-fringed-velvety cocoon.


“Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do” is all bloody well and good Mary. 

It’s the guilt you feel when you know what you want to do…and never do it that is the fuck-note of your life.


One day I’ll admit it to myself. Out aloud.

Brave the criticism, the self doubt and the but you’re so, so, unworthy.


And I will have the whole world hold me, 

in just two hands.




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paddlepopThere are some days where you just feel that you are the icy pole stick that’s been shoved up the arse of a Paddlepop.

Chocolate flavour.


I don’t want to sound like a huge whinge-bag (because I am really blessed with family, friends, health and incredible good looks >haha< ) but yesterday was the beginning of one of those chain-of-events-days that sometime happen in our lives…

We all cope well with one little disaster…but then another happens and another…… it all stacks up…. 


It began yesterday at an hour of the morning that I’d only heard of in fables…4.55am.

Between dear daughter and dear cat (known as Sam or Sam-bo or effen-friggin-cat-get-off-my-black-pants) my morning had started about two hours, five minutes and twenty seven seconds earlier than it needed to.


But, believe it or not, eyes riddled by old-lady-varicose-veins was not the lowlight.

Oh no…no sir…

The lowlight was finding out one of my long term employees has been stealing from me.

Jolly good. Things have to get better now…right?            Not.


I then took a phone call from a man whom we shall call  the ‘business associate’, but who is more affectionately known as a name even I am too embarrassed to write on here  (well to give you a clue  it has something to do with bananas and a very nasty-red-itchy-rash).

I picked up the phone (EPIC MISTAKE) and as soon as I realised it was him- I instantly wished that instead of picking up the phone I had simply taken the phone-cord and whipped myself senseless. 


I popped into G-mail (chosen for it’s semi-erotic name only) and quickly looked up my star sign.  Ahhhh…I thought. Now it all makes sense…. 

Gemini’s were copping a big one from Uranus.

I felt relief wash over me. I can handle Uranus!

By the crack of tomorrow’s dawn it would all be over…


Today I locked the cat out, fired the girl and in the privacy of my own home I  flipped the ‘business associate’ the bird. Twice.

The universe is back to normal.

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NewFamousChipsOn the weekend we took a day trip down to Phillip Island. Along the way we stopped for some road-munchies at the local supermarket. I had a bit of a tummy upset so I grabbed some licorice (need I say anymore??!!??).

In the car I snapped open the bag and popped a black stick into dear hubby’s mouth as he drove. He snaffled it quickly and opened up for another. I had an instant flash back to the time of our early dating.

 Back then, as Uni students, we couldn’t afford too much so we’d drive to the closest Red Roo[s]ter and buy a large box of hot chips for around two dollars. We’d then go for a drive and- romantically- I’d hand feed him the greasy-sticks-of-potato-yum. We’d usually end up at Elwood beach to have a cuddle and lick the salt of my fingers- as we watched the moon drift over Port Phillip Bay. 

Those were joyful moments of blossoming infatuation. The biggest issue we faced was the weekly scrambling to find a freebie pass into our fave nightclub-so we could avoid the ten buck entry fee. We weren’t worried about cholesterol, or high blood pressure, or diabetes.

Nearly two decades on- I’m now feeding my husband licorice sticks.

“We’re getting old.” I said. He laughed.

But it’s true. We have swapped dancing at clubs till the wee hours of the morn for tango-ing stray children back to bed after bad dreams.

We have swapped long night time drives to hear the ocean caress the shore for short drives to cart children from basketball- to ballet- to birthday parties- to band practices.

We have swapped holding hands and whispering sweet nothings for messaging each other on Face Book. 

As I chew on this memory-evoking licorice I realize that ‘transitioned’ is probably a more apt description- than ‘swapped’. When did we morph from the free spirited pair into the “eat this it’s good for your bowels” couple?


I panic….Could this be the beginnings of a mid-life-crisis?

Then hubby looks at me, I know what he is thinking.

Next weekend we are getting us some red rooster chips.

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42-15350445Was just reading a funny blog on Obama’s recent controversial speech delivered to all the kidlets of America (well at least to the ones whose mommas and poppas didn’t protest and keep them home in the trailer park that day- but ahem-I digress….) It evoked a memory of my own physical scareducation back in the good ole days of high school- circa the 80’s.


Our PE teacher was a tall bloke with a head of early-onset silver hair and a startling ginger beard. He’d be called a ranga-face these days- but back then we only had one name for him and that was >insert dramatic pause here< …Mr Blood. 

Well it was appropriate- because, after all, it was his actual name. 

Mr Blood had a penchant for interesting ways of promoting fitness. I was convinced that every night he must have cackled himself to sleep as he thought of another ingenious way to torture us without the aid of traditional evil implements. Under his churlish command orange dimpled basket balls and innocent looking skipping ropes somehow became weapons of mass humiliation. 

The most wicked of all his games was his own special version of Dodge-ball.

To give you a clue- we secretly called it Butt-ball. 

On the day that he introduced this charming game Mr Blood told us to line up around the perimeter of the gym. As we trudged into place he demonstrated a neat waist bend- touching his toes. Pointing to his own trim behind he said loudly “this will be the target”.  He then explained that the student at the other end of the gym had to throw the ball at the ‘target’, then snake back into the line for their turn at bending over. 

Sounds like fun huh? 

After most kids had failed to even get the ball down to the other end of the gym it was my turn to throw. The kid who sauntered into target position gave me one cool look as he slowly touched his toes. I nearly wet my navy bog-catcher-bloomers. My target was the one boy at school who really made my life miserable. For the purpose of this story I shall call him Sean. 

Sean was the master of the snide comment. He had a quick wit and knew no bounds when it came to emotional torment. He was so good at it that he rarely had to say anything at all. The mere thought of a class with him made me break out in a sweat that dripped down into my Berlei-sports-training-bra. 

I picked up the ball without any desire for revenge. My exact wish was just to get it over with as soon as possible. I hurled it across the gym floor –in an ungraceful lob. The class watched its high arc. Time stopped. The ball landed fair and square on his arse. 

Mr Blood applauded loudly as I slunk back into line.  I tried to hide, but Mr Blood had a different idea. He told us that I now had to be Sean’s target. I should have known I wouldn’t get off that easily. Revenge was Mr Blood’s game plan. Sean raced into position bouncing the ball loudly stretching out my agony as long as he could. Bounce. Bounce.     Bounce.           Bounce. I waited, my flaming face resting on my thighs. There was stillness and then the echoes of laughter bouncing off the concrete walls. His throw had landed short. A fitting end to the game. 


In case you are wondering- this event didn’t change my days at school.

It didn’t make me feel empowered to stand up to the bully, and it didn’t humble him in any way. We continued on as usual. He pointed out my flaws and I cowered. 


But just for the record- Sean was his real name.

You see- you big turd- I’m not scared of you anymore.




Credit where it is due:

This is the great blog I mentioned earlier – his hatred was for the pommel horse- another evil implement of physical education destined to deny generations of men from ever receiving Father’s Day cards…

go ahead read it… I’m sure you’ll love it.

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Happy Father’s Day

P6190278Happy Father’s Day Brunz.

The kids and I are lucky to have you in our lives.


Even if you do eat all the cheezels 🙂


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 Tried these delicious little treats at the local farmer’s market today…Cannelle.  A baked custard pastry.

The internal texture reminded me somewhat of the divine bougatsza my dear Greek friend taught me how to make.  And don’t be afraid of the outside looking almost burnt- it’s caramelly crisp chewiness is divine.

Here is a link to the definitive recipe and history by Paula Wolfert.  


As for me I wish I had more time to don an apron these days…instead we’ll have to be satisfied with big plans to go back next week and buy some more. Yum.

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This afternoon we trolled through the garage (otherwise known as the repository for everything other than the car) looking for a case suitable for Miss 8’s impending camp.

Her first camp.

I finally found the one I was looking for, a snazzy-surfy one that her big brother had used on his first camp. I was elated. Phew! I never thought I would find it in all that junk. “But Mum…” Miss 8 said incredulously “it’s a boy’s suitcase.” I looked at it.


She’s right it is a boy’s suitcase.

When her big brother went to camp he didn’t mind taking the old red sheet that had the rip in the centre and the Frankenstein stitches. He didn’t even mind that he had a non matching pillowcase. But now I have a whole new ball game on my hands. Don’t get me wrong she’s pulled out her old jumpers and jeans…but I’ve been firmly instructed that the pyjamas must match (tick) and may I please have new volleys (tick-and fine with me- I don’t want her taking her good runners anyway) and was it possible if I had a girls suitcase- please Mum pretty please?

Boy oh boy girls are different.

Part of me can’t justify buying another case, and another part of me wants to get the coolest-grooviest-girly-case I can find.

I remember the day my Mum told me we were going shopping for my primary school camp. I was elated. We were going to the biggest Kmart in town (the one in Burwood) and I felt like the luckiest kid on the planet- I was getting new stuff! Driving along my dreamy thoughts of new sleeping bags and fluffy socks abruptly screeched to a halt as we detoured to the… doctor’s surgery. There waiting for me was a big-fat-juicy tetanus shot.

Tonight I’ve taken a picture of the snazzy-surfy-suitcase.

Tomorrow it’s going on e-bay.

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