Mind Holiday

For most of my life, I have sat down and read a chapter or two of a book every day. Now I can’t remember the last time I picked up a book that wasn’t for the kids. Life got so full of responsibility and obligation that reading for pleasure suddenly seemed like an unproductive use of my time.

Sometimes, I’d walk past my bookshelf and my fingers would wander over the spines of my favourite worlds. I’d be hit with a pang of twofold guilt; the guilt of neglecting Fitz-Chivalry and his Fool, and the guilt of more important responsibilities that loomed over me while I selfishly contemplated reading.  When did I stop allowing myself to have free time? When did I let mother’s guilt become so all encompassing? I often find myself saying, “I need a holiday from my mind.” But that’s exactly what reading is. It’s brilliant.


A few of my favourite things.

I had a moment in my kitchen today, when I looked around and didn’t know what I was there for.  The laundry was done. Dishes? Done. Beds were made, rooms were tidy, so what was I meant to be doing? A little voice inside me squeaked, “Read a book!” I heard it, it was quiet, but I heard it. I drowned it out with a louder voice that boomed, “DO SOME BAKING! START DINNER NOW! COOK EXTRA FOR THE FREEZER!” So now we have chocolate slice, cinnamon buns and three days worth of dinners. Which is great, but I could have made myself a cup and tea, put my feet up and read a book. How delicious does that sound?!

I’ve decided I’m going to make time to read. I even went to the library and chose three books. It wasn’t until I got home that I realised I’d fucked up. All three books were chosen because they relate to something I want to achieve. I was suppose to get lost in a world of fiction, instead I came away with “Rewire Your Overanxious Brain”, “The Power of Negative Emotion” and “The $50 Weekly Shop”.  Not exactly light reading, but it’s a start.


Super-mums: Liars or Drug Fiends?

Some days, I love being a mum. I love hanging out with my kids, teaching them things and answering their endless questions. Being a parent is a unique experience, no one does it the same way. Every child is different and watching them grow and evolve in to little members of society is like watching beautiful flowers blossom and blah blah blah………. you know how mummy blogs are meant to go. “I’m a super-mum, I wore my babies until they were big enough to permanently kink my spine; I breastfed my children until they were 13 years old; only organic vegetables plucked from the Earth under a new moon goes into my homemade baby food – which, buy the way, you can purchase from my website at $23 per serve.”


What you can’t see is that the two girls are in tears, Dad’s about to step in dog shit, and Mum’s wishing she was home alone with a cocktail.

I was a super-mum last week. Last week was an A-grade parenting extravaganza. Today, they’re driving me crazy. They’re no different than usual, but I’m PMSing hard, and everything they do seems to be designed to torture me. Boy-child speaks painfully slow, but what he’s telling me is clearly important to him, so I have to patiently sit and wait and resist the urge to hurry him up. Trying to get him to follow instructions is an exercise in futility. If I tell him to go and get dressed, he’ll disappear for 20 minutes to do various other crucial tasks that are not getting dressed, such as pulling faces in the mirror or reloading his Nerf guns. It takes him 4 trips to his bedroom and back just to retrieve a pair of pants. On the way out the door, he needs to go to the toilet even though he just went, then he’ll ask if he can give the rats a treat, then the cats. Then he needs to tell me something really import that he saw on YouTube about Minecraft.

Girl-child is like a puppy with periodic rabies. She’s overflowing with love and adoration, and would probably be down to play fetch until she collapsed if I were to suggest it. She talks to the animals in an insanely high pitched squeak that seems to be at a frequency that can pass effortlessly through walls and my skull. It’s become such an ingrained habit, that she often doesn’t register that she’s doing it, and seconds after being asked to stop, she’s doing it again. Sometimes, she’s a dragon. She speaks in Dragonesse and starts roaring, hissing, trumpeting and walking on all fours. This is usually a sign that she is  about to lose her ability to regulate her actions, not to be naughty, but just out of sheer unbridled excitement.

Every now and then, without warning , she goes apoplectic. She throws things, tells me she hates me, my house, and everything in it. She stomps around and inevitably,  hurts herself, setting off Screaming Banshee mode. Then she goes to her room, and after a couple of minutes of tearing the linen off her bed and doing her best angry diva impression ,  she starts calling for me, apologizes then tells me why everything is my fault. These tantrums can take a few minutes, or last several hours.

I envy the mothers who can just sit back and smile serenely as the chaos washes over them. They must be on some hella good drugs. Why aren’t those bitches sharing?

You Are A Pervert, And So Is Your Gran

You know what’s great? Objectification.  I looooove objectifying men (and some women, looking at you Catherine Zeta-Jones). Objectification is the act of viewing someone as a sum of their parts and what they can do for you sexually. To say that objectification is male chauvinism is grossly inaccurate, because I, and every other straight woman, sometimes {read: frequently} look at a gorgeous specimen of masculinity and secretly think, “I want to chain that up in my basement and keep it for my personal use.”

Hm? What’s that? Oh, you don’t?

Well you, Ma’am are a filthy liar!


Case in point: Remember when Travis Fimmel was a CK model?

We are just as prolific at objectification as men are, the only difference is, we are subtle. Men don’t really do subtle. They try, but they’re just not very good at it, bless them.

Where Marjory might walk past a strapping young lad and think to herself, “What I wouldn’t do to get on that tasty piece of man meat….”, old Theo would look at the lads’ arm-candy and blurt out, “Did you see the rack on that!?”. This of course would lead to Marjory calling him a pig and giving him the silent treatment for the rest of their vacation. Then granddaughter, Chantyllisha, will lecture poor old Theo about the perpetuation of rape-culture in a patriarchal society. Anyone within ear-shot would consider Theo a creep, when all he did was fail to engage the safety barrier between brain and mouth.


I mean, fucking hell, LOOK at him!

Yes, women are judged on their looks more than men are, but times are a-changing. Women are becoming more vocal. Some would say more vulgar – I would say more honest. The filthiest person on my Facebook feed is a woman, and I think she’s awesome. The fact is, Theo is no more a pervert or a threat than Marjory. This will come to light in a few years when Marjory goes a bit senile and her brain-mouth barrier fails. Chantyllisha will hold that old whore’s hand and tell herself that Granny doesn’t know what she’s saying when Marge offers the sexy orderly a good going-over. Then they’ll both sit back and imagine what he’s hiding under his uniform.

I say, objectify away! Don’t be an asshole about it and make people uncomfortable, but by all means, admit that you’d like to bone Jason Statham; nudge your buddy when a particularly pert butt in yoga pants walks by. We’re all horny perverts, and that includes you.


He just gets better and better as time goes on, how the fuck does he do that?