Scarenting

“How much of my hair has my baby eaten?” is a thought I have about four times every day, because once I saw a documentary about a girl who had to have a sausage made of hair removed from her intestine because she was always chewing the end of her ponytail. My hair sheds like a mofo and always ends up wrapped around Max’s hands and feet and in his mouth. I've even had friends tell me they've found my hair in their socks or wrapped around their penises, it sheds that much and spreads that far. This hair issue made me realise that while I’m a good mum, I’m not a great mum. Don't get me wrong, I change Max when he’s dirty, feed him when he’s hungry and cuddle him constantly, but I have done some things which I definitely lose parenting points for. For example, I didn’t realise I wasn’t meant to eat soft serve while I was pregnant and ate it more than I ever have for the nine months he was in my belly. Since then I've been making a bunch of poor parent choices, sometimes they are born of ignorance, sometimes I've just consciously made a decision that favours me over Max. I like to call this style of scary parenting “scarenting”. Scarenting decisions can range from mild (letting your three month old baby watch True Blood) to major (giving your baby to a strange man to hold while you go to the toilet in a shopping mall). Some scarenting choices I've made in the last few months are as follows.

Mild: Sometimes I don’t soothe Max when he cries because he just looks so hilarious when he is really getting his scream on. Like a furious little beetroot. 

Iffy: When he decides to cry in an enclosed public place, like a waiting room, my go to response is to look apologisingly at the people around me and offer “Would anyone like a baby? He's barely used!” Har har har. The other day I said it in a lift and a lady who I swear to god looked like the witch in Hansel and Gretel responded very seriously “I would take him”. I bet you would scary lady. I stopped talking and just looked at the lift door, desperately willing it to open before my child was abducted.

Not great: I was playing tennis (because I'm a MUM now) and another player's little girls were patting Max. Which was fine by me until their dad offered me a great bit of “advice”. 

“Did you know no one had peanut allergies until vaccines were invented? I don't think it's right to put something so artificial as a vaccine into my young children’s bodies.” 

Aaaaaaaaarrrrggghh. I didn't know how to politely snatch Max away from his, surely disease ridden, children. So I let them keep patting him. And just so you know antivax man, if you don't want artificial substances entering your kids bodies, here are some natural things which might enter their systems: measles, mumps, rubella, whooping cough, diphtheria, smallpox. And FYI I'd rather my child have an allergy than be DEAD thank you very much. 

Pretty bad: I moved out of our marital bed and into the spare room with Max for a few weeks when Nick went back to work, because I am a very considerate wife and it also meant I could watch netflix all night. Meanwhile our cat Jenny moved into our room to keep Nick company. A week later when Nick went to change the doona cover he discovered that Jenny had actually done a poo in my side of the bed and he had been sleeping next to it all week. I was out, so he sent me a picture, FURIOUS. Then to make matters worse he went to send a picture of Max to his parents but accidentally sent the poo picture, meaning that he then had to explain to two of the cleanest people I’ve ever met why the cat had pooed in the bed. This was not, strictly, a parenting faux pas but definitely not the best housewifery ever. 

Major: I don’t think this is too bad, but from the looks I’ve been getting from everyone when I ask this question, it is a major no-no for me to even be thinking in the privacy of my head. You know how you find your partner attractive and that’s why you have a baby with them? And you know how sometimes babies look exactly like one parent? Max is like a tiny clone of nick (which is rude because I spent all that time growing him, both when he was in my belly and when he was out of it, literally all the food he’s ever eaten has come from me, he could at least look a bit like me. Boo.) So how is it that you can have a child who looks EXACTLY like the person you are attracted to, but you’re not attracted to the child?! I’m talking about when he’s older, obviously not now when he’s a baby - I'm not some sort of creep. My mum suggested that maybe it was the age difference. And pretty much everyone else just looked at me, disgusted. But I reckon you guys can suck it because, think about it, it's a valid point. 

So I'm not Mum Of The Year, and I may have spent a lot of time explaining to people why Max’s arms are covered in bruises (they're hickeys ok? He sucks his arm until he gives himself hickeys, what can I do?) but as Nick told me when we brought him home from hospital “our only job is to keep him alive.” And, as I find every one of the ten times I check he's still breathing during the night, I'm doing alright at that!

Smotherhood

The day I had our baby was not the best day of my life. Are people kidding when they say that? It was the scariest day of my life, sure, definitely the goriest and most gruesome. It was a day I had to get stitches in my private parts while the obstetrician talked to me about Star Wars (way to instil confidence Vagina Doctor!) It was also a day that I may or may not have crapped myself (I will never know if I did, but that is okay) and it felt like someone put a firecracker up my nether regions and rendered me unable to walk without the gait of an aged cowboy. Nick summed up his experience with the old adage that watching the birth of our first child was “like watching your favourite pub burn down”, suffice to say neither of us particularly enjoyed childbirth. For sure it was sweet as a nut getting to see the person I’d been growing for nine months, but let’s be honest, all newborns look the same: like little squashed goblins wrapped up in that pink and blue hospital blanket. I didn’t realize that getting him out would be the easiest and least terrifying part of being a new parent; so I have chronicled the horrors of the first two weeks of parenthood that maybe you should consider before you decide whether or not you'd like to go and get a hysterectomy.

Minus One Day Old: December 29th
Nick’s anal Dad side was already in full swing when my waters broke and he yelled at me to quickly get out of bed and off the new carpet, so as not to ruin either of them. He ran to get an (old) towel for me to stand on so I wouldn’t do any damage to the floorboards either. BTW guys, your amniotic fluid keeps leaking throughout the whole of labour. Disgusting. Just disgusting.

Born: December 30th
While the hospital brought with it myriad new experiences and emotions (Nick actually got to milk me regularly while I was in recovery, a very interesting first for our marriage) the horror of what we had done to our lives only really hit me the night we got home.

3 Days Old: January 2nd
Within the first few hours of being alone with Max and not really knowing what I was supposed to do when he cried, I had the following thoughts:

“Can I return him to the hospital?”
“I have stitches in my downstairs and am scared to ever poo again. Why did nobody warn me about this? I'm mad at all the mums who didn't warn me about the scary first poo.”
“I definitely can NOT do this. How do the 16 year olds on 16 and Pregnant do it if I can’t? I am less capable than a Teen Mom.”
“How quick is the adoption process and do you get money for it?”
“My boobs hurt” at which point I punched myself in the sore boob out of frustration. It didn’t make my boob any less sore.

The crux of this freak out was that I have never had to take care of myself, and have always been looked after by everyone else; and I mean, for my whole life. My mum still peels my oranges for me and from the age of 15 I had a boyfriend who would share the great responsibility that is Maz, with my mum. Seriously, my first boyfriend cleaned my room for me and found ten forks. Another time I had my current and ex-boyfriends come to my house to repaint my bedroom. Cut to now and I married a man, who I constantly joke, can’t die because I don’t know where anything is located in my kitchen. So the weight of the idea that now I was not just in charge of myself, but also of someone else who can do nothing on their own was CRUSHING.

5 Days Old: January 4th
I had assumed that the minute I had a baby, I would have infinite patience for them. Turns out, this was not the case. At five days old Max cried for four straight hours and no matter what I did he wouldn’t shut up or go to sleep. It got to the point where I had to give him to Nick before I punched him. I conveyed this desire to Nick and he was beyond horrified. It’s not like I wanted to punch him in the face, just give him like, a little dead arm for being such a dick. Note: I told the nurse who comes to visit and check on him that I wanted to punch him and she said that was fine as long as I didn’t actually do it.

Seven Days Old: January 6th
Having a newborn is the most intense experience ever; you are literally just holding this other person all day, everyday. And I mean all day. It is not, as I imagined, watching real housewives of everywhere while my little angel cooed politely in the other room. I have to hold Max constantly; while I’m in the toilet, while he smells, when he is literally climbing up me to get to my ear and scream into it as loudly as he possibly can and all I really want to do drink a six pack of UDLs and run away (I've even planned my outfit for this, it involves a leather jacket and some sunnies, I call it my delinquent mum look). But do you know what helps temper this partly awful experience of clinging to a person while they void their bowels on you and vomit your own milk back onto the boob from whence it came? I am finally part of the group that knows everything in the world/is better than people who have not had unprotected sex and conceived a child: parents. Now that I too am a parent, I can finally give unsolicited advice to all and sundry whilst smiling smugly. Some of the great advice/wonderful stories I have been given/told and will be sure to perpetuate:

• Teach your newborn to sleep all night by putting earplugs in and refusing to get up to them between 7pm and 7am. If they REALLY scream, get your husband to get up and give them some water
• When teaching a baby to eat, just put food in its mouth and then hold its mouth shut until it swallows
• Various accounts of babies being stillborn/dying in the womb - very appropriate and comforting stories to tell a pregnant woman
• This is a burping cloth. In case you don't know what that is, you use it to burp your baby

Two Weeks Old: January 13th
In case I didn't convey it earlier, the aforementioned human holding is boring. Actually, newborns are really boring in general and anyone who disagrees is a liar or has incredibly low expectations of what constitutes entertainment. This means that you want to shirk the responsibility of them as often as possible and will hand them to anyone who will take them. That's when fathers are useful. Who's turn it is to hold the baby may also become one of the biggest points of contention in your marriage/possible grounds for divorce with said father. It is amazing how angry holding a baby all day can make you. Unfortunately for Nick he cops the brunt of this anger (although to be fair to me, he is at fault for the following):

• He asked me to hold Max when it was his turn to hold Max and did chores instead of holding Max
• After two hours of trying to get Max down and finally succeeding,  busting to pee, I rushed to the bathroom (the only one in our house) and was pipped at the post by Nick who slipped in before me
• He had the audacity to say he was tired. NEVER SAY YOU’RE TIRED if your night’s sleep has consisted of eight solid hours vs mine which involves cleaning up both baby and cat spew in amongst my four hours of broken sleep

Six weeks on and Max’s belly button bit is still sitting, dried out, on my bedside table because I don't really know what I'm meant to do with it. Despite that, I feel like I've come to terms more with this whole parent thing. I've managed to have at least one conversation not about the baby, I've put something on other than pajamas, I've even started to find the things Max does slightly less than boring and Nick and I are not even divorced, so if you want some advice from someone who’s basically parent of the year now, hit me up!

How To Punish A Child Who Squeezes Your Cat So Hard It Farts

Mamamia recently published an article entitled “Things your family does that you didn’t realise were weird” cataloguing the things that the author, Lucy Gransbury, thought were normal but upon leaving home discovered they were actually super weird. I’m calling bullshit a bit on this article because it lists things like Dad Tax and Wish Chips, which also existed in my household, and undoubtedly thousands of others. Compare this to, say, when I was little and every morning without fail my dad would tell me that while I was asleep he and my mum put me on the road, put yoghurt on my face and a truck ran over me and then I think we can discuss what constitutes weird family shit. Yogurt Truck would stress me out to no end. My parents loved my adverse reaction to their story and no explanation for the yogurt part was ever given. So, sorry Lucy, but you can take your frozen cheese and shove it, because I have a list of things that my family did that were actually weird.

• At 5 years of age I squeezed my cat George so hard that he did a terrible fart. As punishment my parents made me ring the vet and apologise, the vet sounded confused and just told me not to do it again.
• My dad used to take out his two false teeth and chase me around the house yelling “I am Gunkafore, you are Labrador” it used to horrify me and I still don’t know what it means.
• On long road trips my parents would buy us cheap little items to keep us entertained. To prolong the excitement and to keep us quiet for as long as possible they would give us these items piece by piece. For example, one year on a road trip to Uluru we were bought walkmans. At 5am we were given the Walkman. At 7am we were given the batteries. At 9am we were given the tape. And at 11am we were finally given the headphones – the puzzle was complete and we were over the moon! I’m still amazed that these little bits and pieces, which did fuck all until all put together, sustained our excitement for six or seven hours. Ah, times before the internet…
• My mum used to make crosswords for us to do at our birthday parties as they offer some “quiet time”.
• My dad wore a night gown instead of pyjamas.
• Until I was 20 I thought yellow was pronounced “yallow”.
• My dad used to pretend to be the ten year old version of himself and tell us all about his life in his hometown of Guilford. This was done at night, in a high pitched voice while walking around on his knees (in his nightie).
• My dad also used to do this character called “Marty Mosquito” (basically his hand scrunched into the shape of a “mosquito”) who would wake us up in the morning. Marty was friendly, but if his friend Boris showed up instead of Marty, you were liable to get pinched incessantly. Like, really pinched HARD.
• My dad thought it was HILARIOUS to make incest jokes. Nothing too rough, but still pretty blue. Eg. When I was asked by a girl in the grade below me why I had been performing, alone, alongside a teacher (my dad, who taught at my school) at the end of year concert, my dad felt strongly that I should have responded “because he’s my boyfriend” and walked off. Just to freak them out.
• I think this may be something that lots of peoples’ families did, but my family used to speak the internal monologue for our cat Jeffrey. If he was hungry or in a mood, we would voice his opinions or disdain or even just his general thoughts on the weather (he hated the wind). For a really stupid cat, I was always amazed at how articulate he was.
• Speaking of Jeffrey, we used to have a theme song we’d sing for him when he came into the room, along the lines of “Jeffrey the cat, the wonderful, wonderful cat”. Not lyrically superior, but effective enough.
• My brother and I used to have a song that we sang AT each other when it was the other person’s turn to wash up, a sort of musical bullying. It went “Guess who’s turn it is to wash up? You-rs. Yeah yeah. Woo.” It drove my mum insane and was eventually banned in our house under threat of being made to do the washing up when it wasn’t your turn.

Who knows what repercussions these oddities have had on my life, but I’d be intrigued to meet the Maz who had never experienced any of them. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t be writing this blog though. Or gently feeling Nick’s eyeball through his eyelid whenever she got a chance.

Maz Tries To Escape From The Dwell Well

I’ve never even seen Frozen, but the song “Let it go” has been stuck in my head for days. In a strange way though, it’s kind of become my 2015 mantra. Every time I find myself dwelling on something, I hear that little blonde wizard in my head telling me to let it go. It’s actually been quite cathartic. I’m not sure what issues and niggling memories other people hold onto, but mine are all super trivial and incredibly old. I feel it necessary to get these down onto virtual paper in order to leave them there and move on with my life once and for all. So here it goes, my most painful memories.

My First Rejection

When I was eight my parents enrolled me in netball, because I was an Australian girl who was eight. And that’s what eight-year-old Australian girls do. They go to a really cold dewy field early in the morning in winter, in skirts, and throw balls at each other, then buy killer pythons. But before I had even made it to the dewy field I went to my first ever netball training. I knew no one, but as a precocious and tiny human I had no fear. Until we were paired up to do drills, that is. As the coach designated each of us a partner and the group started to dwindle I felt, for the first time, that fear of possibly being the odd one out. Sure enough, I was the last to be picked and was paired up with a girl named Rebecca (name not changed for shaming reasons.)

“Marion,” Netball Coach had said “you’ll be practicing chest passes with Rebecca”

Rebecca’s response to having me as a partner came so quickly and emphatically it made my head spin.

“Oh, poo!”

What. A. Bitch. What a little 8 year old bitch. How could the sight of tiny little 8-year-old, scruffily charming me, conjure up thoughts of defecation? What was so good about her anyway? She was freckly, plain and wore glasses. I was scabbed from adventure and endowed with knowledge of monotremes. She eventually went cross-eyed. And you better believe I don’t feel even the tiniest bit sorry for her. Because while all that happened to her in the subsequent years was the onset of severely impaired vision, I’ve had to harbour the sting of that cruelly delivered “poo” ever since.

My First Public Shaming

When I was 13 my dad bought me a bike. Being my dad he didn’t buy it in the way that dads usually buy bikes. I assume generally, that this would involve a trip to the bike shop, followed by the brand new bicycle being secreted away in a cupboard or shed until birthday morn when said shiny bike is wheeled out with a curly ribbon tied to it. My dad is not an ordinary dad, so he didn’t buy me a bike in an ordinary way. Dad chose me the best bike Kmart had on their racks (despite my protestations that I really did not want a bike), paid a deposit and then made me go into Kmart for MONTHS to pay it off in installments – literally $8 and $14 installments. I hated the bike before I even got it, so you can imagine how depressing it was to have this as my sole birthday present for my 13th birthday. But, lucky me, my dad had made sure I had one surprise waiting for me. He’d secretly bought me a helmet. A bananas in pajamas helmet. For my 13th birthday.

And of course, no bike-receiving birthday is complete without a bike ride to top it off, so my dad made me ride with him into Hornsby to test out my new wheels. I donned my B in Ps helmet and hit the road. I was actually starting to like it as we cruised along, the wind in my handlebars, until we hit George Street, one of the main roads that lead into Hornsby proper. And by “we hit George Street”; I mean I hit the gutter and face-planted onto the footpath in front of about a million motorists stopped at the lights. In my children’s character helmet. On my birthday.

The First Time Photoshop Made Me Feel Bad About Myself – And Not In The Way You’d Expect

I went to a Photoshop course for work to upskill my skills and have some time out of the office to dick around. It was a pretty basic course full of mums who, well into day two, were asking, “Wait, what’s the shortcut for copy again?” It was great, until the instructor got around to teaching us airbrushing. In order to demonstrate what sort of things need airbrushing in an image, instead of having an un-retouched image prepared in advance like a good, professional non-psychopathic instructor would, he singled me out and proceeded to let the class know all the things he would airbrush ON ME. Including, but not limited to:

• My flyways
• The little wrinkles around my eyes (or “crow’s feet” as he called them)
• A few small pimples on my face
• This weird hard little lump I have in my hairline
• Some dark bags under my eyes
• My skin tone

It was really a fabulous moment in my life, and I left there able to mask an image, with a thorough knowledge of copy and paste short cuts and some severely damaged self-esteem. 

I know I started this post preaching about letting shit go, but having written all these memories down it’s just served to reinvigorate my fury at all these people and events. So let’s just revise 2015’s new anthem to CeeLo Green’s Fuck You and call it even.

The Four Reasons Bogans Are Happier Than You Are

People are unnecessarily mean about bogans. Sure they sometimes err on the side of being a bit yucky with their Southern Cross tattoos and their ridiculously broad Australian accents, but they also have a zest for life that to be honest, most corporate, conservative, clean-shaven types do not have. I would know this because my pedigree is roughly three quarters bogan. I pronounced yellow like “yallow” until I was at least 20, I would give my right arm for a turbo charged diesel Toyota Land Cruiser with a snorkel and a two inch lift, and my favourite drink EVER is a passionfruit UDL. Whenever I get too stressed out by corporate or classy life, I take a breath and remember the four bogan commandments…

Thou shalt not be too precious

When I was 11 we visited a wildlife park in Tassie. They had animal feed which was sold according to an honour system. Unlimited bags of feed were piled into a bin with a moneybox attached into which you were supposed to pay 50c per bag. Being 11, I had very little money or regard for rules, and the temptation to become the ruler of these animals with an unlimited supply of feed at my disposal was just too strong. My parents must have noticed that I had more feed that the $2 they gave me would buy, but just let me go about my business, as they were always wont to do. Ten minutes later, tiny arms laden with feed, I was bailed up against a fence by a donkey that was ferociously snapping not just at the food but at my clothes and hands too. My parents thought it was hilarious and took as many pictures as my supply of feed and their 24 exposure film would allow. At no point did they try to intervene. I’m still scared of donkeys.

Thou shalt have no shame

I went to a high school where my dad was a teacher. Most people I know whose parents taught at their school kept a safe distance. Not my dad. Every December my school would see out the year with a concert called “lip sync” where everyone mimed to pop songs. Usually reserved for cool girls with crimped hair and boob tubes singing Brandy and Monica “The Boy Is Mine” my dad and I broke the mold performing a duet together every year. Over the course of my high school career dad and I mimed in full costume, to the entire school, the following hits:

-       Sonny and Cher “I Got You Babe”

-       Huey Lewis and Gwyneth Paltrow “Cruisin’” (in which I mimed Huey and he mimed Gwyneth in drag)

-       Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers “Islands In The Stream”

-       Sandy and Danny “You’re The One That I Want”

-       Jasmin and Aladdin “A Whole New World”

Sometimes people would ask me why I was performing duets with a teacher. My dad maintained that I should have told them that he was my boyfriend, just to freak them out. That’s another thing bogans like – incest jokes. And let’s be honest, they are hilarious.

Thou shalt never be subtle

Sometimes my dad would decide that he would like to do our clothes shopping for us. For months afterwards my brother and I would be getting around town in hideous shirts, emblazoned with “AUSTRALIA” featuring cartoons of koalas bouncing on trampolines, purchased for five for ten dollars from Go-Lo. In a further attempt to win “father of the year” my dad would take out his false teeth (he only has a couple of missing teeth, so don’t judge him) and would chase me around the house, gnashing his good teeth and growling. I’ve never asked my dad why he’s missing teeth, but I certainly enjoyed all the laughter it brought me. And never let it be said that stereotypes aren’t accurate.

Thou shalt always observe the rule that bigger is better

My parents would scrimp and save every dollar they had. They worked hard, but they worked even harder at squirreling away their cash. When I was tiny my dad would smuggle the bladder from a wine cask into Pizza Hut so that he and mum could top up their wine on the cheap.  Once dad even claimed an abandoned car, which had been left out on the street – which is apparently a thing you can do. It eventually burst into flames while he was driving it. And good on them, because with the money they saved we always had the BIGGEST TELEVISION EVER. We may have had cheap clothes and basic food but we sure could see every detail of the news. Other items that expounded the bigger is better/more is more principle in our house included: the four separate entertaining decks we had, our super loud outdoor sound system and our endless supply of dried beef snacks and smoked almonds.

To conclude, bogans live a magical life. A life where children like their parents enough to make a dick of themselves in front of all their peers, a life where you’re taught to shake off injuries that probably need stitches and a life where laughter reigns supreme. So let me say boldly and unashamedly I AM BOGAN, HEAR MY V8 ROAR.

The Things Nick Says To Me: Part 5

On his confusion at the "selfie" craze.

Nick: The only time I take a photo of myself is when I'm checking to see if I have boogers.

Maz Reviews Bruce Springsteen's Ass

There is nothing lazier than people who speak in clichés.  Katy Perry’s Roar for example is entirely made up of clichés (I’ve got the eye of the tiger, already brushing off the dust, Cos I am a champion gah!). Instead of inspiring me, Roar makes me want to punch Katy right in her ass. Same goes for motivational quotes on facebook. I don’t feel inspired by a picture of a wishing well captioned with some inane shit like “Dream it. Believe it. Achieve it”. Because really, when you’re reeling off the clichés you’re just saying a bunch of stuff that’s been said so many times it’s become, well, clichéd.

I do however, have to vouch for a motivational image I saw the other day of a little fellow reaching towards the stars. It was captioned, logically, “reach for the stars”. Yes it’s your everyday sub-par vom inducing meme, but I actually did reach for the stars recently and it felt pretty damn delightful.

As you may or may not know, I have a very slight obsession with Bruce Springsteen. My car is called Bruce, I listen to his music every day, a whopping 20% of my instagram posts are about him and most importantly, he is my number one celebrity crush, my religion and my muse. When he announced his latest tour I spent $1000 dollars on tickets for my family, who all get equally as excited about our lord and saviour, Bruce. I made my parents go and queue in the rain hours ahead of time in order to ensure we would be right at the front of the stage so that, just maybe, I could touch that beautiful hunk ‘o’ man. And touch him I did!

Figure 1: My Dad's enthusiastic response to the news I had acquired sold-out Bruce Springsteen tickets for both he and my Mum

Springsteen is the most enthusiastic performer you will ever see. He does three hour-long concerts with more energy than a hessian sack full of toddlers, and during these performances, he likes to crowd surf. Enter the ultimate “it would only happen to Maz” moment. During a particularly badass rendition of Spirit in the Night Bruce launched himself into the crowd. Falling backwards onto the welcoming sea of hands like Janice does after slamming Regina George at the end of Mean Girls, he continued to sing as the audience slowly delivered him to the stage at the front of the arena. As The Boss approached, I craned my neck to see whether or not he was going to pass over my head, and could vaguely make out a figure up and to the left of me. Using my finely honed basketball attack skills, I dropped my shoulder and charged left until I was right in the path of the almighty Bruce.

Time stopped. My heart rate hastened. My mouth dried. I saw his leather lace-up boots, and then his ankles and suddenly the moment was upon me. Bruce Springsteen’s tight little bottom was directly above me. I reached up and with my full, open hand, grabbed his right bum cheek and squeezed. Oh, the ecstasy. For that one beautiful second, I was molesting the man of my dreams. It was a little sweaty but let me tell you, it was firm and pert and round - everything a good ass should be. Before I knew it, he had been placed gently on the stage and, overwhelmed, I burst into tears. I cried on Nick and then turned to my dad and cried on him too. There is very little I will be able to achieve now that will trump the time I grabbed Bruce Springsteen's behind.

And that is the story of the time that I groped the 64-year-old man I am in love with and then cried snot onto both my 61-year-old dad and my husband in celebration. So follow your dreams kids, it’s like the saying goes: reach for the stars, even if you miss, your hand will touch his moon. I know that was feeble, but you get what I was trying to do there.

The Things Nick Says To Me: Part 4

On being a rebellious young teen and defacing his school gear with the names of his favourite music artists.

Nick: People wrote all over their pencil cases, it was the thing to do. Once you'd put your name in the little plastic slot, you'd write your favourite bands all over your pencil case. I wrote Brad Collins on mine.

The Things Nick Says To Me: Part 3

On his disgust at kids wasting their money on frivolous things.

Nick: I saved my money for ages until I could afford the things I wanted. Like my framed picture of Yakini. The print was $200 and I spent $300 framing it. That's a lot of money for a 16 year old.

Note: Yakini was a photograph of a monkey.

The Things Nick Says To Me: Part 2

On taking his Christmas present "The Hits of 89" on record away on holidays.

Nick: we didn't have a record player so I would just take it to bed and look at it.

Home Is Where The Broccoli Art Is

A little while ago I ventured into Bed, Bath and Table to buy three mugs for some friends who were moving out of home for the first time. I don’t know why I decided a mug would be the most appropriate present, I can only count on one hand the amount of times I made a cup of tea of coffee for myself in my first apartment, but one of the girls is Swedish so I guess I assumed they’re different in regard to hot beverages. It’s cold over there. I think. Anyway, it got me thinking about when I moved out of home for the first time.

At 19 I decided I wanted to be independent. Despite the fact that I only worked two days a week and studied full time, I couldn’t wait to get away from the place where food was free and someone hugged me and washed my clothes. It seemed like such an awesome idea at the time. So a friend and I found a place in Hornsby and some idiot of an estate agent approved the lease. “We’re onto a winner!” we thought. During my time in this place I did the following things:

·         Locked myself out of the apartment on at least four separate occasions and had to sleep on the stairs

·         Ran out of money practically every week

·         Spent very little time in the apartment I was spending so much money on

·         Don’t read this one if you’re my mum. Would occasionally shoplift food if I was entirely out of money. It’s ok though. I only took BBQ chickens from the supermarket AFTER they had been marked down to $6 at the end of the day. I would wear a really big hoody and just put the chook under my jumper and walk out. I would smell and be oily, but it was totally worth it.

Basically, living out of home was not as fun as it had seemed. But the point I am trying (and failing) to get to is this: the one thing about living out of home that I didn’t anticipate to be quite as amazing as it was, was boy housemates. My one original boy housemate was part of a tribe of three boys who were omnipresent in flat number 6. Eventually all four of us moved into an actual house in West Pymble and sometimes on sad days I look back on the shit they did there and I laugh until I cry.

Here is my Top 5 List of Hilarious Things My Boy Housemates Did:

1.       In our first apartment there was a minuscule, rectangular hallway between the two bedroom doors, bathroom and living room. When all these doors were shut it became a miniature room about one by one and a half metres. The boys put a black light in overhead and covered the walls in fluro posters. They would then tie pillows to themselves and spin around frantically smashing into the walls in an attempt to become disoriented.

2.       One day I heard an explosion downstairs. Not a “bang”, but a “boom”. I sprinted downstairs to the back room, to find that the boys were pissing themselves with laughter. I enquired as to what the noise had been and was told the back door had slammed shut in the wind. I returned to my room. Not even a minute later another BOOM ensued. I returned and the boys were practically rolling on the floor in fits of giggles. It turns out that they had made an orange cannon. This is a length of PVC pipe, with one covered end, into which you force an orange. Deodorant is sprayed into the end of the pipe and when lit, acts as a propellant and launches the orange at (surely) hundreds of kilometres an hour from the end of the cannon. The boys had been cannoning oranges at the sandstone wall in the backyard, not three meters away. The yard was covered in fragmented oranges and the citrus smell was overpowering. As a girl, I can’t comprehend why this was fun, but their mirth was entertainment enough for me.

3.       With four people in the house it was hard to find some alone time. There was however, one morning a week when I knew everyone was at work or university. I made the most of these mornings, wandering around naked and singing. As you do. One morning, while halfway through a particularly stirring rendition of “Stars” from Les Mis, I wandered into the kitchen to find some strange girl in there. She was a guest of one of the boys who I had never even been introduced to (let alone informed that she would be left unattended in my house), I mumbled hello and beat a hasty retreat, furious that she had ruined my crescendo (partly mad that she had seen me naked before she knew my name, but it was mostly about the crescendo).

4.       The boys OFTEN came home with rubbish. I don’t know where it came from, but I’m pretty sure that they found things beside the road and just brought them home. Like small children bringing home stray animals. The entire time I lived in that house there was a framed picture of broccoli on the wall near the kitchen, we also had a plastic drink dispenser in the shape of Bob Hawke’s head and once the boys brought home a rusty metal drum, painted four letter words all around the outside and tried to light a fire in it. As though they were hobos.

5.       All three boys lived on one side of the house with doors linking each of their rooms, while two of the rooms shared a balcony; which was well and truly their Man Zone. They attached a length of pipe to the exterior wall of the house that ran from their rooms at the back, directly into the recycling bin at the front so they didn’t have to carry beer bottles through the house. It also made for lots of whooshing and crashing (which I think was secretly their favourite part). They also cleared a patch of space in front of their balcony and amassed a large collection of gnomes, I think some of the gnomes even spoke when you got near them – at least I hope to god they did, because I heard some weird noises coming from that gnomey little haven.

One day the owner decided to sell. So the boys refused to clean their rooms or leave the house to make inspections extra awkward, bless them. But as the adage goes “all good things come to an end” and the house sold. When I moved out, Nick helped me pack my couch into the moving truck and on the back of it I found a little leaf tailed gecko. I tried to move him and, I swear to god, he opened his mouth and screamed at me “EEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeee EEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeee”.

“I agree little gecko” I thought “I don’t want to leave either”.

The Things Nick Says To Me: Part 1

On me telling him that when I was a misguided youth, my tag was "EXPLOSIVE".

Nick: My tag would be "DILIGENT". Or "RARELY LATE".

Just Because My Middle Name Is Carmel Doesn't Mean I Had Bad Parents

I’m pretty sure my parents’ motto while raising my brother and I was “no child will ever control how I live”. These are parents who thought overprotective meant having a baby monitor; but I’m not dead so their philosophy has to hold some water. Fair enough I say, but I have to tell you that your parents going about their lives as they would if you weren’t there (not in a neglectful way, but in an empowered parent way) can result in some pretty embarrassing moments.

One particular incident, or should I say “recurring item of nightwear”, comes to mind in regard to this credo. My dad had a favourite night dress, he’d probably say it was a nightshirt, but that’s just semantics. Anyway, this nightdress was short and made of a thin fabric – I guess you would call it a summer night gown, it looked like something Kim Kardashian would be wearing in a sexy photo shoot where her hair was all tousled and her bra was showing. My dad was a teacher at my school so anything he would do in front of my friends meant that the shame factor was immediately squared. One summer’s eve I had a sleepover with some girlfriends and, in true dad style, my father stomped up the stairs at about 10’o’clock to tell us to shut up. Fine, it was his house and his rules. But of course he was clad in aforementioned gown. No one said a thing, we promised to keep it down and that was the end of that, until a week later at school when one of the girl’s asked in front of the rest of our group why my dad wore a dress at home. No one ever let me live that down and I’m pretty sure everyone kept an eye out when they stayed over for their favourite science teacher in his house dress. I breathed a sigh of relief when the worn out old nightie ripped up the side, “the end of an era” I lulled. And it was, until dad returned from the shed, gaffa tape in hand and gave that puppy a whole new lease on life. Believe it or not that motherfucking dress lasted until I finished high school.

The Biggest Lie I Ever Told

I used to have this cat called Jeffrey. I know this is an abnormal cat name but I feel it is important to give cats names that have dignity; they are elegant creatures and should be labelled as such. Jeffrey was however, neither elegant nor dignified. He was actually, for lack of a better word, a total retard of a cat. He would sit nose to nose with the fridge for hours hoping it would feed him, was completely afraid of the wind and he once went missing for a few days only to be found sitting at the bottom of the garden, completely unharmed, with some type of moss growing on his back. He was also thoroughly unpleasant, so of course I loved the shit out of him.

You know when you have a pet, you often feel like it has certain things it wants to say to you? Jeffrey had a permanently angry look on his face, like he was dying to yell abuse at us, and so my family would voice his inner monologue; giving words to his misgivings about his food, his surroundings and his dislike of the world in general. The dialogue we had on his behalf revealed him to be a well-spoken but cranky old man of a cat. I still worry about the times when people would walk in on us talking from the cat’s perspective, but that’s ok because my family wasn’t particularly normal and I guess no one expected any better from us.

For a few years when I was quite young I had this concern that I may be possessed, like the main character from The Exorcism of Emily Rose, as I would often get up of a morning covered in scratches with no idea where they had come from. One night I woke up to discover that it had been Jeffrey all along; he had been sneaking into my room after I was asleep and settling on my bed; whenever I moved he would attack my legs leaving them bloody and battered. Another time he pooed on my history text book and I had to explain it to my teacher. Yes, Jeffrey was not a pleasant cat at all, but he had character and to me that is the most important thing any animal or object can have.

The following story is about the day that Jeffrey died. I am aware that this anecdote paints me as a liar and I guess I was a bit of a liar in this situation, but you will come to see that I only told one lie. Except it was a massive lie. Probably the biggest lie I have ever told actually. So if you have a problem with fibbing it is best that you stop reading now.

One hot January day I was on a train on the way home from the city. My phone rang and when I answered it, I heard my very concerned mother on the other end – I immediately knew someone had died. Upon realising I was on the train my mum told me she would call me later, but as they say – curiosity killed the cat (har har har) – and I pushed her to tell me what was wrong. She informed me that Jeffrey had been found in the neighbour’s yard where he had died after his kidneys gave out. To say I was inconsolable was an understatement. I hung up the phone and burst into tears. Now, I am by no means a pretty crier. I am frowny, blotchy, and above all, a snotty crier. I cry hard and loud until big slimy ropes of snot pour from my nose. So I sat there, in the most crowded carriage of the train, forty minutes away from home and sobbed. And so OF COURSE this was one of those rare train journeys when the State Rail guards boarded and checked that everyone had paid for their journeys. I handed over my ticket, still whimpering and covered in snot, which they checked and walked away. Relieved, I returned my face to the nook between the window and the seat and recommenced my howling.

BUT OF COURSE THEY CAME BACK. Because nothing is ever that simple in my life.

When they returned they silently escorted me to that small portion of the train which you initially step onto, the part which is neither up nor down. They had cleared this section specifically for me. Oh, the shame. So, they sat me down and asked me what had happened. I didn’t feel quite like I was able to say that my cat had died (how embarrassing to be wailing at that decibel level about a cat) and so I told them that I had lost a family member. I silently congratulated myself on something which wasn’t really a lie and continued to hiccup. Oh, how I wish they were your run-of-the-mill uncaring, bastards and left it at that. But they didn’t.

“Who was it, darling?” the extremely concerned, fatherly, train guard asked me.

This was really the moment that it all fell apart. Flanked by two burly men in uniform, devastated and embarrassed that I had been removed from the main population of the train I looked him in the eye and said “it was my brother.”

Just like that. Earnestly and honestly (except for the fact that it was an utter fabrication), and then shocked by this whopper of a lie I had just told, I burst into fresh tears.

He gently patted me on the back and continued to ask me questions, like any kind stranger would. Ugh.

“What was his name?”

“Jeffrey” I stuttered, my voice thick with tears. Thank god we hadn’t called him Mittens.

“How old was he, love?”

“He was fourteen.” He was. But he was a cat.

“How did he die?”

“Kidney failure.” It was kidney failure, but he was a fourteen year old cat.

“Where was he?”

“In the neighbour’s yard.” WHICH IS NOT THAT STRANGE WHEN YOU CONSIDER HE WAS A CAT.

The guard looked absolutely stricken and I swear to god, he wiped a tear from his eye. At this point, I was so shocked by the enormity of my lie that I stopped crying altogether and just sat silently, praying for time to speed up and my stop to arrive.

“I’m sorry to take up your time” I ventured. “I’m sure you come across things like this all the time.”

“It’s never anything this bad.” He told me, his voice shaking ever so slightly.

I am the worst person alive.

When we got to Hornsby (where I lived at the time) they escorted me off the train, into the lift and waited with me until someone came to collect me. I had to quickly call a friend to come get me, telling them through gritted teeth that “Jeffrey has died, please meet me at the station.” You’d better believe I high-tailed it right out of there – before any conversation between the guards-who-were-comforting-me-about-the-death-of-my-brother and my friend-who-was-there-to-comfort-me-about-the-death-of-my-cat could transpire.

Oh boy. If I wasn’t sure about it before this, I was after – I am definitely going to hell.

Hopefully I’ll see Jeffrey there.

Appropriate Family Holidays

Growing up we travelled a lot, not fun beach holidays in Fiji or Coffs Harbour like lots of families but dusty driving and camping holidays where excitement meant traveling one thousand kilometres in a day. Inevitably we ended up in Coober Pedy a few times. In itself this is a pretty crappy place, no one lives above ground for a start, and a normal touristy day here involves sifting through piles of dirt. So I guess my parents were looking for something different when they took us to Crocodile Harry’s house. They must have seen it advertised somewhere as a thing to do, so we hauled our asses over to this odd ranch outside the main drag.

Littered with debris the place was surrounded with broken down cars and (surely a made up memory) tumbleweeds rolling on past. We paid our two dollars, or however much it was that he had the gall to charge, and headed into his “nest”. Inside his underground house was a wall made of old dusty bottles and, I kid you not, a wall covered in women’s bras. There must have been hundreds of them, some of them signed with ‘x’s and marked with lipsticked kisses. So after what must have been five minutes of standing awkwardly in this man’s house we left. Retrospectively, that man was just a lecherous old drunk and I don’t know what possessed my parents to take my brother and I there, I guess it was the same parenting instinct that allowed them to cover my school books in gigolos. Or perhaps it was just the nineties, when people weren’t so damn precious about their children. Either way, all these years later I think it’s pretty hilarious that he charged children money to look at garbage and some dirty underwear.

So if you’re ever in Coober Pedy, be sure to check it out, I don’t know where the name “Crocodile” came from, but it’s surely a name that delusional old man gave himself. He probably thinks he’s Paul Hogan. Hell, maybe he is, and it was all the cash from his tourist enterprise that he wasn’t declaring to the tax office.