The Wax

Have you been in any confronting situations lately? Perhaps involving paper undies? Or Milanese women speaking very little english, wielding spatulas of hot wax? Good. So have I.

I thought I’d tear in to Pitt St Mall for an extremely speedy and cheap bikini wax immediately before the Christmas holidays (sorry males and the squeamish… this post will only go downhill from here. Geddit? Sorry. The brave, read on). The key motivation was the promise of spending a week in a bikini on a beach holiday with our gorgeous friends, and the knowledge that small children will grip the nearest object when in the surf. Mummy’s bikini bottoms are often the nearest object. I wanted to be ‘prepared’ for any emergency situations.

Steve Carrell. Without you, many men would never know the true horror. I bow down and worship you and your bald bleeding nipples.

Steve Carrell. Without you, many men would never know the true horror. I bow down and worship you and your bald bleeding nipples.

Now, being a tightarse AND a bargain hunter means I was suckered in for a G-string wax upon arrival, given it was only $3 extra. Bargain. My dear therapist’s accent was so chunky you could carve it. In fact, it was so northern italian I didn’t even recognise it as Italian, despite having spent a few years learning the language. You know where this is going, don’t you? I ripped out my tragic, rubbish, washed up and incorrect tenses, and attempted to make conversation. I couldn’t think of the words for ‘awkward’ ‘embarrassed’ or ‘paper undies’. I stared at the sky. She was indulgent of my awful italian, and kept asking questions about my travels, and saying ‘And you?’ and I’d reply ‘Si, blah blah blah’.

My leg went to the ceiling, while my knee made small talk with my nose, rudely before doing any warm up stretches. Pilates thrown in for free too! WHAT a bargain. She then made a noise like ‘ahhhhh!’ like she’d found a pot of gold. Imagine her rubbing her hands together with glee, though she couldn’t as they were weighed down by rivers of burning hot wax. As my eyes watered, again she asked, ‘And you?’

‘And you?’

And me what? I decided to get over my embarrassment (since I DID sign up for this after all) and take a look down at what was going on.

It was then I realised that ‘And you?’ meant, in I can’t speak any english and have no idea what I’m saying speak: Do you want me to rip this bit here out too? 

And me, thinking we were having a conversation, kept replying ‘Si’ or: Yes, yes, blah blah blah I think I’m talking super-awesome italianese here. Go me. 

I was left with an area that would be perfect for landing model aeroplanes. I got a bargain, I think.


I‘m pretty new to this whole deal. Do you ever get over the awkward factor? Or do you just forget about it and go free-range? 

There once was a girl who wrote blogs

January 2014, WTF?

So, I once was a person who wrote blog posts. December whizzed by without me managing a single word. Not really so somehow, I guess, with the concerts and daughters being singing trees and the working full-time and the present buying online (I am still feeling smug smug smuggety-smug) and the enforced drinking and merriment (yep, hated that). I couldn’t face talking about Christmas to myself, let alone put it into words here. Anyway, ’tis done. All’s well. See?

Making Christmas merry and stuff. With schnapps of course.

Making Christmas merry and stuff. With schnapps of course.

Now it’s 2014, and I resolve NOTHING. A pox on all New Years’ Resolutions. They are cruel torture instruments designed to set people up to fail. I hate failing. Do as I say, and not as I do, my sweet daughters. Oh, and try your best and stuff.

On holidays in Terrigal, with the gorgeous view of the skillion (if you’re confused – it’s a big hill) was marred by the little ants running up and down it every day like some kind of contest to make it on to The Biggest Loser. If my water pistol was sufficiently long range, I would have taken them all out. And on NEW YEARS’ DAY? Seriously. That’s just SO. VERY. OBVIOUS. It shows such a lack of imagination. Why is nobody deciding to learn archery? Start adult fingerpainting? Take a millinery course so they can create their own fascinator by next Melbourne Cup Day and have an excuse to actually ATTEND instead of toasting your kids with sparkling apple cider while holding ride-on pony races around the living room TV?

Freaks. Just lie down and give up already. STOP RUNNING

Freaks. Just lie down and give up already. STOP RUNNING

I’m too embarrassed to go to my gym until next week in case anybody thinks I’m one of THEM. Besides, exercise and walking was put on the backburner after a couple of days with so much beach telling me to make like a starfish and sprawl. I’m wearing an extra kilo as decoration around my belly button, but it’s ok for now. I ordered it for Christmas, with my ham.

Don’t think I’m writing this post as some kind of resolution either. Turns out I need some kind of splendid isolation or quiet to write, and throughout December I wasn’t even allowed to shower alone. There was always a small person in my thinking room, wanting to hang out some more. Hmph. It’s quiet as hell now though. THEY’VE LEFT ME. 


Bye bye family

Bye bye family

Terrifyingly, the girls have just left this morning to go up north for a week with That Man, the uncles, and my MIL, but WITHOUT ME, cos I have to go back to work. That Man has it under control, and they’ll have a ball, but my inner control freak is freaking. I’m scared of the missing, and I’m scared of the diabetes misbehaving. I’ll probably go to bed each night under a pile of second-best soft toys, and my 40 kg dog. Waaaaaaaah.

There is one thing I would like to do this year. It’s not a resolution. I just want to. You’ve heard of the whole mindfulness blah blah movement where you think really hard about every thing so you can be more grateful about everything and live in the moment? Well… I don’t think it’s for me. When the kids are fighting like there’s no tomorrow, I’m mindful that it sux. Being very mindful of the fact I’m eating a lot of peanut butter on my toast kind of takes the joy out of eating it.

My thing is going to be MINDLESSNESS. You can try it with me and report back. It’s pretty simple. You just practice thinking about nothing at all. I’m quite good at it already. I’m completely disorganised and have no idea when appointments are on. I sometimes miss them. I sometimes wake up and forget where I am. I often have no idea what day it is. On that note, what day is it?

In true feral holiday mode, I even forgot to have a shower yesterday. Can you smell me? Mindlessness. Winning.

Finally – to a special person who needs some reading fodder on the 6th January while she waits for the IV to drain – a 2014 toast to eating, drinking, being merry, and mindlessness. I hope this gives you between 1-3 minutes of reading material – the average time taken to read a blog post. Thinking of you.


Bridesmaids revisited: Part 2

Before we continue, an addendum. I know addendums go at the end, but this is my blog and I won’t do what you tell me (to be sung to the tune of ‘Killing in the Name of’). I need to give you the background context in which this tale of adventure and mud was composed. I arrived home Sunday evening to be served reality, cold. That Man packed his bag for China on one side of the bed while I unpacked mine on the other.
Also, ‘unpacked’ is a euphemism for ‘did not unpack because No. 1 daughter was having the meltdown from hell and took 2 hours to calm down. If you missed Part 1 and can be bothered to check it out, go here.

Monday morning, 6am dawned, 13 degrees and raining buckets, a week of full time work, two tired kids, and no groceries.

China. My nemesis.

However, adrenalin. Chemical manna of the Gods. If you can power a small solar-powered car on this stuff (not scientifically proven, but I’m calling it), then it can certainly propel one small Kim right through a working week alone with the girls, and out to the other side. I hoped. Fervently.

You will notice though that Part 2 of this post took a reaaaaally long time. The adrenalin ran out, and the wheels fell off. The Kim went SPLAT. Anyway, here I am again, mostly upright, and blogging on my phone on the train. Commitment, no?

Back to the Green, green, green, Day on the Green. Where was I? Sitting in a coach, jiggling like a busting 3-year-old boy holding his little footy frank with a bladder full to bursting, without a footy frank to at least HOLD. God help me. I forced my way off the bus, squelched through the ponchos and the mud, and danced a jig to no music in a portaloo line in a field before suggesting that all the men in front of me PEE IN A BUSH. I mean, what good is a hose if you’re not willing to use it?

Can you pick the surgeon, the editor, the lawyer and the accountant from this lineup?

Eventually, decompressed, drenched, and having lost my friends, I floated round the field without a care in the world because I was in a FIELD of WINE with NO CHILDREN and an EMPTY BLADDER. Plus I’d napped on the bus. Happy, happy day.

Where were my friends? The accountant, with a finely-honed ability to save and invest wealth, had stored all her credit cards and cash loosely in the bottom of a shopping bag, and was set. The lawyer pulled on her sunglasses, in order to see her way through the driving rain. Not so much for the cool, more for the prescription lenses. The surgeon with her drenched arms poking from her poncho was helpfully laden with bottles of wine, all the better to warm us with.

We were reunited. It was the 90s again. Hot tub time machine – I told you.

Damp in body but not in spirit.

Damp in body but not in spirit.

One of us tried her very first spliff (I can’t tell you who in case it’s later used against her in a Court of Surgery) and was hugely disappointed when I told her she’d just asked for a puff of someone’s rollie.

We traipsed through the mud numerous times to the wine cattle shed (so-named because we were herded in to metal gates to collect our wares like moo cows.) There was a 1-bottle per person purchase limit, and a complete bar shutdown of 7:30pm, so stocking up was serious business. It’s possible the editor said ‘moo’ to security as she walked by and was directed to her gate. Possible, but not confirmed. Moooooooooooo.

Targets acquired. Mission complete. Bar is OPEN.

Targets acquired. Mission complete. Bar is OPEN.

One of us took a shining to a small child (perhaps the one without children??) and forgot  ‘child’ was not in a zoo or behind glass as she pointed and made faces and commented on ‘child’s’ cuteness. Eventually ‘child’ came out from hiding behind ‘mother’ to make cute faces back at the scary lady who kept pointing at her and smiling. Do you hear what I hear? Yes, it’s the sound of ovaries, whispering in the night…

One of us took a poncho for a walk on the sole of her gumboot, attracting stares. She felt confused, knowing her fly could not be undone when wearing a raincoat. Some Irish guys finally pointed out her hitch-hiker. Oooooh Irish accents – keep them talking. ‘Yes, I know it’s there. It’s deliberate. He’s my friend Bob. Bob Evans. I take him everywhere.’ Well played, Editor. Well played. You did not just make your embarrassment a drillion (to quote my daughter… a very large number) times worse.

The Bernard

The Bernard

We ran out of white wine so poured red on the top and made rose. We were getting cold in the rain so poured wine on each other to warm up. The accountant safely stored her sunglasses in a garbage bag, so we could later carefully throw them away in a garbage bin. We ate blueberries at midnight on the bus, dreaming of hamburgers. And when we emerged in Federation Square, bleary eyed and hoarse from telling Bernard Fanning we loved him, you know exactly where we went, don’t you?

It was not the Golden Arches. It was the other one. Hot pickles at midnight have never tasted so good.

Emo alert: stop reading now if it will hurt your eyes. I compare these friendships, sustained since high school, to my burger that night. Don’t be mistaken – they’re far from cheap. It’s often in fact an odyssey to find that elusive burger when you need it most. I didn’t find these girls until my last years at school, and now they live all over the country and NEVER ANSWER THEIR PHONES. But they are a constant presence, and in my mid-30s I’m learning how precious they are as life gets hard.

They’re the midnight, belly-filling, sleep-inducing comfort that I know is not out of my reach, even if it’s in France being all fancy calling itself a ‘McRoyal avec fromage’. I love you mental guys. And HOLY HELL do I love a burger. Mmmmmm burgers.

Bridesmaids Revisited

A Surgeon, a Lawyer, an Accountant and an Editor walk into a bar. The Editor slips over. Not the beginning of a joke, but the story of my weekend just past. No, seriously. (Cut me some slack. It was raining and the ground was slippery.) We remade the movie Bridesmaids, without a bride. We re-enacted Hot Tub Time Machine, without a hot tub. We flew from Brisbane, Melbourne, Canberra and Sydney (oh, wait. The Melbourne one just walked from her office) to reconnect, relax, escape motherhood and remember who we were in high-school, before adulthood brought us our responsibles and other licorice allsorts of shit.

This is what it was all about. Reconnocting.  With arms, not phones...Nokia or otherwise.

This is what it was all about. Reconnocting. With arms, not phones…Nokia or otherwise.

Friday. Champagne. Real stuff. Pimms cocktails up a lift in a strange bar where people were dressed for tennis, on cast iron chairs on astroturf, outside in 12 degrees…. an interesting combination of choices… But Pimms! Yes to Pimms! Amazing dinner at Anada in Smith St, with Spanish Cava, wine, oysters, jamon, and 10,000 other degustation courses (approximately). I got my freekeh on, not on the dance floor, but in my mouth. Yum. Same same as quinoa but different. More wine was drunk. Eyelids were closed at the table.They may have been the eyelids of the Editor. C’mon guys, cut me some more slack. 11:30 on a Friday night for a full-time working mamata is LATE. My time machine had stalled.

Mess Hall for breakfast Saturday morning is a misnomer. It’s not in a hall, nor is it messy. It is practically perfect in every way. The coffee is the best I’ve had this year, and it’s NOVEMBER. Bourke St. Go to there. Eat all the bacon.

Not messy, or in a hall.

Not messy, or in a hall.

Shopping. Like a woman released from a 15-year gaol term, I was on a mission. A kamikaze smash and grab shopping mission (complete with polite pleases and thank yous, exchanges of funds, and no actual violence.) So, not really actually very smashy or grabby, then, but MISSION nonetheless. We walked past an op-shop. I allowed 10 minutes on the clock. GO. The Surgeon emerged, triumphant. I, too, emerged victorious, $13 down.

Thirteen big ones baby. Winner winner, wine for dinner.

Thirteen big little ones baby. Winner winner, wine for dinner.

The Accountant, a shopping knight, plunged on like a true warrior in Zara after facing earlier defeat. She won Excalibur; not one, but TWO pairs of jeans. And tops and shirts and SO MUCH STUFF. Bags and bags later we kneeled down before her to worship. I had but a paltry pair of (resin and laneway-found) earrings to console me in my darkest, shopping-bagless nights. They will do though. I love them with passion and fervour.

These'll do, pig. And the 50% off Oroton sale this week is also quite consoling.

These’ll do, pig. And the 50% off Oroton sale this week is also quite consoling.

Then, there was napping. PLEASE NOTE: this was not, I repeat NOT a nanna nap. This was beauty sleep. Bernard Fanning needed to see us in optimal condition.

Do you know how far it is to the Yarra from Melbourne? Me neither, but it’s further than a bladder-ride away. Distances are not in kms, miles, or furlongs these days. They come in units of bladders. The Editor was looking for a plastic bag with no holes to contemplate peeing in (best to assume the 3rd person at this point, dont you think?) when the bus decided to arrive at the green, green, very very green Day on the Green, being made extra green by the torrential rain pouring down.

This is kind of long. Lots of words.

You probably want to make a cup of tea or go to sleep or something. How about I do you a kindness and draw this out into TWO LONG SAGA-LENGTH INSTALMENTS? You can perch with bated breath on the edge of your picnic rug to find out what happens in Part 2 of Bridesmaids – Revisited, coming next week to a Face First webpage near you.

I warn you – things may go downhill in Part 2. Rain and wine and mud and stuff.

Nighty night pumpkins!



A few of my favourite things.

A few of my favourite things are made from glass and are full of liquid. Here’s a photo.


You thought I was going to show you my wine collection, didn’t you?
I love Little L’s diabetes equipment. I love her glass vials full of insulin. The magical juice that keeps her alive. I love her pump. Her blood glucose meter. Her pump inserter with its long sharp needle that makes her cry. Her canula that delivers the insulin to her body 24 hours per day. Her jellybeans.

I love these items that are solid and constant. We can wrap them like a bandage around this disease that shifts like sand beneath our feet, ever changing and keeping us wired and alert. We live in type 1 diabetes-land, where blood glucose numbers, emotions, insulin-dose requirements and health all change daily, or even hourly, or be interspersed by months of relative stability. Amidst the uncertainty, these items of ‘kit’ are my rock. They don’t change. When we have no idea what’s going on and she’s inexplicably climbing higher and higher, we replace everything, with fresh insulin, new canula, fresh line, different insertion site, check her blood sugar levels, and gain a tide-mark to measure how high the flood has risen. My favourite things bring us back our control.


In the night, her equipment is my sleep salve. The ever-present threat of not waking up, for every person with type 1 diabetes, is the alarm that propels me out of bed at 3am to check her borderline low numbers. She’s not unique. She doesn’t have a ‘bad’ type of diabetes. Every person with the condition lives with this threat, and those you know with diabetes that don’t appear to treat themselves, or carb count, or inject or bolus, are either very discreet or not taking care of themselves.  I put on my miner’s head torth, and there is her fingerpricker and that drop of blood, delivering me real numbers in the dark, and with reassurance, I sleep soundly.

Being a small girl living with type 1 diabetes is an emotional ride. After the novelty of being ‘special’ at diagnosis 18 months ago has worn off, it’s just a hassle she can do without. Having very high or low blood sugar levels can make a person emotional. Being a 6-year old girl with feelings she can’t quite articulate, of frustration, confusion, difference, and being ‘over-it’ can make a kid Carrie-style emotional. She maybe can’t put it into words, but she does know how to release the pressure cooker vent through anger, just as we do when we’re tired and stressed after we’ve hit our limit. After a trying day looking after the kids at home, or a day at work being needed by too many different factions, we come home and snap at our loved ones. For a 6-year old? This will look like an impressive tantrum, while in fact there’s a sea of confusion and upset seething beneath the surface.

pump entry

When we’re at sea and I don’t know whether to punish the behaviour, or she’s reacting to a blood sugar level, or upset and expressing it through anger, we swim for the rocks. The equipment is our rock, and our stability. We check her blood sugar number, she calms, and we climb out of the sea to dry off.

Little L’s equipment, our rock, makes her feel safe. It keeps her alive. She can’t survive without insulin. And for this, though I hate it with all my heart, I love her equipment. These bits of kit are my favourite things.

Now. Would you like to see my wine collection? It’s quite extensive. Yoga can only go so far.



Is your glass half full?

If your glass is half full, or even half empty, then hurry up and drink it. Cliches piss me off.

I don’t think anybody can be ‘glass half empty’ or ‘glass half full’, or either positive or negative in their outlook all the time. Some days my cup overfloweth with sparkling wine that magically refills when I turn my head to make tinkly musical conversation in the sunshine. (I’d have said French champagne, but come on. Reeality, Puhleeease.) Other days I don’t even have a glass. I have a stupid plastic cup with a split in it. It leaks watered-down orange cordial up my arm. I’m not all of one or another. I’m a grey area.

Nerdy pedants. Possibly even worst than those who live and die by the cliche.

Nerdy pedants. Possibly even worse than those who live and die by the cliche.

With the grey area, though, comes so much exhausting thought, analysis, should I or shouldn’t I, what should I wear, will they mind if I say no, what’s the appropriate thing in this situation, I hope they’re ok, god I have a lot of pimples on my back, where is my goddamn wine, my feet really hurt I wish I could just wear flats, that sometimes I wish I was more like THAT MAN.

That Man is an All-Or-Nothing man. Than man has a full glass. Or he has an empty glass. If the glass is full, he drinks it. Then it’s empty. Then it’s full again. It’s an approach I think I should try. In fact, I think I am sort of trying it, inadvertently. Lately, I’m just living. Not thinking too hard. Working very hard (out 11 hours a day), home to the kids, being a mum hard, then relaxing hard (for half an hour). Then sleeping hard. Weekends are full of the girls, working on the garden, being with my family. Sleeping. Not blogging, as I’m just not sure when to do it. My girls are like saplings, turning into little trees so quickly I don’t feel I can look away for a second at the moment or I’ll miss something.

Yeh, OK. I'll accept this is officially full. But shots of MILK? Get. It. Gone.

Yeh, OK. I’ll accept this is officially full. But shots of MILK? Get. It. Gone.

I like That Man’s approach, in many ways. If my glass veers towards empty, or yours or someone else’s definition of ‘empty’, fill it up, bitch. (Sorry. Breaking Bad. Seeping into my vernacular.) If you’re jumping out of a plane, I see how it’s useful. Suspend all thought, throw your body out of the plane, then toss your brain out after it. Oh yeah. Pull the parachute too. If he’s exercising, he’s doing it 4-5 times per week, eating no carbs, and dropping weight like, well… like a pregnant woman becoming un-pregnant. But when he’s not exercising? He’s not all ‘errr, no. I won’t have chips, I haven’t exercised this week. I’ll skip dessert. I’ve only been to the gym once.’ He’s just not doing it. At all. But he’s eating, and enjoying it, and not thinking about it. Then he’ll get back to it again. And he’s happy. It’s not very healthy, but he’s not torn up about it either.

Better. Much better. This is almost full enough.

Better. Much better. This is almost full enough.

I think All-Or-Nothing types are subconsciously living a bit Matrix-style, inside the program, as Mumabulous was discussing the other day in her awesomely mind-bending post. I love the idea that we’re living inside a place that has no real consequence, though I don’t believe it. The All-Or-Nothing kids seem to have this sort of mentality, that the consequences aren’t there. Flying by the seat of their pants, so to speak. It would be a whole lot easier to say no, living in this world, and do what works for you. Perhaps the opportunity for personal happiness and contentment would even be greater. Woah. I’m getting a bit philosophical now for a (what day is it?) morning.

But now. The drawbacks. It’s not all fun and games in All-Or-Nothing land. Saturday night That Man went to see a show in Asquith, about 6 stops up the train line (to the north). At 2:30 Sunday morning, a text came through: ‘ah duck. Penriff. Sere u when I getting there’. Instead of having a snooze on the way home, between stops, he went to sleep All-Or-Nothing style. Like there was no tomorrow, and he was tucked up in his bed. And caught a train almost to the Blue Mountains (due west), about 1.5 hours away. Poor petal.

I see dragons...

I see dragons…

I will dip my toe into All-Or-Nothing land, but I don’t think it’s for me. Consequences. They suck. And sometimes half a glass is elegant sufficiency.


A letter to me. Before kids. With Warnings.



Dear Me,*

Dude! Please, do not ever let me hear you say you’re bored again. Future you will put ‘bored’ in the category of ‘good day’ words. Read more books, quickly. See movies. Also see the future movies that haven’t yet been made, since future you won’t have time to see them. Then you’ll at least be able to smile and nod when someone quotes a seminal movie line like ‘I love lamp’.* (Apologies to us. We’re not going to grow up and become highbrow.) Also, know when to stop quoting your favourite movie lines. Not too many people have actually seen ‘Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead’ and won’t know what you’re talking about when you say ‘I’m right on top of that Rose’. You’ll get tired of explaining who Rose is, and that no, you don’t think their name is Rose.

Stop standing up when you eat. What are you, a horse? You’ll be doing it for a living later (yes, yes, you’re not infertile and will breed two lovely girls. You’ll be eating breakfast and lunch in the kitchen while said lovely girls pull on your clothes for laughs. I’m pretty sure that’s why they do it). So SIT. DOWN.

Travel. I know you are now, and you will have the chance again, but try some slightly harder places. Climb to Machu Picchu, see the Moai statues in Easter Island, ski in Japan, and go smoke something in Marrakech. There is so much to see and such rich and amazing culture to experience. One day you’ll be trying to learn about it all through SBS and it’s not enough. Mainly because you keep falling asleep on the couch at 9 pm before they reach the top of the mountain (so much expectation… so little resolution), and your educational viewing keeps being interrupted by IMPORTANT shows like Embarrassing Bodies. Yes. It really is a thing. People that have been too embarrassed to visit their doctor about their leaking stinking hairy pus-filled head/toe/bum go and strip down on national TV while a cameraman (or WOMAN – must be PC in 2013) zooms in for a high res closeup of the leaking piece of anatomy. Then everyone feels much better about themselves apparently. Must. Keep. Watching.

Don’t worry so much about your peer group. This will sound bad, but, umm… why don’t you try on a few more hats? You will be wearing the hat you marry for a long time. That long term thing you do? It seems really dramatic and all when you’re a teenager, but just no. Stop! Immediately!

A few more words of advice from future me to you, in brief: don’t think so hard, don’t work so hard, definitely play too hard, exercise a lot (and your body will and does thank you later), and smile whenever you can, knowing you have two beautiful girls coming along to change your life forever.

Also – in March 2013 you will have a cold. Try and take some echinacea in February 2012. Ok? Thanks. Mwah.


*In case it’s driving you crazy, this is from Anchorman.
*If this letter looks familiar, that’s because it probably is. A version of it appeared as my ‘Featured Flogger’ post on Grace’s Flog Yo Blog Friday page a while back. What can I say? I’m time poor and my advice to myself is unchanged.

Wardrobe tricks of the lost and the damned

It’s wardrobe unravelling time! It’s also… FIRST BLOG BIRTHDAY TIME! Somehow the anniversary of this blog came and went with a whimper sometime in mid-September, that I failed to notice while I was tangled in the timetabling of my life. I’m limping in to this anniversary with a sad 95 posts, instead of a victoriously round-numbered 100. How appropriate. WOOOOO!! RAAAAAA! ONE YEAR OF BLOGGING. Shit has happened. Shit then didn’t happen. Then shit happened again. Then we got to here.

So ok then, let’s move on to discuss wardrobe tricks for my fellow brethren (What are girl brethren? Sisren?) who need to occasionally look presentable. Do you, like me, need to look like you’ve got it together; like you have a brain; like you haven’t screamed ‘WHYYYYYYYYYYY?’ in frustration at your children before diving head-first into a vat of wine only mere hours earlier?

If you ever go out for dinner with ‘those people’ who ACTUALLY have it sorted (i.e. are childless) or go to an office semi-regularly, or just feel like you’ve TOTALLY LOST YOUR SHIT but want to pretend you haven’t at school dropoff, then I can help. 

My # 1 rule? If you feel like crap, increase the appearance level of awesome.

Some of it even seeps in occasionally, particularly if you nab a compliment. So. The tips.

  1. In an office, avoid white. Coffee can smell white, and is drawn to it like a magnet. It will leap exuberantly from yours or anyone else’s coffee cup and dribble on you, making you look like a drinking-incompetent child. Just don’t.
  2. Make like Angelina. Black, black, black. If you’re at work, who needs to look fun? Tell it how it is. BLACK. Misery darlings. Shock them occasionally with an acqua resin bracelet or a brightly-coloured jacket. I have a favourite one from Zara – $100 in a fuschia-apricot-pinky sort of colour. I’m so down with fashion. I’d show you a picture but Zara isn’t online. They’re SO BEHIND. GET ONLINE ZARA. HURRY UP. I NEED YOU.
  3. Perfume. Smell nice. If you step in anything or the kids rub yoghurt on you or you forget deodorant, you have a STRONG COMPETITOR against the forces of evil.
  4. Makeup. It’s your mask. Don’t get told you look tired because you’ve been up all night with vomiting kids. That’s YOUR STORY TO TELL dammit. Shock them with your story. Don’t wear it on your face.
  5. 50 pairs of stockings. Because face it. That still won’t be enough.
  6. Shop online. Who gets time to shop? Does someone have kids who let them out? Does someone have a husband that’s not a Superhero (i.e. Mr Invisible)? Cotton ON for underwear. Witchery on big sale. Country Rd. Portmans on big sale; Zara in a quick lunch break dash… and I can almost stop panicking each morning before work. And my feet? Are encased in box-sized Hush Puppies. Shhhh. I’m old now. I’ve earned the right to wear the puppies.
  7. Wear cardigans, not jackets. Jackets attract small fingers coated in peanut butter like bears to a honey pot. Dry cleaners? Who has the time? Cardigans in all the colours of the rainbow (not at the same time) FTW.
  8. Scarves? This will be controversial, but I say no. Scarves in winter, yes, but in summer they are just ageing fluff. Necks are pretty. Necklaces are pretty. Wear your necks. Unless you’re a man, and then avoid necklaces at all costs. Probably still avoid scarves too, to be safe.
  9. Somebody pour me a gin and make me stop being a lecturey lectureson. I have NO IDEA what I’m talking about. I look like a pot-ful of vegetable soup some days, with random bits of clothing thrown at me, and different coloured makeups launched at my face. This is just me, and what I do when I’m pretending and I get it to work occasionally. Listen, don’t listen. Just make sure you pour the gin.
  10. After all that lecturing, here is an important video about HILARIOUS. Because it’s my blogiversary and I want you to laugh.

You know J Lo’s song ‘On the Floor’ which is loosely derived from the ‘Lambada’? It turns out the Lambada is actually derived from THIS. Llorando se Fue. Don’t show your children. They’ll get strange ideas about gender stereotyping. This clip has everything. Passionate pan flute. A man with a woman’s voice. A sparkly blue hat. Plaits to the waist. Gold boots by the dozen. Watch for 4 minutes of your life you’ll never get back. You won’t regret it.

Thanks for coming on the ride with me this year.


Pirates. Life. Stuff. Arrrrrr

I was going to write a post today about LIFE being all LIFEY and getting in the way of STUFF I need to DO, but then something more important came up. More importantly, my draft lifey post somehow deleted itself. The universe was trying to tell me to shut up. So here I am, shutting up very succcessfully. Listening is one of my strengths.

What do we really need to talk about today? PIRATES. Specifically the glorification of pirates.

Today is International Talk Like a Pirate Day. What’s it all about? And why are we glorifying pirates? PIRATES RUIN LIVES, people. PIRATES ARE THIEVES. PIRATES ARE VIOLENT and FIGHT and DRUNKS and stuff. BAD. Bad people. JUST KIDDING!!! Aye, I’m joking. Yo, hoes. Ho, ho, or something. Sorry. I need some pirate lingo practice. And a bottle of rum.

Today is about the ridiculous, the pointless, and fun, and for those reasons alone, I embrace Pirate Day wholeheartedly. Meaninglessness and randomness are IMPORTANT.

In a week where I’ve been shocked by the realisation I am doing things that are not ME, I’m clutching at pieces of random wherever I find them. The things this ‘ME’ has been doing, in vomit-worthy order from top to bottom, are:

  • 1. Ironing school shirts that are CLEAN (i.e. not just to freshen up dirty ones)
  • 2. Wearing stockings, without ladders, and with no nail polish on holes
  • 3. Making sandwiches for MYSELF as well as for the kid
  • 4. Going to bed at 9 pm

I need an intervention. Stat. Send help. Or booze.

Other pieces of random I’ve been clutching at, to prove I haven’t been sunk into a mire of corporate city sludge, are my purple nails, and my ‘spy’ pen: a birthday gift laden with Swarovski crystals, with a hidden USB inside. It’s not much, I know, but it’s all I’ve got, me hearties.

Face it. I’m a corporate cog. It’s quite soothing being machinery, rather than raging against it. In any case, I’m on a train, and fighting a train would look a bit stupid. I’ll take on the occasional blowdryer, but I know when I’m out of my depth.

So. Today, corporate ironing sandwich making stocking wearing water-drinking sleeping cog that I am, I embrace the random, the unexpected, the silly, and the opportunity to insert gratuitous pictures of Johnny the Pirate Depp.



Yo, hoes. Give that Kim a bottle of rum.

Yo, hoes. Give that Kim a bottle of rum.

Lounging on the Poopdeck today with the Landlubbin’ Sarah the Succubous, at SlapdashMama.

The Great Escape

My title is a little cheeky given my home is nothing like a German POW camp, and I’m definitely not Steve McQueen. The fact remains though that living in my house is often like being in a camp (just ask about the food!), my kids behave like prisoners, and we do go to war. That escape is needed is a given. There’s even a motorbike in the carport to speed me on my passage, if I had a clue how to ride a 1000cc piece of metal.

You can see the resemblance, right?

You can see the resemblance, right?

Not so long ago, I did it. Flew the coop, jumped the razor fence, hit the road and got the hell out of dodge. I flew to Brisvegas for the inaugural Convention of the Loungers. In attendance were Rachel the Very Inappropriate Blogess the I, Sarah from Slapdashery (this is something for all of you young folk to aspire to, if, like me, you’ve stepped back in time to watch the hogwashy-twaddle of Mr Selfridge on TV);  and yours truly, Falling all the way north on my Face.

How do you escape? Do you stare down the barrel of a wine bottle, strap on your goggles, and giggle at the idiocy of everyone around you? (It’s not YOU, it’s THEM). Do you lie prone in the grass making cloud shapes into rabbits or hot-torsoed men? Or do you actually get moving, and exercise for escape, or run away to freedom like me, exercising your non-Constitutional right to bear trashy reading material in an airport Lounge?

This is The Lounge. So I’ll tell you the tale of the Lounge Convention. It was … conventional? Let’s stick with ‘Loungey’. And I’ll only recount the tale in part, because we all know the rule. What goes on tour, means I’d have to kill you if you stand next to me while I snore and talk in my sleep.

Worshipping at the altar of Kamahl.

Worshipping at the altar of Kamahl.

What is more conventional is my approach to hotels. Every hotel has its quirks. Every Kim has her quirks. They must be dealt with methodically. The steps (for hotels) are as follows. I’ll leave the management of Kims up to you.

Step 1: Look in all the rooms

Step 2: Look in all the cupboards. Look in the fridge

Step 3: Deposit my vastly superior tea (yes TEA SNOB I AM) near the kettle, stashed in snaplock bags from home. Don’t judge. You’ll be wanting some and I won’t share if you’re mean.

Step 4: Read ‘The Book’. No not the bible. They’re all the same. The hotel one. What if, one day, I stumble into a freakish hotel that has a happy hour or free drinks and I MISS OUT because I didn’t READ THE BOOK?

Step 5: Choose my imaginary dinner from the room service menu

Step 6: Scoff at the mini-bar prices. As if you’d pay THAT much for a Mars Bar.

Step 6: Open mini-bar again and gaze wistfully at the little bottles. Picture myself glugging them with gay abandon on beds like they do in movies. Drink some wine.

Step 7: Drink more wine. Paint toenails. Spill nailpolish. Scream

Step 8: Lie on bed like a starfish. Jump on bed like a starfish.

Step 9: More wine. Buy Mars Bar from minibar. Vow to replace it from 7-11. Forget.

What? Anally-retentive control freak? Pah. I spit on your laissez-faire attitude to dropping your bags and going out for dinner. You could be missing out on a cornered toilet roll.

In any case, Rachel and Sarah soon arrived to relieve me from my relentless pursuit of being me, and we were OFF and running.


Hipsters? Oh yes, Brisbane has hipsters. Let us take you on a magical mystery tour…

Hipsters? Oh yes, Brisbane has hipsters. Let us take you on a magical mystery tour…

Girls’ weekends. That’s escape in a nutshell (if a nutshell has beds and a lot of wine inside). It’s possible there was some dinner, a ridiculous amount of hipsters missing from Melbourne, a waitress in a bunker looking like Minnie Mouse who snarled, a dearth of teapots, OPI black polish all over a table, some quilts, a migraine, a few hangovers, a Cooker and a Looker (MWAH Amanda!), a Southbank cider reviver, a tequila (WOW!) a taco (WOW!) and a stupid amount of laughing and FALLING OVER WHILE SOBER. But also, possibly not. Cos, remember, tour rules.

Rachel and Sarah, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. When you first arrived, other than your voices, everything about you felt instantly familiar. You don’t judge. You listen. We understand each others’ brains. Your hearts are enormous. You are both true, wonderful friends. That’s what blogging is for. Friendship, escape.