Mama guilt – a dog called Bob

In case you missed the blahblah memo, I’ve started working full time, and with the change in routine I’ve developed a healthy dose of working-mother guilt. Before I was a mum full time, a wife full time, a freelance worker (so, somewhere between ‘every waking minute’ and ‘not at all’); and yet somehow I felt like half of nothing. Now I feel fulfilled, there is guilt for dessert. Almost like a woman with kids isn’t a proper mother unless she puts part of herself away and leaves it there until her kids give their blessing for her to go and retrieve it, many years later when it may no longer be there. I’m not saying this is how it is, just how I feel.

Where does our identity come from in our 30s when so much of our 20s is centred around a working persona? I’ve been wrangling with this for some time now, in my search for work satisfaction – be it part-time or freelance. The right job came along, but with it full time hours. I talked it over with the girls who are excited to go to before and after school care (so far…). It will mean a lot to me, personally, to have a separate identity outside the home again.

Even freelancing, my work in the home office was always without clear boundaries, with loads of washing here, pickups there, and hours that extended late into the night at my computer. My thoughts on working identity are a post for another day. Right now? This little worker bee is loaded up with guilt about how much I love being back at work in an office.

Sitting at my desk at 9 each morning feels so natural for me, it’s like I stepped back in time 10 years and misplaced a couple of kids along the way.

Working mother guilt. My new buddy, like a pet dog that lives in my handbag. We’ll call him Bob. Bob catches the train with me every day. He barked like an annoying MOFO when I missed the first infants’ sports carnival on Day 3. He made me buy lots of charity pens and daffodils on Daffodil Day, in case each seller at 200 m intervals in the city thought I hadn’t bought anything, since I purchased from the first schoolgirls I saw off the train that morning. (Does anyone else’s brain work this way?!)

Bob tells me going to the gym would be a selfish indulgence now I’m gone so much. Bob is probably letting my littlest get away with a bit more bad behaviour than usual, and a bit more clingy ‘mummy’ behaviour too, because, transition. Change. I did it to her. Stupid dog. Bob even tells me to eat Tim Tams in the office far too often, and I’m sure he’s the evil little bugger who arranged for my skin to breakout. That dog has powers. Powers to the nth arsehole degree.


My stupid mummy-guilt dog Bob. Ugly little shit.

My stupid mummy-guilt dog Bob. Ugly little shit.

I’d euthanase the dog, but I don’t need to. I just feed him a lovely barista-made coffee, a toilet break with a closed door and nobody yelling, and a healthy dose of work respect, and POOF! He’s gone. His stupid fluffy little head tucks back into the recesses of my handbag.

That’s right, people. I said RESPECT. That’s what’s been missing, and what I’ve found back at work. The jury’s still out, but it *may* be even more important than money.

Among the other perks, aside from a choice of coffee, respect, lunch breaks, shops, RESPECT and the knowledge that my brain won’t atrophy, is the train. My spoilt 20s-self thought the train was a hardship to be endured. Now it’s an uninterrupted 40 mins of quiet time, just for me, twice a day, when I couldn’t be doing washing or sweating it out in a Pump class even if I wanted to. Take THAT, Bob.

I’m excited about this new bend in the lane. Bob is a fluffy dog, small and manageable. I’ll turn him into a football at some point, when I’m ready to let him go.

Do you carry around a mother-guilt dog in your handbag? What do you feed him to shut him up? 

I’m ALIVE! Like Frankenstein

Like Frankenstein, I also have those plugs on my neck, but instead of screws they’re more like stress pimples. I have all the hotness.

I’m now a working girl, like Dolly Parton, back 9-5, making a living, but without the double-G rack. The boob part is an important detail too, because my balance in heels isn’t what it once was, and the balance-shifting qualities of Dolly’s chest would have me nose-to-pavement in a flash. I’m about to start moaning about Mondays, hooting about humpdays, and thank effing it’s Fridays like the rest of the train-commuting chain-gang.

Combine this guy...

Combine this guy…

With this girl... (Minus the rack), you get ME!

With this girl… (Minus the rack), you get ME!

I’ll tell you something else. It’s a secret, because it’s comes with a DELICIOUS dollop of guilt: I’m excited. I love working, and I already love this job. I miss my girls, and they miss me, but I’m there every night by baths and dinner. We’re hugging each other harder, too.

Do you remember why you started your blog? I remember.

I had a lull in my freelance work around September last year, and I was going crazy without work to pour my brain into. I needed an outlet to write, without locking myself into a room, away from my family, to attempt a book. Blogging seemed more social and bite-sized. Before I started, I’d never read a blog. I had no idea about the supportive and welcoming community, or the friendships to be made.

This blog sprog is not really a baby anymore, and I’ve had to think about his daycare now I’ve got such working time commitments, and time away from the girls. Before this job happened I’d thought about stopping, mainly because of guilt around commenting. I love to read blogs, but writing comments takes time, as you’d know if you’ve been doing this a while. I want to get back to commenting for the bursting need to say something about a post, rather than a feeling it’s a commitment that I just can’t manage. I won’t ever, ever leave a comment that says ‘Nice post. Good one’. So it takes time. It stopped me from writing, for a bit, because I knew I had no time in the following days for follow-up.

BUT I CAN’T STOP. I’LL BURST. If my first few days of public transport are any indication, I would also punch a commuter. Blogging is kind of my yoga. When I can’t get to yoga.

I still read, but it’s on a train, when people are bumping me (HUMANITY! ugh) and my iPhone eats my comments before they’re sent. I still want to write. But I don’t want anyone to feel they HAVE to leave a comment. Comment, don’t comment. (Though in the timeless words of Justine Clarke – I love it, I love it, I really really do.) Read, don’t read. I’ll just keep doing it because I have to write, and because I’ve met such wonderful people.

I’m going to write in the hope that I may not be struck by lightning and burned to ashes for being a blogging sinner, reminding myself that this IS a hobby. I’m fairly certain people who knit don’t throw their hands up and fling their scarves out the window because they’ve dropped one too many stitches and can’t handle the guilt or their inadequacy as a knitter. (Or maybe they do? I wouldn’t know. My scarves all come from online, in nice little online packages all tied up with metaphorical string.)

I’ll keep feeding the blog sprog when I can. I look forward to popping in to yours for a cuppa (or a wine) when our schedules next align.


The first one… a year on.

In just a couple of weeks (I think?) this little blog will blow out a candle. So, I’m putting on my big girl pants (no, not nanna undies … DON’T get them confused, people), and linking up my very first post with Robomum in the Lounge to have a little peek at how far (or not) I’ve come.

It’s short. It makes me wince a little. What the hell. Here it is.


My Happy Place
So, I joined a gym.

Exercise used to be to lose weight, to look good in a bikini (yep, ok, naked) and to not feel completely crap when turning up at the beach or, worse, flicking through a glossy mag featuring models in bikinis, WHILE at the beach, wearing a bikini. But now?

Now I just want a quiet place. A place where nobody pulls on me and asks for food, a place where nobody hits anybody (without gloves on), and, blissssssssss, a place where I can ride a bike to nowhere and read a trashy magazine about nothing while someone else looks after my kids for the princely sum of $2. If you need motivation to exercise, people, have children!

The other day I was feeling particularly grumpy about my domestic ungoddessness (it’s my blog and I’ll make up words if I want to DAMMIT) and I needed to get out of the house desperately. Where to go? Where to go?

YOGA. Perfect. Ten minutes of screaming at the girls to get shoes on, eat breakfast, stop dancing on the toilet, and we were in the car driving at breakneck speed towards RELAXATION.

I barrelled through the door without a second to spare, lay down and took my ten long breaths in, and out, in, and out.

I fell asleep. And it was good.


This is not me not doing yoga.

The problem with Disney princesses

This is not a post about feminist objections to oversized eyes and waving cascades of hair brainwashing our youngsters into idolising pink and pretty over Tonka and Tuff. Nope.

Sure, that’s there, and I don’t say it’s not. It’s just that Offspring is on TV in a little while, and someone important is going to die, and DEATH is quite important, you know. It deserves some respect. So I intend to spectate, and, you know, respect the dead with my glass of ‘ahhhhhhh kids are finally asleep and not hobbiting on my desk’ wine. My rabbit died today too, so I feel an affinity with Nina. I want to virtually hold her hand, since pet rabbits and pretend TV characters are probably about the same in metaphysical-mourning land.

This is a fairly serious digression from the Princesses of Disney. My objections, however, are quite straightforward, and from this point onwards I will STICK TO THE POINT.

My first bone of contention is with Snow White. Sure, she’s supposed to be a 14-year old girl, white as snow, and the fairest of them all, yada yada, but she has no less than seven little men doing her bidding. Granted, their brief is to ‘protect’ her, which almost classifies as a posse of bodyguards, but this is the pre-Britney era, dear folk of the forest. Snow White wears undies ALL the time, and her posse don’t need to be on this kind of detail. I suspect, in fact, she has what is known as *I shall whisper now* a harem. GASP! I know. Besides, those Sleepy and Dopey dwarves wouldn’t be providing much protection from anything, if you ask me. Snow, just because you reverse it, and make your harem all male, doesn’t make it politically correct. It doesn’t make it OK. You’re taking the sisterhood BACKWARDS, girl. Just stop.

Ariel, the dear little Mermaid. One of my favourite movies. How could I find fault with you? It’s not your fault honey, and I shouldn’t hold it against you. But you are, in fact, A FISH. A fish, who wants to marry A MAN. Ok. I’ll suspend my disbelief for a little while, cos the singing is pretty, and we all want to live ‘under de sea’ cos everything’s better, down where it’s wetter, BUT then. Then, you lose your voice, and the hot dude from the castle STILL wants to marry you, even though you’re a fish with no voice. Do we not question his motives, even a little bit? Is this man REALLY good enough for our Ariel? I’m a bit worried about your future sweet one. I hope someone’s got your back. Just in case your hair falls out, or something.


Outside water, Disney mermaids develop a disturbing case of alopecia, and their tails tend to drop off. Eat your heart out, princes.

Outside water, Disney mermaids develop a disturbing case of alopecia, and their tails tend to drop off. Eat your heart out, princes.

Then there’s Belle. Belle had me impressed in the beginning, running off to the library to read ALL THE BOOKS. Then she impressed me further flicking off the advances of Gaston, recognising his conceit and arrogance while all the other butterfly-heads were fawning over his flexed biceps. But then? She fell for an ACTUAL beast. Not just a man with hair. A man who is moderately-to-extremely hirsuit. Someone who pays more to their waxer per month than you pay to yours per year…. but an actual, real, animal variety BEAST.  He is of a different species. So what if it came about by witchcraft and she saw something in his eyes. I’ll say it once more, because this is important.He is of a different species. That shit is ILLEGAL.

Obviously there are issues with the others too (whatever they’re called – Tiana, who kisses, then MARRIES, an actual frog; Cinderallas who live in broom cupboards etc), but, as I mentioned before, Offspring, and the DYING. I have to hold Nina’s virtual hand and do weeping.

The modern princesses are improving and getting stronger and less whelpish, but still Ms Tangled (Rapunzel) has iss-ews. Sure she can wield a frying pan and belt the crap out of a man who looks sideways at her, but she still has hangups. Mother ones, mostly, but whatever. I’m not a princess analyst. I’ll tell you what though. These Disney ones? They’re distinctly STRANGE.

Role models? They are not.

They do make a nice soundtrack now and then, though. I quite fancy listening to one, to soothe my jangled nerves, after the death of Nina’s beloved and my Peter rabbit.


I can make people

Adulthood doesn’t present many opportunities for achievement. I’m not too sure what it means anymore. It was a simple concept in childhood, defined by good marks and smiling teachers. By uni, it simply meant finishing the bloody degrees. These days I wear so many hats, as worker, mother, friend, sister, daughter, and wife, that it’s more likely I’ll feel able to tell you about my ONE BEST FAIL rather than my biggest achievement.

But then I remember, I have an extremely special talent. I can make people. I know nearly all of us can, but in the humdrum and cacophony of daily life I’m quick to forget the miracle of this, my best achievement. It didn’t come easily. Making humans is bloody hard work.

Just two for me, thanks.

Just two for me, thanks.

The first human I made was 6 years ago. I was told to try and make one soonish since I was all endometriosis-y, and had had surgery and a short delightful jaunt through drug-induced menopause. Fun for all! Luck was ours, and the human put herself in my very cranky womb quickly and happily.

After all the usual retching and fainting, and a couple of good migraine months, things became more challenging. Commuting daily became a game of ‘catch the guilty shifting eyes’ as the wheels on the bus went round and round and the preggo lady tried not to fall over. Then the techtonic plates shifted, (or the joints in the back and pelvis anyway) and I effectively fell apart. I saw a physio every week to put me back together, and she gave me a super sexy belly band in ‘nood’ to hold me in one piece and to funk up my outfits all at once.Winning!

I started contracting around 35 weeks – with an ‘irritable uterus’. Medical descriptions are so cool in their suckiness sometimes. I’ll say it was irritable. It was saying ‘Eject! Eject!’ The contractions were painful, pant-worthy and regular, so I stopped sleeping and was put on meds to stop labour.

Luckily I produce ENORMOUS babies, so Little L being born weighing almost 4 kg at 38 weeks was not a moment too soon. I just had no idea I was in labour, since the pain had felt the same for the last 3 weeks nonstop. Do you think I want an epidural? Do you think there’s a reason I’m laughing like a hyena when you ask me that question?

Did you know babies also decide to come while you’re sick with the flu and have a fever and chest infection? I stupidly thought they would just wait until it was a good time. Ten days later I’d cracked a rib from coughing and had my first round of pneumonia (with a couple more to come over the next few years). Good thing I make sturdy babies, hey.

I still find it fairly unbelievable that only nine months later I went back and chucked another human into this very cranky womb. Of course it was very cranky again, and tried much harder to chuck its goodies out. Little A, the fighter that she is, just kicked back of course. A story for another day.

So while I’m not very GOOD at cooking people, the fact that I can and have made two of them, who I’m very, extremely grateful and proud to wrap in my arms each day, is more than enough life achievement for one me.

Flipping appropriateness the bird

I’m upfront. I’m generally pretty upfront about being upfront, too, so if you don’t like that about me you at least get to find it out fairly early on, can pour your drink into the nearest pot plant, and slink off for a refill. It’s not because I court controversial conversations, either. In fact, the opposite is true, and I’m a conflict avoider. If somebody starts talking  politics, my drink is suddenly the one that is quickly in need of a refill. It’s simply that I suck at small talk. The weather is so boring I’d rather just skip it and engage you in proper conversation about STUFF like the relative merits of various taco fillings, and vodka vs a gin martini, as quickly as possible. (The answer is gin. Duh.)

This has good points and bad points. It scares some people, but in the right situation, I can make people laugh by unexpectedly breaking the ice. But how does this play out for me in a work or professional environment? I feel like I’m bound and gagged almost as soon as I pour myself into a suit, and become terrified of the Kimisms leaking out of me like word burps. In high school I was called ‘weird’. Hopefully this has matured into ‘quirky’… but nowadays when I want to comment on the stupidity of people saying ‘disorientated’ instead of ‘disoriented’, or ask how many times it’s acceptable to eat sushi rolls for lunch in a given week before you start to resemble a fish, I need to stop myself. Quickly. The workplace is not the right place. Neither can I break out the jazz hands to emphasise a very exciting point I need to make. Or spin around on my desk chair 50 times if I get really bored.

After only just learning how to behave like an adult, it seems I had children and had to forget how to be one. Once you have kids, your JOB is playing. Playing is not fun. It’s only fun if you tap back in to your inappropriate, sing all the songs, dance like a dufus, immature let-it-all-out self. And then you go back to getting a job, and the let-it-all-out-self has to put it all back in.

Sorry Gnome - nobody will employ you with that attitude.

Sorry Gnome – nobody will employ you with that attitude.

I’m learning though. I’ve had a few interviews now, and I’m no longer just the scared person trying to be all they want me to be. I was so worried about how much of myself to let out, and whether it was too much or too little, I bombed at one. That’s ok. It was pretty much a comedy of errors as soon as I sat down on the squeaky chair and said a spoonerism involving ‘commas’ that also involved the word ‘hunting’. Got it? Picture three people, frozen in silent terror, wondering how I’d recover from that one. I’d have crawled under the desk, but it would have made the chair squeak some more.

Good things are happening now. I realise, also, it’s a two-way street, and that you also need to interview the potential employer. Appropriateness is important, in that you need to look polished and present the best version of yourself, but ultimately, still BE yourself. A job is not going to work if it’s going to be a place where I need to be a bound and gagged version of myself, day after day, most of the year. I’ll explode. So, I’m being myself at interview, and seeing if I feel comfortable in their environment also, since that’s going to really matter to me.

These questions about things like sushi frequency are IMPORTANT. I need an empathic (or empathetic? Hmm now THERE’S a question for the water cooler of nerds) listener who will let me know at exactly which point I will start to form gills and waggle my bum like a tuna. And look out after hours. Appropriate? That’s not my name.

Do you agree that interviewing is a two-way street? Or do you just need to be all they want in the current economic climate – and get the job at all costs? Can you let too much of yourself out at interview? 

The best, the best, the best of me

I’ve got another confession to make. These words aren’t mine. Dave Grohl, Mr Foo Fighter God, you’ve called me out. Someone is getting the best, the best, the best, the best of me. Not in the way he thinks though. His jealousy is unwarranted. Grohly – I’m all yours.

I’m not entirely sure who that someone is yet. This week I’m in disk defrag mode, pulling all the bits apart and putting some bits back into the places where they should probably go… Hmmmm technical computer analogy not really working for this technomoron. In Face First speak, I’m trying to do THINGS, times MANY, and am only just pulling off little bits of little things. Kids, not yelling, sorting before and after school care, trotting off to interviews, and being PROFESSIONAL (ermergherd – wearing heels and smiling at the same time!! Don’t make me. I won’t.)

One of them is not blogging. I have about three draft posts glaring at me, saying ‘Hi! I’m in BITS! Will you please finish something?’ And I go back and yell at them ‘POSTS! Can’t you see I’m doing everything and my disk is being defragmented? Surely that means something to you since you live in a COMPUTER!? I will come back and complete you when the bits are in all the right places! And all the words are not being given to other people! OK?’ And they meekly agree that it sounds reasonable. Posts are good like that.

I won’t be writing my best post today, so I’m offering something from the past I quite liked. It’s long. Apologies. It was about a LONG DAY. (Bit like Stephen King’s The Long Walk). The future? There will be many, many words. Hopefully good ones, with all the bits in the right places.

‘Auspicious’ dates – heralding a load of crap?

The 12th of the 12th of 2012, what have you done for me lately? Apparently you were supposed to be some mystical karmic oooh-ahhh date of significance. All you brought me was a day of shitpoo.

I’m sorry I can’t express it more mature terms. I could try, but it would sound like ‘on this day of December, in the 12th year of the 21st century, I was arraigned with torrents of excrement, metaphorical in origin, which may or may not have been borne of a cosmic nature, heralding impending doom and the end of our time, or in fact may just have been another ordinary day worthy of flushing’. Utter rubbish.

So the Mayans stopped making their calendar. Maybe they just got bored. Seriously, if you just had to keep writing down numbers, over and over, wouldn’t you find something else to do and stop? Just because the calendar on your wall runs out at December 31, 2012, doesn’t mean there won’t BE a New Year’s Day. Of course there will be, full of headaches and regret. You just need to go down to Westfield and buy your 50% off 2013 calendar, as soon as your vision clears. It’s not the Mayans’ fault they didn’t have Westfield.


This was my flushable day. It started with the dentist (again. If you want to see why this is AGAIN – see here). This is something of an ongoing saga for Little L, so some backstory: I hauled little L away from the last dentist who was about to extract the hurting tooth that had recently had baby root-canal, in the chair, telling me ‘every anaesthetic takes your child one step closer to the grave’ like she DIDN’T HAVE EARS. She was so traumatised from his treatment and ‘tap tap – yep I have to pull it out – here 5-year old girl, swallow a tablet goodbye’ I had to carry a sobbing child into this gorgeous children’s dentist last visit, while they gently coaxed her trust back. Too scared to be treated, we had to go back again today, while they did some safeguarding of some early decay on the top and had to put a filling in. Diabetes can TRASH your teeth. Who knew?! Not me.

Anyway, that done gently and nicely, we got on with the day. It went on in the usual as can be sometimes crappy fashion. Mini-fights, complaints, Mexican standoffs, whingeing etc. but then this afternoon playing up the road at a neighbour’s house WE LOST THEM. Little L and her friend took off out the front door which I hate them doing but they’ve done before to be cheeky, not telling us before they took off. I grabbed my bag and went to follow, knowing they are pretty careful when they cross our quiet road, but prepared for my ‘don’t do that!’ rant when we caught them up. We were chatting, saying goodbye while they had gone at 5-year old speed, so by the time we’d arrived in my front door and found nothing, and no answer, then raced back up the road to their place to see if they’d ducked around the back to trick us, hearts were pounding and parents were yelling. We were asking neighbours, yelling in the vacant lot, looking down the easement, and running breathless, of course thinking the worst… There have been reports before of cars trying to lure kids in the neighbourhood.
More frantic yelling, and they emerge, blessedly, sheepishly, from my house where they’ve been hiding in my bedroom. Hilarious. Starting to yell, instead we hug, so very relieved.

Recourse came later, and remorse, but little L’s remorse was extreme, and hysterical, with sobbing and screaming. Emotional outburst? Blood glucose check. Sure enough, she’s quite hypoglycaemic (very low blood sugar), and forgot (again) to mention she was feeling bad. Yay. Diabetes strikes again. Topping off a great day!

Just as she’s slowly climbing back towards the safe zone, above 4 and safe to leave unattended, a holler comes from the bathroom from little A: ‘muuuummmeeeeee the bath’s overflowing! Quick!’

Blessed I am. My cup overfloweth, as does my bath. The river in the bathroom was not too dire, and finally, all is peaceful as I lap my gin. I’m a spectacular human specimen today, and I’m high-fiving my superior and intelligent mothering skills. Not. Which is probably a good thing in light of what follows.

I watched a Stephen Hawking doco the other night suggesting that it would be a super-great idea (he didn’t use those words obviously, he’s a bit smart and sounds like a computer) if we looked for somewhere else to live other than Earth, what with the likelihood of it being smashed to smithereens by an asteroid, or being nuclear irradiated.  As he sensibly pointed out, INTELLIGENCE is not so important to survival, and may in fact be the key to our downfall. Amoeba and microbes have been getting by just fine for millions of years without intelligence, and yet dinosaurs with their tiny brains couldn’t make it through a little sauna time.

I think there’s something in this for all of us. Perhaps we need to get back to our petri-dishes of gin, and soak away our intelligence. Maybe then we’d stand a better chance of survival? I don’t know about you, but I’m not keen on a red-hot life on Mars in a spacesuit, living in a bunker on dehydrated peas. As far as theories go, this is probably not quite SBS-standard, and I suspect Stephen Hawking may poke a couple of holes, but it’s good enough for me after today, and I’m off to soak it away with a tonic or three, splashing in gin.


Is someone getting the best, the best, the best of you? 

Throwing myself on Rachel’s lounge at Theviblog today. You should too. It’s soft and comfy.


Meat. Man meat. Get your Weber here.

My mid-life crisis shake-up has turned into more of a mild vibration of late. I disappoint myself. No trapeze, karaoke, or radio interviews to report this week. Instead? Only some advice for those who, like me, find themselves in their mid-30s and beyond. DO NOT approach this time and think that vegetarianism is a good option. You’re a woman. You need meat. Man meat. Today, for crisis shake up, we’re just going to wobble our eyeballs.

Sorry, it’s the most I can muster after scraping myself back up from the school holiday funk. I’ve had all the yelling, crying, and stomping I could handle for the past fortnight. The girls did their fair share as well. If you’re a man? I apologise. The ensuing objectification of men is despicable and in poor taste. But this is a BBQ today, so, I had to bring a plate. This is all that was in my freezer.

Today we will not eat our vegetables. Did you know the Australian region produces some of the finest cuts of meat in the world? Prime for export, we ship them internationally, yet they boomerang back home, because, well… if the man meat is fine, what do you think our Aussie chicken is like? You and me girls. Top quality. Rub us in marinade and we’ll be even more tender tomorrow. Today we peruse a veritable smorgasbord of sportsmen, beginning with Mark Webber, the Roger Ramjet of Formula 1 racing.

'What? You say there's an extra 'B' in my name? But I'm WEBER. Man of grill. No?'

‘What? You say there’s an extra ‘B’ in my name? But I’m WEBER. Man of grill. No?’

It’s a shame, really, that the only time we see him is in a helmut, with a white skin thing underneath, then inside a roll cage, then inside a car. Stupid sport really. NEXT!

What else is on the man grill? Adam Scott. Golf is a little thin on the ground with men worth cooking. Not because they are lean cuts of meat, however. Oooooh nooooo. You’d think with all that walking that they’d be a bit more, um, heart smart. Have the BBQ tick of approval, so to speak. ‘Tis ok though, dear eyeballs. Adam Scott is here.

I'm not going to make a joke about there being a hole in one of whatever that is. No, I'm not. I didn't.

I’m not going to make a joke about there being a hole in one of whatever that is. No, I’m not. I didn’t.

Yes, yes, I understand. He only hits one ball, every so many shots, and you have to watch ALL the other people on the course, and all the WALKING! And all the DUCKS! Frankly, you keep falling asleep. Isn’t there a quicker better way to see something good?

And I tell you yes. Yes there is. You’ll have to learn some rugby though. Just a little bit. Ok, that’s a lie. Learn nothing, but take a girlfriend. Drink beer, and gossip, and watch the big screen. It is more fun if you know who’s winning though. Look out … here comes your rugby union meat conga line…

As much as I can’t ever let the All Blacks win without yelling at the TV, I will equally never miss a game, because of THIS. ONE. MAN. All hail, fillet steak, Dan Carter. But, I can’t show you his face on this blog, because, well… I support the Wallabies. And, there is SO MUCH good stuff right there to show you. I present to you Pat McNabe (who plays for the Brumbies and hence draws my favour):

Brumbies. Like horses, but better.

Brumbies. Like horses, but better.

Will Genia (from the Qld Reds)


and I would also put on a pic of Liam Gill, from the Reds, but the poor little dude WAS BORN IN THE 90s and that’s pushing it. Just can’t.

Thanks for joining me for this minute glimpse into the literally hundreds of different choices on offer at your butcher. Er… stadium. So there you have it, meat-eaters. RUGBY IS THE ANSWER. You can have steak, kangaroo, lamb, mince or hamburger, all on the field, 30 at a time. BBQ smorgasbord, with gravy.

Linking with the Lounge, for BBQ Thursday. Yum.


[Images ref: Pat McNabe - Getty images]



Wednesday, bloody Wednesday

How was your day dear? Bloody, like mine? Did you get rejected for a job you really want, after getting down to the last two candidates? Did you make a gourmet dinner again, then have to whip up some tinned baked beans to get the small things to eat? Is your head thumping? Treat it to a bloody drink! It bloody deserves it.

While you’re at it, don’t get mad, get Mary. Wine is for wimps. Rum is for ruminators (the loud and bloody rowdy kind). Gin is for gimps. Get your grump into a big, hard, mean, spicy Bloody Mary.

Feeling grumpy? Have a bloody Bloody Mary then and stop your whinging.

Feeling grumpy? Have a bloody Bloody Mary then and stop your whinging.

This is how you do it, Face First style.

  • Pour vodka until somebody stops you
  • Ice is nice
  • Squeeze in a wedge of bloody lemon
  • Pepper and Salt
  • Celery bloody salt
  • A martha farking truckload of Tabasco
  • Lea and Perrins (YES fussy I am – it’s important) Woosta sauce: shake it till you should probably stop, then bloody shake it again
  • Top with tomato juice
  • When you think it’s all over, add a bit more Tabasco, just in case.

In case WHAT? I don’t bloody know! Stop asking me questions! Don’t you know I’m bad in interviews?

The good news for tomorrow is you can’t drink too many of these bloody things before you get full. Now you’ll have to move on to wine. You bloody wimp.

Tomorrow is another day. With pilates in it. Peace out, man. Yo.


Wine, books, and something about a cockatoo

Did you know I review wine bars? Neither did I. The poor folk at Two Stews and a Cockatoo thought it was business as usual the other night, until I put on my new hat and reviewed all the wine. Oh… I was reviewing the BAR? I guess I’ll have to go back and try again.

Once upon a time, on the sleepy North Shore of Sydney, thirsty workers and suburbanites growing weary of pizza and movie nights at home could go to a restaurant (Chinese or Thai, anyone? Snooze), or to one of the few pubs, to steak it out with the pokies. Entertaining at home was the only option for chatting, drinking, nibbling and socialising with friends. Do you have a friend who only drinks sauvignon blanc and you’re a chardie girl? You’d generally agree to meet somewhere in the middle with a pinot gris, neither of you particularly satisfied as you share the bottle over the olives.



Now? I could kneel down and cry tears of happiness, for the day of the wine bar has returned. They’re popping up not only in the city, but further into the depths of the North Shore, and the locals are flocking.  What makes me most happy is the fact I can have my big fat oaky glass of French chardonnay by the glass, while my friend has her glass of Sancerre. We share the edamame, and the slow cooked beef and the lamb tiramisu. NOBODY CLEANS UP. And the boys are at home with the children. What’s not to like?

Hats on the wall for decoration. Kim on the lounge taking liberties with said hats.

Hats on the wall for decoration. Kim on the lounge taking liberties with said hats.

Last week we all hat a fabulous time, and decided to go back in a month for ‘book club’. It’s a very serious book club you know. There were some books there. My friend J will be reading ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’ this month, while L is reading something about a great big train. I thought I’d have a more in-depth read of the menu.

J getting up close and personal with Ghandi

J getting up close and personal with Ghandi

There really is a cockatoo. Stuffed, apparently, by a Melbourne taxidermist. See? I found out ONE REAL FACT!

Helloooooooo cocky!!

Helloooooooo cocky!! Dead. Really.

There’s also a wine ‘flight’ (geddit?) – a taste of three different wines of your favourite varietal, so you can settle on the one that you really want to DRINK. Or, you can be a fleety flighty flibbertigibbet, and go from flight to flight sampling them all. I would not do that. Noooo. Not me. I drank a French Chardonnay, then a lovely Sancerre (because there was still some in the bottle), and then we chose a riesling called Dr Loosen, for the same reason you choose your horse in the Melbourne Cup. It had a funny name. Not, of course, because we were getting a bit loosen ourselves.

You can tell the owners and staff genuinely enjoy their work there. I genuinely enjoy my new hat as an eater and drinker. I think I will take myself very seriously indeed.

Details: Open Wed-Sun noon-midnight

GPO Building 741 Pacific Highway, Gordon NSW

Telephone 02 9499 8698