Impossible to look away....

It's all my own fault. I like to hoik my heaving bulk up onto my hobby High Horse and pontificate to Love Chunks about the crass and clueless celebrities of today.

He always manages to prick my pomposity to a whirring, rapidly deflating balloon when he counters with, "Well you READ the stuff, so they're making money because of you."
"Oh no they're not - I read it online, I don't buy those ~ pause to add a snobby-but-dramatic shudder ~ magazines."

His look of contempt was withering enough to singe my eyebrows. "Haven't you noticed the advertising and pop-ups on every page? They love faux intellectuals like you!"

Humph. Yeah, well.... Take yesterday for example. Richard - I still wear those stupid chunky jumpers from airport souvenir shops - Branson has obviously felt the need to show off more than he usually does. His normal modus operandi is throw around millions of dollars that would be better spent providing malaria tablets and AIDS education to needy communities, to instead ponce about in hot air balloons trying to break records that generate about as much excitement as scum build-up on bathroom tiles.

So very clearly a bloke trapped in a mid-life crisis, he revealed yesterday that he was definitely NOT a Mile High Club virgin and had left his finger prints on a toilet mirror or two. He then 'treated' us to an anecdote about his first experience with Viagra, concluding that "I had to tie something around my trousers the next day to make sure nothing showed." Rest assured, Dicky dear, no-one was looking.

And why oh why did I happen to come across an old Oprah repeat where the clearly deranged Janet Jackson (in a thin phase, so it must have been Michael was still white) tell Oprah that her numerous below the neck piercings left her feeling aroused. All the time. If I'm not mistaken, her current Rump-pumpy partner is a dead ringer for a fresh stack of camel crap, so maybe she needs all the metallic help she can get.

Despite my horror, I remain fascinated. And ashamed of my fascination. I have a book to write, a family to care for, a child to inspire, washing to fold! ...........To read recently that Geri Slapper Spice Halliwell had dated Little Britain's David Walliams....! She had confided to one of those slippery little close insiders that it was the ~*cough*~ size of his wand as well as the magic he could wring from it that made him the Geri-jammin' stud muffin of her dreams. I'm still struggling to work out what is more repulsive: he being attracted to Geri or she deciding that his love muscle was the best thing about him. Pity her daugher, poor little BlueBell Clueless Prancy Unicorny kiddie whatshername thingy.

There are some good sides to being a secret celebrity vomit voyeur however - their pathetic escapades, Brazilian-exposes and faulty fashion choices make me - slightly less sylph-like and moneyed - feel rather good about myself. As such, it's time for some more Self Esteem Boosters!

Kirsten Dunst. She may be only 25, earn millions for her 'acting skills' in Spiderman but even a size zero needs a bra to re-lift and rectify the 'ol rack droop. What's her shirt made out of - my grandma's bathroom curtain?


Steve Martin, 61, married Anne Whatsit, 35 on the weekend. I'm not sure which one to pity the most. (They make *me* look addicted to permatan and people don't call me Fluoro Legs without good reason.)

Poor old boofhead Britney is really just saving reality TV companies a fortune by living out her own trash tube show, isn't she? Not a day goes past that she's not wearing a G-string to the kindergym or driving back from a nightclub with a newly-bought baby harp seal shoved in her naval ring and her two sons occy-strapped to the SUV's bullbar...

This shot is apparently from her latest single and reveals her continued determination to remain a powerful role model to the tweens and has-beens. It's such a comfort to know she was awarded dual custody when her divorce to Devon Spermline was finalised yesterday.

Could this be the face and fate of our dear, sweet, sensitive Britney in 20 years' time? Thanks to drugs, surgery and botox, Courtney now has a mummified mouth that could suck the seeds of a lemon a mile away and has to pluck her bikini line which has moved up under her chin.

When the research laboratory runs out of beagles for experiments, they call on Clinically-Dead Courtney instead. She doesn't feel a thing: she thinks it's Frances looking for the keys to the liquor cabinet.

I'll conclude this post with a picture of horror that is still allowed to roam freely and relatively undisturbed. That's right, Madonna's arms. Do they even have skin covering them any more or does she directly spray paint the sinews and muscles white before she goes out? And is it just me, but is she getting face lifts downwards instead of sideways like Courtney? Is a horse the look she's going for?

* thanks to the Superficial, eonline and go fug yourself for the photos

What if we all sucked?

If you've ever spent time with anyone aged under two recently, you will not have failed to notice that everything - everything - everything (to paraphrase Mr Haggle, our retarded rug retailer) goes into their mouths.

As you can see from the gorgeous young Zara here on the left, even a felt Kermit is worth sticking in at least six times before deciding that the pink plastic motorbike is a much more mouth-friendly option.

It got me to thinking: What if we all sucked? Well maybe we all do already, but let's forget kicking our own arses for a while about our achievements and ponder my query from another angle: what if our nine-month old tendency to 'try before we buy' involved putting everything into the 'ol cake hole before we did anything else with it?

Can you imagine how messy grocery shopping would become?
If our oral urges were still strong, we would be literally drooling on unpeeled bananas and giving grapes a good gumming over before putting the soggy selections into the trolley. Tins would be licked; corners of packets popped in the mouth for quality control and heaven help us if toilet paper was no longer wrapped in plastic. My thoughts go out to the check out operators who would have to patiently wait for us to stop sucking our credit cards before handing them over, still dripping with drool, for payment. Then we would have to try and flatten out their paper mache balls that were formerly our receipts so that we can get our 4c petrol discount later on.

How we would ever find the time to get the groceries into the car and head off to work? The average set of car keys would have to rank in the parental all time top ten choices for 'Impromptu toys to entertain toddlers when no toys are available.' In doctors' waiting rooms around the world are millions of knee-high nibblers busily inserting keys into their mouths and then taking them out and shaking the set to not only hear the jangle but also to see the sprays of saliva catch the light in a dazzling display. If we also were as fascinated, imagine how clogged the car parks would become. We would have to eat our entire weekly shop because of the time taken to suck every key, the door handle, antenna, gear stick, seat-belt buckle and the container of wet-ones shoved in the glove box since 1997.

Sales of bottled water, filters and tanks would skyrocket due to the need to top ourselves up with ten times the fluids we do now. As Tom Hanks said to the drooling dog he inherited in the movie 'Turner and Hooch': "Isn't there some way we could use that stuff? Like for some industrial lubricant or something?" What would the workplace be like - I sure as hell wouldn't be as keen to lend or borrow my stapler, hole punch or liquid paper and job interviews could get far too personal.

First dates could be a much more erotic - or repellent experience, depending on your thrill factor and point of view. Do I suck his ---------------- jacket zipper while we're in the car or wait until we're inside the cafe? Should I lean in to lick her -------- handbag strap during the movie or afterwards? Ooooh yuck, why does his hair taste like coconut and glue? Crikey, when was the last time she washed behind her ears??

Our-two-years-and-under role models also use their oral fixations to keep themselves amused when they're not feeding, backing out a John Howard into their huggies or laughing at Daddy tripping over the mega bloks. If you have nothing to do try their techniques: grab the dog's tail, give it a saturating suck and rub it all over Mummy's new designer sofa cushions like a poochy paint brush. Or, if you're into living on the edge, have a bite of the barkchips covering the ficus and regurgitate them into the nearest unoccupied shoe. Don't forget the bookshelf - who says it's not fun to dampen each and every Encyclopaedia Britannica with farex-flavoured saliva?

Oh well, it'd be cheaper than smoking and less fattening that a faceful of fries.

Immature Orange



As some of you may know, my 8 year old daughter Sapphire and I have been going to weekly karate lessons since December last year. In January we earned our 'yellow tip' belts and then the full yellow in February. A couple of weeks ago we were shoulder-tapped by the sensei and asked to do the test for the orange belt.

I was pumped: the second kata is not unlike a rather complex set of dance steps - albeit designed to shake off an attacker trying to grab your arms and getting a swift chop to the throat in retaliation. Not sure that the vienna waltz would work out too well as an accompanying soundtrack but it was thrilling to be chosen (you are not allowed to ask to be tested, your sensei decides when you are ready) and I was ready to 'dance' to the new orange tune. Nevertheless, such silly thoughts were not in my brain as I jubilantly skipped back to the carpark.

Deliberately fumbling for the keys meant that I could do a few awe inspiring 'moves' in front of the reflective car door, and Sapphire managed to pop my balloon of self-inflated pompousness by pointing out that, "Mum, we can't do the second kata test next week. I'm in the school concert."

Pffffftttttzzzzzz went the wind out of my sails (and a sly fart or two, after all it was karate and an hour of bending, lunging and high kicking is hell on the bowels after a long day paying proper attention to my fibre requirements).
"Oh. Yeah. That's right," I said as tonelessly as I could manage. "You're in a recorder group thingy, aren't you?" And then I tried to do what no parent should ever do - I tried to guilt her out of being in her own school concert: "Look, do you really need to be in it? I mean, can't Maya and Lucinda do 'Speed Bonny Boat' without you?"

Not for the first time did Sapphire's expression of hurt, disdain and utter disapproval reverse our roles - me as the selfish child and she, the towering personification of maturity, consideration and fairness. "Oh, Mum."

My apologies were brushed aside during the drive back home and she rushed inside to dob on me before I'd even finished locking up the car.
"Dad, hey D-a-a-a-a-d! Mum wants to try and get me to not to go the concert next week so that we can get our orange belts! She told me to quit the recorder so that we don't have to wait until October to get tested again!!"

Well putting it like that didn't make my actions sound too noble, so I stared down at my sneakers and tried to find a tiny shred of self-confidence - which is hard to do when you're dressed in an oversized, white canvas kimono.
"Ah, yes, I did say that, but I had only her continued progress in karate at heart...... she's done so well and is ready for the next stage and...." They both ignored me and went off to have a cuddle and a snack together before she went to bed (and also in time for Love Chunks and I to watch 'Spicks and Specks').

The next morning as we walked together to school, I was recovering from enduring a night of lectures by Love Chunks and a couple of strong coffees to help stir my senses and reawaken my maternal responsibilities. "Sorry about last night, Sapph. I am truly really *dying* to see you in concert and know that you'll be great. After all, your dad and I get to hear you practise every night after school, don't we? That silly orange belt can wait until October."

She reached for my hand - even though she could see some of her classmates - and I knew that I'd been forgiven. Of course, leave it to stupid old me to ruin our precious moment by keeping on pushing the boundaries: "Um, do you know what time you're on? Maybe I can have a chat to Miss Stevenson after her school crossing duty to put you on first and then I could stand outside with your Gi and we could roar on to the dojo straight afterwards and--"
"M-U-U-U-U-U-U-M!"



Oh well. Perhaps the concept of orange stuck with Sapphire, or perhaps it's a clear indication of how much she overhears my conversations with Love Chunks because look what wandered up to me when I was on the phone

..... perhaps I was rewarded with a taste of orange after all.

Coffee Connection

Every morning, my caring and considerate husband, Love Chunks, makes me a big mug of cappuccino courtesy of our gorgeous Gaggia machine. We've had the beloved shiny beast for nearly a year now and boy-oh-boy has it improved our breakfast time.

Not only does it make a delicious, full-frontal, eye-opening caffeine kick-up-the-arse that we both need - nay, crave - each day, but it gives us about five minutes together before our little 8 year old bird starts chirping from her bedroom. We sit up at the bar in our kitchen on our black'n'chrome stools and for those 300 seconds we sip the warm nectar and are content to just 'be'.

My meditation class teacher reckons that this morning ritual is a modern form of meditation in that we are in the moment: we are fully mindful - or appreciating - the act of making, drinking and getting the full benefit from the coffee and we are alone together. Good.

Lately too, this time has become more valuable because Love Chunks has been left to provide about 99% of the parental supervision, entertainment, transport, social coordination, excursions, shopping, cinematic experiences and discipline required to ensure that Sapphire remains alive, sane and relatively unspoiled. He has also cooked a gourmet-standard dinner every evening and still found time for piano practice and muscle-pumping in our backyard gym.

His mediocre marital reward is seeing me like this first thing in the morning (and at night) and hearing my endless stream of complaints about sore neck and shoulders, being too farty from the new fibre diet, pining for chocolate, crying about my weight gain from said chocolate, insomnia from worrying about how the chapters in my book are panning out and the odd visit from Mr Migraine. My poor swindled soulmate!

Even so, our coffee time together is the time I long for. I lean against his side, feeling his warmth and strength and am so grateful for the support and encouragement he's been giving me.

After our coffees we'll chat about things that matter to us - Sapphire first and then stuff about our upcoming house renovation, a future holiday, his overseas trip for work and how cute Dogadoo is. If he's made me two cups of coffee, he'll even be able to coax me into having a lively discussion about politics and the ills of our society; perhaps even raise a few suggestions for improvement.

Mostly though, we're silent and happy to enjoy the silence of long love and companionship. His blue eyes are always glistening, full of intelligence and foresight. Yesterday morning I asked that question that all males dread. No, not "Sweetheart, will you please pull over so that I can get out and ask that bikie over there for directions?" but the other one: "Love, what are you thinking about?"

And my physicist/meteorologist answered with, "Oh I was wondering about something..."

"What?" I asked eagerly, ready for an illuminating discussion on the progress of the Labor Party and the demise of John Howard.

"I was wondering why premature ejaculators hadn't died out already."

Oh.

The seven modern wonders of the world - as if!

It's nice that the bloke who played Ghandi got to help read out the seven winners (as voted online) for the Seven Wonders of the Modern World.

Firstly, I didn't even know that there was an online competition, so it raises all kinds of questions (or eyebrows if you're as statistically-challenged as I am) about the validity of the votes cast. For instance did the the Rio de Janierio-ans have a glass rocking-bird executive paperweight tapping on the 'vote yes' button while us Australians couldn't be arsed?

Secondly, what do they mean by 'modern'? If the Cheops pyramid was a finalist and Petra was a winner, do we consider that the days of stoning for being an unmarried mother; having to give birth in a goat shed and tagging along with some scraggly bloke wearing sandals and a beard only happened yesterday then? That the young Christ chap was encouraging you to drop your things and follow him around the countryside without having made any accommodation or meal bookings beforehand??

Ah, who cares. If *I* had been consulted, the list would have been much cheaper to attain/visit, easier to enjoy and much, much more 'now':

1) Haighs chocolates
2) Nestle chocolate (especially their mild dark range)

3) Cadburys

4) Dove (chocolate, not the soap0

5) Lindt, darling, sweet, fabulous Lindt

6) Mars M&Ms (even though we don't get the peanut butter variety here in Oz)

7) Menz Fruchocs - heaven in a handful.

Puking on Public Transport

After reading (and enjoying, despite her suffering), Redcap's recounting of her joyous journey on public transport; meeting ships crew who called her 'Sir' and being lost in the darkness at Port Adelaide, I thought I'd share my own travel experience.

Many many blue moons ago, I was still living in Melbourne and suffering the effects of morning sickness when Sapphire was a mere 10-week-old embryo. In the space of only three weeks, 7:18am from Heidelberg to Swanston street was fast becoming an olfactory nightmare and the lowest point of my day. I would feel queasy when my eyelids first reluctantly opened and all the well-meaning advice about eating a cracker before getting out of bed (no doubt making for itchy sheets) didn't appeal and didn't work.

Instead, what was normally a ‘refreshing’ one-and-a-half kilometre walk from our house to the train station became a march of straining, sweaty agony, vainly chain-sucking boiled sweets the entire journey. I’d be on my fifth by the time I shoved my ticket into the validating machine. Each colour and flavour was carefully selected before I left home - orange or raspberry ones today?

It was at the first second the train doors slid opened that I realised that morning sickness produced an ultra-sensitivity to smells and, as we all know, train carriages aren't exactly up there with fields of lavender and red rose petals. Even so, the pervading BO, morning breath, smelly feet and general unsavoury ponginess almost took on an active physical presence - so much so that it seemed as though the carriage had a vague brownish fog of odour inside.

I tended to rely rather heavily on the air sickness bags that I’d been prophetic enough to take from previous plane trips, and had even asked Love Chunks to grab a few on his work travels. Alas, by the ten-week mark, this precious stash had now gone. The closest thing I could find (apart from a sealed Tupperware container) were those clear plastic snap lock sandwich bags.

On one particularly cold-morning the over-heated carriage was stifling hot with condensation dripping from the window and the unwashed funk of wool jackets brushing up against my legs. The rocking motion as we chugga-chugged our way into the city was encouraging my stomach to do some unwelcome chugga-glugging of its own. Sweat formed on my upper lip as I forced myself to focus on the station signs - only six stops to go.... I was determined to last the distance and heave somewhere on the platform or in the station toilets - the blue lights installed there to deter drug users would make my pallid face look particularly attractive.

Drops of perspiration ran down my temples and the backs of my knees and the glugging in my tummy began to develop an even faster, more bilious beat. Slowly and reluctantly, I reached into my back pack and felt for my plastic bag. It was there - good. I prayed that the comforting act of touching it would prevent any further evictions from my digestive system. Another stop went past. Another milestone of non-vomit. I touched the bag again for good luck, fingers sweating against the plastic.

Eventually I counted only three more stops to go. My stomach had become a set of internal bellows, hellishly determined to pump out its contents ASAP. Panicking, I hastily unsealed the top of the bag. No time for prayers or to wait for doors to open now -

BWWAAAAH! - straight in, no spillage. This would have been something to have been proud of if I had been in any mood to care. I hurled three more times, wiped my mouth with my hankie, and sealed the top of the bag again. It was then I looked up from my lap and noticed the stares of my fellow passengers.

The blush I experienced was so deep and so red that I felt as though my internal organs were on fire. I muttered my explanation to the passenger on my left, “morning sickness,” but the look he returned was so devoid of sympathy I pretended to rummage for something in my back pack - my dignity had a good chance of being in there, next to my work shoes, buttered vegemite crackers and spare sick bags. I could not look anywhere or meet the stares of anyone. The entire carriage was disgusted and their collective opinion of me seemed to be the derisive judgment of ‘Alcoholic.’

It was then that I longed to have a big belly and be hugely and obviously pregnant. My size 12 trousers still fit me and no-one offered me a seat when all were taken because I still looked like everybody else. At least, like everybody else when they had their first real hangover after a night on the Blackberry Nip, St Agnes brandy, chewing three bird's eye chillies and drawing back on a cigar......

The remaining five minutes of the journey stretched out before me like the space-time divide still to be travelled by Dr Who's Tardis. I forced a vacant (but hopefully contented) smile on my burning red face and primly clutched the sick bag in my lap. I could hear a faint ‘sloosh sloosh’ of my vomit each time the train entered a tunnel, and only then had the wit to realise that, perhaps, clear plastic wasn’t the best way to hide the ‘ol regurgitated peas and carrots from my fellow travellers.

That demented smile remained on my face for the longest five minutes of my life. Never again did I take the 7:18 - it was worth getting out of bed fifteen minutes earlier to preserve some of my anonymity on the 7:03.

Probably no surprise to you, dear reader when you consider the intelligent frame of mind I'd obviously shown from very early on in life (see above, circa 1970)

Fabulous Footy Follices (Hair)

It's been a while but it's long over due - it is time for to focus our attention on AFL players. No, not their superbly fit and chiselled bodies, but their hair. Yes, brace yourself, it is finally time for Dumb Football Hair 2007!

(you may wish to see the last series - http://http//blurbfromtheburbs.blogspot.com/2005/08/dumb-hair-men-in-sport-are.html).

A common strategy amongst Aussie Rules players is to cultivate some ludicrous locks in order to catch the umpire's eye, hoping that they will remember/pissthemselveslaughing/automatically-nominate them for a brownlow medal point or two. That may be true, but for us at home watching it is often the case of, "What the hell has that guy done to his hair - is he the full can of fanta?"

In no particular order of talent, youth or stupidity, this year's contenders are:

Dale Thomas, Collingwood

This one concerns me, not because my flokati rug has suddenly gone missing but for reasons of safety. Surely Daley-babes is at risk of getting his flokati-follicles ripped or pulled out of his head during play?

Wouldn't it be hot running around the oval (don't they run an average of about 10km per game) with the equivalent of a container load of mukluk liners on your scone? He's a brave - but none-too-bright - young man...

Daniel Hayes, Melbourne

I know you're good at your footy Dan, and it's great to be able to live the dream but must your hair be styled to resemble the shape of the football itself??

Or are you a fan of that funny-as-death Dan Akroyd movie, 'The Coneheads'?

Daniel McConnell, Kangaroos

Another Dan but this one's got a flatter head and ears like an angry elephant. What's not helping his case is the oily mop flopping down in an awkward imitation of a comb-over from the back to the front.

Perhaps he's the son of the guy in the Godfrey's tv commercial? (that guy has the KING of comb-overs). Haven't you heard of layering, my son?

Josh Kennedy, Carlton

Joshua, sweetie-darling-sweetie, normally it is good form to brush your hair before having your photo taken. It will make you look less like a five year old who has just been told to stop eating his boogers and more like the slightly older (mentally) football hero that you are.

You may win some extra points if you can confirm that you are, in fact, trying to show us what Ray Martin's hair would look like if it was fully deconstructed and just survived a sailing regatta in gail force winds.

Brock O'Brien, Fremantle

Oh. My. God. The clear winner so far - if only through the sheer height of his hair. What should I have expected from a kid named after the surname of a dead bloke who could drive holden commodores really fast around a mountain heaps of times? This obvious hirsuteness doesn't bode well for his shoulders and back remaining hairless when he hits his thirties, does it?

If he has that much hair sprouting from his head he can either be a Busby guard at Buckingham Palace when he's no longer playing or the silverbacked stand-in for the movie 'Gorillas in the Mist 2: Fugly in the Valley'

Nathan Carroll, Melbourne

My personal favourite. 'Ol Nath may possibly be the love child of Hulk Hogan and Ben Stiller from 'Dodgeball'.

Blonde tips, porn star moustache, Chopper Read beardy-bits and Gallagher brother eyebrows makes him outstanding in the field. Or, at least 'standing out in the field' on his own after the game. Ten bucks says he'll star in a triple X feature called 'Melbourne's Meat Man' in retirement to pay the rent on his gold-plated monaro and ceiling mirrors.....

Brad Moran, Kangaroos

Now Brad, what is this? Even you look as though you're too ashamed at your own retardedness to smile for the camera!

The white hair, the pathetically half-arsed effort at spikes or a mohawk and the Amish beard just do not work. Are you the bastard son of Warwick Capper and the guy from the Curiosity Show? And the moustache.....why go to the trouble - just grab a fat black texta and draw it on so that it matches the thickness of your eyebrows and do us all a favour!

Cameron Moody, Geelong

It was quite a challenge finding a photo of Mr Moody that did him any justice and even here his Paddle Pop Lion (or should that be cat?) hair is kept back by a rather fetching head band (Note to Dale Thomas - an Alice Band can do wonders for your complexion and keep your vision free for play).

The blonde dye job just completes the stereotype. Warwick Capper's long lost baby brother.


Beau Waters, West Coast Eagles

Didn't you go to school with me? Are a bona-fide Murray Bridge Bogan and still proud of it? Are you still driving that Ford Escort with the 'La Cucharacha' air horn that you'd blast all the way down Swanport Road?

Can you now do the drawback on your Winnie blues or are you still bum-sucking to save your lungpower to sing out the chorus to the Angels' 'Am I Ever Gonna See Your Face Again' at the pub after hard week at the meat works?


Beau's buddy-in-crime, Mitch Morton

Ah Mitch, how could I forget you. The last time I saw you was at Donger's 21st at Mypolonga: you were out cold after drinking bundy and couldn't get out of Macca's Mum's hammock quick enough to stop getting sick all over your Levi californians. Your girlfriend, Trudy, ending up getting on with Mud-Guts who left a big 'M' in love bites on her neck......

Daniel Merrett, Brisbane Lions

To be honest, I'm not sure if it's his kewpie doll hairstyle or the arched eyebrows framing his beady, slightly-deranged little eyes that unsettle me the most.

I'm crossing my fingers that he's an intelligent, hard-working model of society who does NOT film geriatrics getting it on or collect body parts to sew himself a wetsuit..

Courtney Johns, Essendon

It's tempting to write 'Last, and certainly Least' but I won't. The albino rasta look isn't one that's likely to sweep the nation: I can't see Kevin Rudd rockin' this style on his way to the polling booths.

The lack of fringe on his lo-o-o-o-o-ng horsey face doesn't help matters - it's as though Sarah Jessica Parker has been gender reassigned and slapped with a sliced squid. Probably also stinks like Laurie Oaks' trousers after a short jog to the buffet table.

Poochapalooza

Izzy the gorgeous white and black terrier (pictured below) had cleverly managed to buy, hand write and post our dear little Dogadoo a Scooby Doo-themed invitation, asking us around to help celebrate her 2nd (or 14th, depending on either human or canine age interpretation) birthday and commemorate moving into a new place at Kensington.

Apparently Douglas the fuzzy muttley (adopted after a cruel dumping at Mambray Creek) arrived first, and promptly left a fragrant calling card or three on the back lawn. Whilst hostess Izzy busied herself giving them a good sniff, William the whippet seized the moment to expertly squeeze himself into the cat-flap and cock his leg on the loungeroom beanbag. Luckily Eleanor (aka Izzy's Owner) deducted that, at age thirteen (or 91 if you're four-legged), William was reduced to producing 'dry runs' as a purely symbolic gesture and no damage (or saturating) was done.

My pooch, Dogadoo, heaved up her breakfast as soon as she arrived via the back gate. Not being the world's classiest guest, my first reaction was to say, "Ah well, you know what dogs like to do...it'll be cleaned up soon enough", but Eleanor (Izzy's owner) decided to find some newspapers and get rid of it so that the party guests would still have their appetites for chew bones, mutt mints and chook necks.

The tone had already been set for this doggee soiree however: - poo, wee and vomit, and all in the first five minutes! All it needed now was some ear-bleedingly loud doof-doof, P-plated gatecrashers and a visit by the police to be the carbon copy of the 18th birthday party down the street that we'd suffered through recently (including having lemons stripped from the neighbouring tree and thoughtfully placed under our windshield wipers).

I decided it was time to hand out a Schmackos beef hide for each of the guests. Izzy and Douglas looked at them doubtfully - in terms of size to height ratio I guess it was like asking them to gnaw through a boogie board. William the elder took his off to eat in privacy behind the willow tree and Dogadoo flopped on the doormat, holding it between both paws and gnawing at it protectively. It would be nice to be able to write about Dogadoo behaving impeccably after that but alas that wasn't the case. She snapped irritably at any pooch who ventured within a metre of her until every last shred of the beef hide was eaten.

William (as you can see here) was rather non-plussed by the whole event and was clearly hoping that there'd be a fire, a broadsheet newspaper, a pipe and a rocking chair for him to enjoy and retire to.

He was quite happy to let the three young upstarts have a good tussle over the pass-the-parcel event: it was pointless telling the three boneheads that each layer had liver treats in it and each guest was going to receive a doggy rope ball. Photography was an even more pointless exercise because their wagging tails, wriggly bodies and twitchy noses made posing an impossibility.

Soon it was time for party hats but Dogadoo was not impressed. She had hers on for about three seconds before jumping clear from my restraining arms, flapping her ears like a centrifuge and escaping the infernal appendage.


Douglas was more tolerant, but no less inclined to sit still for a photograph.

It was then that the humans decided to go inside and have a cup of tea, some croissants and mud cake and leave the dogs outside. "They all seem pretty happy now - I'm sure we can trust them," said William-the -Whippet's owner. "We can see them all from here," replied Eleanor reassuringly. It felt as though we were four Norwood yummy-mummies leaving our 3 three years olds unsupervised in the garden....

Sort of. Douggie started howling, so was brought inside to the laundry and placed behind a child-proof gate so that he could see his beloved owners but not chew at the table cloth. William sought sanctuary from the rabble by hiding amongst the bushes and, as the rain started falling, Izzy decided to retreat to the warmth of her kennel.

My Dogadoo sat on the mat, looking forlornly at us eating, drinking and making merry inside; occasionally adding a heart-rending whine to make the croissant flakes stick in my throat like ash. "You won't die out there, furry-face," I told her.

An hour later we both walked home in the soft rain. Dogadoo's tail wagged as she forced me to stand and wait patiently as she strained to birth the Norton Summit of butt nuggets and eagerly investigated her party bag of treats including a pig's ear, chew-toy and bone at the other end. Life was good in Dogadoo Land.

Life's Big Question - Uggies or Crocs?

I'm about one-third of the way through writing a book at the moment. No, not a booker prize-winning novel that will cause stampedes of the literary-minded to Dymocks, a glowing interview with Jennifer Byrne and an all-expenses-paid first class flight to Chicago to feature as Oprah's book of the month but a self-help book (more on that later, perhaps).

What it means for me, right now in practical terms, is that I'm working from home for three months and can lower my standards of dress sense and style even further than my usual, "If it's black and clean, it's fine" approach to corporate attire. Look at the picture above; this is what I'm waahing on about. Come tomorrow (Monday), I'll be showered, dressed in my most forgiving elastic-banded trakkie daks, some form of polar fleece zip top and faced with the most important decision of the day - crocs'n'socks, or bare feet and uggs?

Love Chunks loves to chortle about my hypocrisy when it comes to Crocs. For the past two summers, whenever someone aged over 10 would galumph down the street in spindly legs wearing some huge form of primary-coloured kindergarten playground equipment on their feet, my comment would be instant and predictable: "God I hate those croc shockers. They're so butt ugly and make the wearer look as though they've stepped on a melted Smurf house on their way to a sheltered workshop." Then, a few months ago, Sapphire - on the cusp of turning eight years old - started to pester me to buy her a pair. "Pl-e-a-s-e Mum, everyone in my class is wearing them...!"

She had me at 'everyone' because, since finding out that it wasn't Bali belly from Langkawi but a foetus that was causing me to lose my lunch on the train, I swore to myself the most sacred of oaths. I swore that if my child - my own flesh and blood progeny - needed a particular brand or item of clothing in order to fit in, he or she would get it. There were too many painful memories I'd never been able to repress of having jeans that were too baggy to pass muster in 1982, finally getting a pair of kiaks the second they went out of fashion or hoping my dunlop volleys would look as cool as the ubiquitous Adidas Romes. It didn't matter that Mum said volleys only cost $7 from Grandisons compared to $38 for the Romes at Sportsworld; it was like suffering a thousand tiny papercuts in my heart when I realised that I'd have to go to school looking like the love interest from 'Revenge of the Nerds'.

Back to Sapph - therefore, if 'Crocs' were in - and they most definitely were in her class - she would get a pair. LC and I have agreed that our precious one is not to set the trends for her peers, but we will certainly try to make her school life easier if she has one less thing to worry about. So there we were, in the shoe shop: Sapph in raptures at my capitulation ("I know you hate them Mum but I love them and you!") and me rolling my eyes at her obviously-successful parental crawl and the sheer retardo-factor of the shoes. A few seconds later, however, I found a pair on my feet. Ohhhh Lordy lordy me; they were like wearing the buttery chocolate insides of a lindor ball - superbly soft and as light as a feather. Needless to say, two pairs were purchased that day and I defy anyone to say, "Does she realise how dumb they look - is she planning on doing some gardening on the sea floor?" because they're bloody comfy. Nicole Richie could rent them out as a holiday house they're that soft.

No such reversal of opinions about ugg boots. Being a Murray Bridge bogan born-and-bred means that they are as familiar to me as the ceiling shag pile in a Sandman and will continue to be long after the Hollywood rehab chickies have considered them too passe to wear with their micro minis and exposed nipples. They're warm, last forever and can take me from morning to evening with confidence. Not so acceptable at work though.

How will I cope with having to select items such as black boots, flat courts, loafers and strappy sandals to shove on my feet from September? Not to mention having to repress doing long and rattling burps out loud, followed by staccato bursts of flatulence and the occasional tuneless humming of an inane commercial jingle.... it will be tragic when my working-from-home time is over, I tell you!

In the meantime, I plan on making the most of it. If someone invites me out to a restaurant that features in the gold section of the Entertainment Guide, I will seriously have to consider whether the event is worthy enough for me to have to put aside the crocs'n'uggs and tart myself up. I did it for Love Chunks last weekend at Magill Estate and unless John Cusack phones and offers me a million dollars to spend a week with him in the Bahamas inhaling bollinger and haighs choccies, he'll just have to wait until September or come over to my place and see me ala ugg. Same goes for Jude Law.

"...and don't forget to bring back the Axylotl!"
Now that's something you don't hear every day, is it?

For a suburban blurber, sometimes the 'to do' list in my tattered Far Side paper diary says a great deal about what's occupying my lindt ball-sized brain. For instance, over the weekend it contained:

Saturday

• 9:15am - Sapphire's tennis lesson. Note to self: Is it our turn to bring coffee? Second note: must stop mucking around with parents Rocky, Ali, Grant and Roberto and instead pay attention to Sapph's efforts
• Collect Axylotl from Nature Education Centre - anytime on Sat. between 1pm and 5pm for Sapphire's school. Don't forget the frozen beef hearts!
• Do meditation homework: 1) stand starkers in front of full-length mirror for at least five minutes. Note to self: Room temperature, Love Chunks and Sapphire-free time and self-loathing permitting; 2) Eat and drink one meal s-l-o-w-l-y and without distractions like reading the paper, talking to someone else or standing up. Note to self: will be challenging, especially if forced to eat gluten-free crackers again; and 3) Look at your physical/emotional state - are you agitated, balanced or dull? Need to ask teacher: can I be all three at once?
• Get Sapphire ready by 5pm - for dinner at Cafe Primo, Shrek 3 and sleepover at Angus's house. Note: remind her that only one - not all fourteen - Beanie kids will fit into her Jessie from ToyStory II backpack and that if I hear about Tamagotchi version four one more time I will decapitate Mama Beanie Bear and insert it up the split in Gummi Bear's backside...
• Feed Axylotl - sorry 'Arthur' and train Dogadoo to not growl at him and to stop licking the taped up sides of the aquarium.
• Tart myself up - booking at Penfold's Magill Estate for LC's early 40th birthday dinner made for 7:30pm. Note: need to start psyching myself up for make-up application at midday, with first attempts commencing at 3pm

Sunday

• Set alarm for 8:00am to collect Sapphire from Angus's place. Reminder: Mum Catherine hopefully not utterly fed up with Sapphire but has to get Angus and party food ready for Norwood Bowl adventure with boys from his school;
• Re-do Chapter Five - editor hates it, and with good reason. Note: must delicately negotiate non-family and housework time around LC (likely to be hungover) and Sapphire (likely to be grumpy).
• Go to Coles - need potatoes, liquid paper, non-gluten rice crackers that are edible and Farmers Union Feel Good Iced Coffee. Note to self: get the Sunday Mail because we need to know what's on the telly for the week.

You'll be pleased to know that all of the above tasks were ticked off my list and Arthur the Axylotl's arrival in Sapphire's classroom this morning was treated with the greatest interest and respect by the kids. LC had to carry the aquarium in because it was too heavy for me, I had Arthur swishing around in a plastic bag inside a blue bucket with his water aerater, beef hearts and PH soluton. Sapphire had her lunch and the information pamphlet.

After filling up Arthur's tank and placing his bag in the water to acclimatise, Love Chunks and I were ready to leave. We farewelled our sweet child who barely turned around to acknowledge us. She was already lost to the environment of school mates, armpit farts and the reflected glory of having a Mexican fish with legs in her home for the weekend.

Camping About
















We three have just returned from a long-weekend at the 'Gateway to the Flinders Ranges', aka Mambray Creek.

It's a Claytons* kind of camping which is designed to ease in Four-Star-Stuck-in-the-Muds like myself who can pretty well put up with all sorts of outdoorsy grot and misadventure as long as there is a hot shower, flushing toilet and warm bed at the end of it.

Well Mambray Creek offers one out of the three. Unlike last year where we stayed at the long-drop toilet site, this year we opted for the flushing toilets and showers. We should have left our soap at home because the single shower available was cold water only - not particularly attractive in zero winter temperatures that could freeze the cuddle nuts off a koala. It also meant that any issues I had about BO or personal hygiene were also willingly thrown out of the tent window as I vowed not to remove the first two layers of clothing from my body for the next four days.

So, a flushing toilet, but no (hot) showers and no soft bed or warmly-lit five star BnB accommodation either. Instead, we had our rather grand 'Taj Mahal' tent which has separate wings for Sapphire, our gear, and Love Chunks'n'me. Any thoughts of nocturnal nookies with LC had long since vanished - who'd want to get hot and sweaty with someone who hadn't washed for four days and who smelled like burned wood and wino grease?

We spent our time 'out in the wild' with three other couples and their kids. Love Chunks and I sometimes took a second out from the group to smile smugly at each other and mutter, "Oh, isn't it great that we only have one child and she's eight years old," before walking back to the central camp area and being assailed with squeals, poo-filled nappy pongs and anxious parents herding their toddlers away from the flames like osteoporosis-inflicted goal keepers.

As the oldest child, Sapphire reigned supreme. The second oldest child, cousin Matt, remained enthralled with her instructional lectures on the virtues of collecting Beanie Kids and for a kid who likes to "be a battler who kills things and wins all the time", he displayed formidable commitment to sitting around a pretend gum-leaf fire singing songs to stuffed animals.

Little brother Jack was then free to play with Hamish, who normally flocked to Matt. Hamish was most certainly NOT going to hang around a boy - no matter how much he idolised him - who held hands with his girly cousin and did the limbo with 'Beanie kid Priscilla and Princess' under his arm. Even way past his bedtime when his mother had to unzip the tent and tell him to go to sleep for the tenth time, I could still him chattering on:
"Mu-u-u-u-m Sapphire said that there's a Viking beanie kid who's really strong and a super Beanie Boy who wears a cape and.....Muuuum? Do you think the Tooth Fairy will find my tooth tonight even though I'm not at home?"

By 8:30pm every night, each child was entombed in their sleeping bags and us parents were ready to party. Or, at the very least, drag out some dark chocolate and port and risk using a few swear words in our conversations.

As for nature, she did her best. Cold nights and clear mornings with just the right sprinkling of wildlife to make it interesting but safe. A couple of emus would regularly stroll through the camp on the lookout for stray toast crusts and squashed marshmallows and would stoically endure a growing gang of excited brats following them around yelling and brandishing tree branches. A few kangaroos sproinged around in the distance and plenty of kookaburras were on hand to laugh maniacally at my unfolded, uncleansed morning face and beanie hair. By 'beanie' I do not mean the infernal toys that Sapphire loves, but the woolly hat jammed on my head. From the morning of Day two it was obviously from the hairs greasily slicked against my skull that it was mandatory to adhere to the 'beanie time, all the time' rule to avoid offending the other innocent campers around me.

Love Chunks maintained his usual high standards of culinary creations - from a gas stove and a rickety card table he produced pan-grilled scotch fillets, green chicken curry, spaghetti bolognese, home-made smoked beans, pancakes and bacon'n'eggs. Oh and not to mention mastering the cafe tierre and producing coffee so fragrant and pungent that it took the enamel of our teeth and made us more alert than a Hilton Ho in the cell block showers.

As for me and camping - we'll always be content to remain nodding acquaintances but I grudgingly did enjoy myself. So much so that I bought an ourdoor gazebo tent thingy for our camp kitchen instead of LC's rather patchy tarp and four poles effort - does that mean I might actually want to do it again, and soon?


*Claytons was an alternative to alcohol, heavily promoted by John 'Bewdy Newk' Newcombe in the 1970s. Since then, anything described as a 'Claytons' in Oz means a safer alternative. For example: Bert Newton is our Claytons Michelen Man because he's more recognised in Australia'

Irritable Bowel?
Pretty bloody FURIOUS is more like it!





One, two....three...........PUSH !!!


Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS) is the most inappropriate label since Goebbels describe Hitler's feelings towards Jews as "a little bit negative."

After spending a couple of weeks on a self-imposed detox, I have timidly ventured into eating a bit of sugar, cake, choccie and wine again, only to have my sphincter crack a full-sized hissy fit in immediate retaliation. Instead of cleansing out my system, I think the detox has made my Furious Bloody Bowel Syndrome even more sensitive - just a mere inhalation of the hundreds and thousands covering Sapphire's birthday cake the other day was enough to have me locked in our laundry loo, shivering in misery and producing pretty well nothing. (Note to self - must must MUST get a new window - the permanently-open louvres from the 1950s letting in the stiff winter breezes are not making lingering loo moments very comfortable).

As if Love Chunks hasn't had to endure many horrible nights of Doona Dutch Ovens and having my butt blasts follow me in from the back door to the living room, he now has to come and request that I ~ ahem ~ "Fill up a friggin' bucket and flush those river pebbles down and out of my sight." Whilst I bask in the security and endurance of his love and admiration, I think that viewing my abnormal excrement is not on his list of turn-ons....

Why do we use such gentle terms to describe such arse-tearingly awful ailments?
Strep Throat sounds a tad annoying, but if you have some streptococci setting up camp in your oesophagus you're in for a world of pain that isn't visible from the outside but makes even breathing in air an awful act to contemplate.

Wisdom teeth 'removal' - ah, if it were only that simple. Getting them taken out 'in the chair' sounded so easy, so quick. Several hours later, my jumper was dripping with cold sweat, my ears were filled up with tears of terror and the dentist (or should I say student) had to yell at me to stop hyperventilating. My eyes were squeezed shut, but my water-logged ears definitely heard the assisting nurse exclaim, "Oh Nooo!"
"Don't worry about it, Nance," was the hung-over reply from the stupid student.
The drama of my 'removal in the chair' was also relayed to the next few suckers in the waiting room who witnessed me falling through the stainless steel saloon doors, drooling blood - there was no budget for cotton pads - and gurgling, "Love Chu-u-u-u-u-u-n-k-s? Take me home now!"

Minimal Tearing during childbirth - Over eight summers ago, LC and I were eagerly lapping up all of the advice provided in the pre-birthing classes. At least, until we saw the birth video and the voiceover gleefully announced, "Sandie is so lucky - she has only torn two centimetres." I wanted to suck that foetus up my fallopian tubes like iced coffee through a straw it terrified me so much. As for my own situation a few months later, let's just say that I tore from A to V and walked like an arthritic cowboy for two months afterward.

You're all just meat on a slab to me, said the doctor, as I blushingly eased myself onto the examination trolley, dreading my annual pap smear. It was OK for him - he does hundreds of them a year but for a relatively modest gal who had never even seen him before turning herself in a pornographic letter 'Y', it wasn't so common. To add more fuel to my already fire-red face, the window of the examination room directly faced out onto the Greensborough line and the blinds were open. "Er, Doctor P, would you mind closing those blinds? I don't want to give the Eltham folk a free peep show on the way home."
He rolled his eyes, leaned over to snap them shut with his left hand while still inserting some kind of enormous stapler inside me with his right.
"Oh and doctor? I'm MillyMoo, it's nice to meet you. What's your name?"

Insomnia - sounds more like an exotic holiday destination: "Dina's just choofed off to Insomnia for a fortnight of wine, men and song, the lucky duck..." Instead, it's the term used for a protracted period of sleep deprivation that is also adopted with inhumane enthusiasm by international torture experts. There's nothing lonelier than lying awake at 3.00am hearing the sound of regular breathing beside you (or outboard motor-loud snoring) knowing that you won't be heading in the same blissful direction and it sure as hell doesn't prepare you for a two hour meeting after lunch on 'strategic performance indicators' when your eyes look and feel like fractured jaffas.

It only takes a second to take it out said the medical researcher after spending close to one hour inserting a lubricated tube up my nose, down my throat and attaching the end to a scary-looking refrigerator that measured my stomach waves. And yes, she was right - it did only take a few seconds to pull out the tube faster than going about on a Sydney-to-Hobart racing skiff, but the demonic little valve on the end was sharply angled for insertion, not removal and sliced my throat and inside of my nose like a whip as it departed. Luckily for the researcher I was too busy staggering about the room in shock and agony to ram her head into the sharps bin.