December truly is the month of love and loss.

A friend posted on Facebook today about how she missed her Mum and really needed to speak with her.  This simple post seemed to cut me to the core.  I miss my Mum every single day.  There is not one 24 hour period when she doesn’t cross my mind in one form or another; happy memories, doing things with the children, laughing, opening my mouth and hearing her pour out!

These last few weeks have been particularly emotional – and as ever with me – I seem to just plod on and get through it without ever really giving the moments the attention they so deserve.

Sam Graduated from Year 12 on the 20^th November.  He ACTUALLY graduated.  Despite the school saying he wouldn’t and the loss and disappointment that came along with that realisation….. somehow, on the night, the marks were re-collated, double checked, fudged, whatever!!! but he was allowed to graduate.  It was a lovely ceremony.  His Year group have always offered a particularly high level of challenge to the teaching community, but often, these spirited individuals are the ones that leave the biggest impression in life. 

Sam was also awarded with his certificate in business studies on this night.  It was a very proud moment.  I bit my lip on a number of occasions to fight back the tears; the photos of him over his years in high school with his friends, the ‘then and now’ photo and the funny anecdotes from the Head Boy and Girl.  It was a lovely service.

And then this happened:

Hard to put into words what happened last night at Sam's graduation; it was very emotional and so moving.

The Principal then gave a moving address about 'The Last Speech' and what would your words of wisdom be to others; that at the end of the day, material possessions don't matter - they don't bring you true fulfilment and happiness - that only comes from love, laughter and relationships.

It reinforced every lesson I have learnt this year.

Then she presented a video montage of parents, friends and colleagues, giving advice and guidance for the Graduating Class of 2015 - their words of Wisdom to take with them into the future.

The film was accompanied by this music:

The same version of the song we played at Mum's funeral.

With the first few notes of that song, I know Sam, Darcie and I would have felt the same intense emotions - peace, grief, disbelief and love all together. It was as if Mum was there, sharing the graduation of her eldest Grandson with us. It was amazing.

And to top it all off - the last words on the screen when the video ended........

'And remember - always love your Mum x'

It was simultaneously the most amazing and heartbreaking thing!   I sobbed like a baby in the Auditorium – goodness only knows what the other parents and grandparents sitting all around us must have thought of Darcie and I, sobbing – desperately trying to get the tears to stop.  I couldn’t even look for Sam’s face in the crowd of his friends.  Only towards the end of the song (they played it twice – just to ensure we TOTALLY got the message – thanks, Mum :D ) I looked towards Sam and could see him searching for Darcie and I in the audience.  It was a moment I will never forget. 

A Little bit pleased with himself!

Then this week, Adam has graduated Primary school.  Sam and I sat a giggled and laughed through the ceremony – trying to coax a smile from Adam when he was standing, proud as punch, on the stage.  As usual, it was just too uncool to acknowledge anyone whilst being adored – although we did managed to tease a smile from him occasionally.  

Peas in a Pod (Sam did his hair too!)

Afterwards, I let Adam pick anything he wanted for a celebratory dinner – he chose McDonalds!  Create your own though – no cheap arse happy meal for him!  It was a lovely evening, spent with the people that I love the most.

Just proud

Maccas!

I only have Adam’s Christmas Concert to contend with now and school officially wraps up for 2015 in 3 days. Prepare for the guilt of the school holiday! 

But it leads me to dwell a little on December and all that it brings.  For every laugh and happy memory, there is the bittersweet knowledge that it was also the month that I lost both Dad and Mum; and now, in 2015, the final closure on my marriage should come through the mail any day.  

Whilst it was me that pushed for the divorce and I have no regrets that it was the right thing for me to do, it’s still the end of another Chapter that I must come to terms with.  

Maybe I will allow myself one day of grieving and then pull my big girl knickers up and kick this shit!

We have lots to look forward to – hopefully a happy, healthy, fun Christmas and then a trip to the UK to catch up with family and friends.  As Darcie and Adam have never been back, it will be exciting to see things through their eyes.   Have organised lots of days out and fun activities – really hoping it’s relaxed and enjoyable and memories are made that will last a lifetime for Sam, Darcie and Adam,

I am strong.  I am powerful.  I am amazing.

I have got this!

The Halls Head Two

I acquired the Halls Head two in a stroke of luck, rather than a planned act of acquisition.  I had toyed with the idea of getting ‘a’ kitten – singular.  This from a ‘dog’ family – my Dad’s famous comment about felines was ‘the only good cat is a dead cat’. But I think my hankering for a feline companion was down to ME being able to choose MY own pet in MY home (that I shouldn’t really have pets in as it’s a rental and I haven’t asked permission……but that’s not very ‘girl power’ is it, and doesn’t go with my empowerment message!?)

I surfed the net a little for rescue kittens, but blimey!  Think it’s actually harder to adopt a kitten than an actual baby – some shelters even wanted home visits!  What the?  I have enough judgment in my life currently; I don’t need PETA calling my on the first Thursday of the month the check the consistency of my kibble!  Wonder if Angelina Jolie had to contend with this?

........ I bet Angelina doesn't get given the ugly kids :/

I do LOVE Facebook and the Buy and Sell pages have furnished my home in recent months.  I love the fact I can proudly say (in a Sesame Street stylee…….) my new home has been brought to you by Facebook buy and Sell pages, Kmart and the letters on my credit card J  So my eyes lit up when I noticed a post offering two mature, de-sexed cats for rehoming.  I messaged and the lady called me to say that one was almost certainly going to her new home (a beautiful blue puddy tat), but she had the tabby still available.  I arranged to go and see her on Friday.

Friday came ‘unfortunately’ fell within the school holidays, so I took DD with me.  In the car, I brief her on ‘poker face’.  We don’t HAVE to take the cat, OK?  If it looks a bit manky or it’s got a limp, or looks a little bedraggled……. we’ve got enough drama and disablement in our lives, we don’t need to add a ‘care in the community’ cat to our list of woes.  DD agreed, but I think her heart was already in the cat carrier with our newly acquired pussy.

We jumped out of the car and met the Lady, with the news that both cats were still available.  The Blue came over to say hello, and before its tail had even left DD’s leg, she’d said out loud that we’d take them both!  I can’t say I blame her as by this point, the Lady had mentioned (in not so many words) that if we didn’t take them, she was running out of time to rehome them and they would be given swimming lessons in a local pond wearing a sack with a few bricks in.  No!!!!  And thus, the Halls Head two were acquired.

Allow me to introduce you! 

Coutts (aka CouttsyCat, Couttsy, Bitchy Bite face, Barbara).

Beautiful grey/blue colour with stunning eyes.  Scatty and playful.  Very POSH!  Shy, although she enjoys a snuggle (on her terms, obviously!) and will suck your clothes/blanket until they’re soaked!

 

Bossy (aka BossCat, da Boss, Gladys).

 

My favourite (don’t tell Coutts).  She’s slowly got to know me and chases me up the stairs at night when the lights go off to beat me to bed.  She sleeps on the bed with me – sometimes so close, I breathe in her fur with each breath.  She loves a good moan and the pensioner bus picks her up every day and takes her to Bingo.  When I get home, she takes great delight in moaning about who won that day – heaven forbid if the lucky winner sat in her chair or used her ‘lucky’ dobber.

 

 

 

 

 

She eats all her breakfast, then polishes off Couttsies, so she’s slightly ‘plumper’ than perhaps she should be. I said to Adam ‘maybe she’s just big boned, or has thyroid issues?’  Adam replied, ‘no, Mum, she’s got eating all of her breakfast and then stuffing Coutts’s issues!’  He’s got a point :/

I never realised how much coming home to an aloof, nonchalant arsehole (ha ha – biting tongue!) could make me so happy!  There’s usually one by the door as I enter the house, come to greet me and ask me where the hell do I think I’ve been all day – did I not notice their biscuit bowl was empty!!? 

I also never knew that such independent animals could be such a comfort.  OK, so a chase round the house for a cuddle when it’s not on their terms is completely fruitless, however, give it time in the evening with the fire on and they’ll sneak up for a sook.  There is nothing quite as reassuring as a purr on your lap and it gives my life meaning when I HAVE to get up before 8am on the weekend to feed them, or they will positively starve L

Thank you for choosing us, the Halls Head two.  We might have picked you up with the roadside collection, but I don’t know who needed saving most.

Driving myself round the bend

I think I spend so much time in my car currently that I’m thinking of having the back seats converted into a bunk for an inter-journey nap.

If I’m not on the morning school run, I’m on the pick up.  Not driving to work, but leaving early to pick a child up.  Now DD has a job, there are work drop off and collections for her too; along with dancing (now twice a week, rather than once :/) and youngest son’s soccer; training AND matches.

I’m thinking of having a microwave installed, or ‘luxury of all luxuries!’ a CUP HOLDER!  How – I ask you – could the designer of my European, very expensive car have completely omitted to include a receptacle to house a beverage?  I mean, my car originated in Germany.  Where would Herr place his Stein of beer whislt driving home from work in the evening?  

It’s got a removable, electrically powered roof, seat warmers (that I have to watch and get the kids to warn me if they start to smell bacon.  I used to wonder why we invariably ended up at McDonalds then I realised that my posterior was sending off fumes like a Breakfast McMuffin and like obedient, Bisto kids, we headed for the drive through with the car following the waft of delicious nasal excitement).  Most mod cons that you could ask for in a car, but a cup holder??  Ha ha ha…..no!  We have designed the vehicle purposely so that you have to wedge your cup of scaldingly hot coffee in your crotch as you drive and take every corner at 10mph until its tepid enough to drink.  Bloody Germans!

Saying that, I do love my car – or Miley Car-us as I have affectionately named her (as she shows off and takes her top off when the boys are looking).  She is sporty, sexy and, apart from the odd warm crotch-mishap, possibly the most favourite car that I’ve owned.  She has an oil leak, but I just put that down to middle-aged incontinence and her need to be acknowledged everywhere she visits.  It’s like she is leaving her autograph – whether you want it or not!  ;)

However, she has a new garage partner.  A true blue Aussie bogan to ruffle her skirts.  A fourby.  If my car is Nicole Kidman, refined, elegant, breakable, the new kid on the block is definitely Hugh Jackman – rugged, 5 o’clock shadow and shirtless.  Shit is going to do down.  This upstart is raring to go and show his colours.  You can almost hear him growl when you walk past him on the driveway; urging to ‘go bush’ get muddy, bogged and up to no good.  This is gonna be fun! Add this to Ralph’s Bush-Boy testosterone levels and I can just tell the ‘Jesus Christ’ bar is going to get a really good work out >.<  I never even knew this was a thing!!!  Apperently, you haven’t been bush bashing unless you: a) get bogged, b) break something, c) terrify your passenger with at least one grip of the handrail and the cry of ‘Jesus Christ!’

I shall report back later in the week after our first off-road experience.  I have a feeling that snatch straps (WTF!) may be involved also.  I must admit that I chose to zone out at them mention of these and having to deflate and reinflate the tyres so they don’t come off the rims?!  Like a whole new language!  I’ve only just got to grips with some of the nautical terms, now I’m completely in at the deep end again and starting from scratch on a whole new hobby.

 

'Courting'

Family Court is possibly one of THE most depressing places I have even visited.  I think the atmosphere is only slightly more hospitable in Fremantle Prison and that place is S H I T T Y!

God, did we witness two female Solicitors butt horns today. The one with the patent stilettos was taking NO shit from her mousey, sensible trouser wearing adversary.   Her tongue was so vicious, I was surprised there wasn’t blood splattered up the walls when she turned and left her counterpart, stunned with her mouth flopping open and closed like a barn door in the wind.  If she is married, I pity her husband!  If he hasn’t done the dishes when she gets home, he would need a bloody good lawyer and an affidavit in defence (listen to me – affidavit!  6 months ago I’d never even read one, let alone written my autobiography in one J ) 

It’s horrid looking around and seeing people have their lives dictated by a Judge.  It breaks my heart that I am even there at all.  Julia, a Libran through and through who lives for harmony and reconciliation is having her laundry aired in Family Court – it’s just cringe worthy.  It goes against everything in my psyche to be there – arguing.  I hate it.  I sit in the chair in front of the magistrate and I can hear my pulse in my ears. 

It’s distressing to see people exit the Courtroom in floods of tears, things not going in their favour, judgements being made on their lives by a complete stranger.

So as I was sat there, watching a woman leave the court so visibly distraught I wanted to hug her, I thought about injecting a little humour into the place.

When I went for my first mediation appointment at Relationships Australia in Leederville, I had the brainwave of an internet booth in the corner with Tinder available constantly – well, there was a constant flow of newly available men and women pouring through their doors on a daily basis.  This could be taken to a new level at Family Court.  As you enter the building and have your belongings x-rayed and walk through the ‘beepy doorway of shame’ you could also have a few selfies taken and be given a number; your details then appear on the in-court Tinder network – let’s call it ‘Courting’.  Whilst waiting for your case to be called, you could access the little booths and swipe left and right to your heart’s content and at the end of the day, if there’s a match, you are given their number to hunt them down, before having a ten minute ‘speed date’ in a conference room to see if you click and magic is made.

There could be a silent disco in the soul-less hallways whilst waiting to be called into Court.  I mean, dance moves are VERY important!  He may be sexy and look like he has his shit together, but if Dude ain’t got no rhythm…… game over!  You could be given a t-shirt that has LED panels which also tell your prospective mates what song you are listening to.  This can only help; I mean I’m not too sure if I’d want to spend time with the man in the knitted jumper in the corner, bobbing along to *living is without you* with tears streaking his cheeks, think I’d be more inclined to gravitate to the happier looking chappy throwing some shapes near the gents to the Venga Boys.   I would instantly avoid anything 70’s, Skrillex or remixed.  There is ABSOLUTELY no need for remixes; no wonder I have trust issues!  Nothing worse that singing along to a well-known ditty, only to have it mashed in with another tune, or stuttered into the next song like Freddie 'Parrot face' Davis.  It’s bad enough when singers get the lyrics wrong in their own songs as it is when I’m driving!

Or, there should be a Braxton Hicks, (or whatever that personality test thingy is called *actually Myers & Briggs) questionnaire that had to be completed after your kidneys are x-rayed at the start of the day.  A quick glance over by Mr Babbage* (the world’s most powerful super computer - as per Family Fortunes, circa 1987) and you would be instantly matched to a fellow heart-broken loser from the Court for that day.  Based on the concept that was used on Married at First Sight (where people CHOSE to marry a complete stranger – and we all know just HOW successful that was :/ but then again….. I lived with mine for 3 years and picked him and he still turned out to be a tosser, so what do I know!?), your data would be analysed and you would be matched with your most compatible loner.    

They should scrap the coffee shop, install a wine car and before you were allowed to be ‘dismissed’ from Court, you would have to spend a minimum commitment of 30 minutes over a glass of chardonnay getting to know your perfect match.  There could be a pop-up Wedding Fayre in the basement too, offering discounts if you book your next wedding whilst having your divorce granted.  What an incentive!

 

He’s so shady – he has moss growing down one side.

Top Notch?

Markus Persson is a VERY rich man.  Not just ‘I’ll buy the next round at the bar’ rich, or even a round for the entire town….. this guy could literally buy his own country (but not Greece or Spain obviously as they’re in the clearance section in Lidl currently!), we are talking fully fledged commonwealth.

Why,  I hear you ask?  Well, he sold his company (that created Minecraft) to Microsoft for a cool $2.5 BILLION.  Don’t ask me exactly how many zeros that is, but it’s a lot.

So what has he done with his wealth?  Very little, it would appear, other than bitch about it and piss people off.  He outbid Jay Z and Beyonce on a $70 million house in LA; that would have pissed THEM off for a start.  But he has outranged his employees by selling the business and running.

I think what is more concerning is the tweets he has been sending out into the Universe lately.  I mean, I think I understand the stresses that overnight wealth of this magnitude might possibly lead to.  All joking aside, I imagine huge wealth like that IS a burden and it must be very difficult to ever know if people really like you for YOU for the rest of your life, or the luxuries and kudos that comes along with being in their entourage. 

He is quoted as sending the following tweets:

‘Human interaction becomes impossible due to imbalance.’

‘The problem with getting everything is you run out of reasons to keep trying.’

‘Hanging out in Ibiza with a bunch of friends and partying with famous people, able to do whatever I want and I’ve never felt more isolated.’

‘In Sweden, I will sit around and wait for my friends with jobs and families to have time to do shit, watching my reflection in the monitor.’

Now I am torn between thinking what a self-absorbed wanker, to genuinely thinking it must be a form of Hell.

On the S.A.W side, let’s examine the evidence (Loyd Grossman style):

·         FFS mate!  You’re rich beyond your WILDEST dreams. 

·         Your family will never have to worry about their security for the rest of their lives. 

·         You can treat your friends to the absolute best of everything in life; hotels, cars, parties, women.

·         Think about the GOOD you could do with that money! 

·         The charity work you could do.  Hell, you could fucking eradicate hunger in an entire third world country (if not more than one!).  

·         You could fund a space mission. 

·         Think of the medical research you could help with. 

And you’re bitching because a few self-obsessed A list celebrities don’t meet your expectations?  Who cares?  They’re probably arrogant as Hell because they’ve read all their own press anyway!

However:

·        How soul destroying must it be to never actually know (deep down) for the rest of your life, whether people truly like you for YOU, or you vast sums of money.  Can there really be anything more hollow and destructive than no true friends?

·         I imagine the money will ruin your family and it’s relationships as much as it will your own life.  Money is the root of all evil.  How much is ‘enough’ to gift family.  How much is ‘too much’?  Will they think that it is their entitlement for the rest of their lives for you to keep them topped up.  Too much money and time on your hands must surely lead to temptation and bad choices.

·         Friends….. ahhh!  This is a minefield (pardon the pun) for us mere mortals, let alone your mate who’s just become richer than Hades.  They would NEVER see the need to dip their hand into their own pocket; why should they?  Can’t see them offering to ‘do dutch’ on a private jet to the Maldives on a normal salary.  This would stress even the greatest of friendships.  And the new doors that would be opened to the MegaRich programmer must surely alienate Geoff from Accounts as his mate hob nobs with supermodels.

·         It would be difficult to think you’ve got all the time and money in the world to do with whatever you wish, but your ‘real’ friends have lives and jobs and mundane existences.  People do generally have to live to work.  It’s part of the balance.  Skewing this balance takes it’s toll.

·         The burden to ‘do good’ with the money.  I imagine it’s well and truly ‘open season’ for the millions of charities worldwide to bombard him with pleas for help from all over the globe from small, seemingly low profile causes, through to global charities.  Honestly, where would you start?  It’s a serious question.  I believe the burden is real.

·         Why would you want your own space mission anyway?   NASA seem pretty good that that stuff and Mr Branson seems to have that covered for the individual market.

·         Again, the need for money for medical research is vast – what cause do you support?  There are so many needy causes and so many scammers looking for a quick buck.

So, although I don’t agree with his self-absorbed melancholy and could almost hear a very high percentage of the population pleading with him for this problem, I for one, would not be at the front of the queue with my bank paying in slip.  I think it would ruin any normal decent person. 

It’s quite ironic that this ‘positive’ list is completely mirrored in the ‘negative’ column.

Sometimes there a lot to be said for ‘be careful what you wish for’

………..lend us a fifty?

Exhaustipated - too tired to give a crap :/

This week has exhausted me.

The drama that seems to unfold on a daily basis seems to have wiped me out completely and I have done nothing this weekend by vegetate; and I feel super guilty about it!  I know that it’s probably just my body’s way of telling me to rest, but why the eff do I feel so bad about just reading a book, or having a nanna nap or writing for my blog when the laundry mocks me from the corner of the room?

Let’s face it – there is ALWAYS something to do.  There is ALWAYS laundry to be done, shit to be dusted or something, somewhere demanding to be cleaned.  Relaxation is actually an art form; some individuals are just better at executing it than others.  It’s like meditation – clearing your mind completely and telling the ego to piss off for a while!  I remember a friend used to have a duster in each room of her house and if her husband came home early and she was having a lay down, she would simply hop up, and grab the nearest duster when he walked in and pretend she was cleaning.  WTF is this all about?  Why do we feel the need to justify our actions to others – least of all our significant other?!

I used to do it myself.  Had to justify how much/little I had achieved on a Saturday morning whilst OH was down the gym or grocery shopping.  Had I only managed to iron ten of his shirts whilst he was at church?  Covered the night feeds of baby number three whilst trying not to wake OH as ‘he works full time, you know and can’t be too tired for work!  Noticing a pattern yet?  My Mum often used to make light of things when she could see me running about like a headless chicken.  ‘Have you got a hat for that, Ju?’ she used to ask. 

I would liken my days to a performer in the circus (constantly spinning plates to keep them from crashing around my ears), or a one-woman show theatre production, where one actress performed all the roles; took money for tickets, seated everyone with a small torch – putting them at their ease, making small talk, smiling and ensuring everyone was happy and having a good time - made tea and produced baked goods for the interval, returned for the second act (after ushering everyone back to their seats), put enormous effort into her performance, received a standing ovation, cleaned the theatre when the patrons left, drove home to have to prepare dinner, feed and bathed three children, made sure OH had his clothes ready for his business meeting the following day, remembered where child number one’s paper machier school project was located and ready for presentation to Class in the morning, prepare school lunches, clean the house, take a flask and pyrex bowl to bed to warm babies milk up in the night so as not to wake husband; climb into bed – exhausted.

This is what my days felt like and I guess I still carry some of this with me – which is why I struggle so much with doing very little.

I am not the most house proud person in the world.  Yes, my home is generally tidy, but I wouldn’t take unecesary risks with the 3 second rule now that I have the Halls Head two, neither would I guarantee that it was exactly a week ago that my bedsheets were washed, or promised that I had bleached my toilet rim in the previous 48 hours.  Because, the place where I live is exactly that – a HOME.  There is usually laughter to be heard, love to be given and received and a cup of tea/glass of wine to be offered.  My home does not smell like disinfectant or a hospital.

Maybe I should give time that I spend on me a house-work-worthy name; like vacuuming my hypothalamus, or dusting my synapses – sounds way preferable to a nanna nap or reading a book for an hour, but in reality, we all need a little down time.  Just to listen to music whilst daydreaming; writing virtual lists in our head – you know, groceries needed, bills to be paid, countries to be visited, hunky celebrities to be married, bail money to be posted…..

I will pledge to no longer feel guilty for dropping the kids off at school and then returning to bed and climbing back in for a couple of hours.  I need to understand that this period of my life is flipping tiring.  There are enough battles to be fought, let alone the ones carried out within my own head!

Be kind to yourselves lovelies.  Life is tough – take a nap <3

Pyramid Sales in the Suburbs.

I was going to post this on my Facebook page, but fear I will upset too many of my Facebook friends with my views.

Here in Australia, every other housewife seems to be selling some product or other in a seemingly pyramid-type sales structure.  Make up, underwear, jewellery, candles, food products, cleaning products, craft supplies, adult toys, weight loss supplements, wraps that shrink inches off your muffin top, Botox in a bottle; the list truly is endless and my Facebook newsfeed is constantly bombarded with calls to action for end of month sales targets or pleas to host a ‘show and go’ (WTH?)

My concerns with this are many fold.  Firstly; I honestly don’t have that many friends to invite round to mine to buy a new cleaning cloth ensemble on a Wednesday evening.  To be brutally honest, I don’t think I would WANT to be friends with anyone who would choose to sit round my house on a drafty winters evening fingering a micro fibre cloth that’s passed around the assembled group.  I don’t care that the products are ‘eco-friendly’.  I love bleach.  If it doesn’t smell like bleach – how do I know it’s clean?  I’ve been conditioned like Pavlov’s dog – bleach = clean.  Yes, I was slightly concerned that my one flush of toilet duck contains enough chemicals to neutralise a metre squared of sea water (or something – I’d switched off by this point, but the SB was going down a treat), but hey – have you ever seen a dolphin with barnacles?  No?  Exactly!  They are literally squeaky clean thanks to my u-bend addiction (I can almost hear the letter of appreciation from Sea World landing on my door mat as I type).

And the prices???  Another reason I try not to attend these occult type evenings is I become overcome with the notion that my life with be improved by these labour saving devices; how have I managed to live all my 42 years without a mop bucket that I could also use to spin my salad (and a free micro fibre cloth to clean up the mess, should I TOSS my salad – see what I did there?).  How have I coped prior to this point with a mop that ISN’T able to wash my walls?  Who knew?  WHO CARED? It becomes an elitist ‘keeping up with the Jones’.  There’s an unwritten goal to place the biggest order of the night to win the approval of the suburban saleswoman in the tabard that you normally try not to make eye contact with at school drop off in the morning.  I admit I have spent $ 150 on a mop ‘system’ (who am I kidding – it was a mop, salad spinning bucket, a couple of blocks of magic wall erasers and a cleaning cloth. 

 

When they give things such billing – I expect a system of small people that crawl out of the bucket to clean the bastard house for you!) and not that I am in any way, shape or form bitter, but when I moved out, I left the sodding mop and bucket behind!  And don’t get me started on the price of the cleaning potions.  $ 40 for a bottle of concentrated blah liquid.  Do you know how many toilet ducks on special I could buy for that?  Look, I don’t care about the planet.  What my generation did to the ozone layer in the 80s with our synchronised used of hair lacquer isn’t worth knowing and me deciding to go cold turkey on bleaching my rim isn’t going to save the polar ice caps.

If I wanted to buy jewellery, I would visit a shop, or Google the world wide shop window; not wait for a plump housewife in a Holden to pop round to mine mid-week with a trestle table.  I can’t take sex toy advice from a middle aged woman with three kids that wears slippers on the school run and who double parks in kiss and drop.  It’s just not right.  It opens a Pandora’s box of what goes on in their bedroom and it’s not something I’d really like to think about when I’m stood next to her in the playground on weekday afternoons at school pick up.

I’m genetically engineered to buy something.  I can’t attend, share a glass of wine, heckle the presenter mercilessly and then walk away without purchasing.  It seems to correlate also between my level of piss taking of the presenter to the dollar value of my purchase.  I can’t help it.  I genuinely don’t mean to take the piss, but I honestly fail to see how someone can just be so desperately passionate about a food additive that you sprinkle on your potatoes that turns them from wow L to WOW J There’s a name for that; it’s called gravy!  I am yet to experience the delights of one of these parties for myself.  But, seeing as I am ‘culinarily challenged’ in the kitchen, the best thing I could probably purchase would be an electric tin opener. I just know I’m going to be judged for not making my own dips, or rustling up a pavlova whilst I mop my walls, but life’s to bloody short for all that shit!  There are soaps to be watched (not made!) and wine to be drunk!

 

My final gripe is the incentives that the guerrilla sales women seem to benefit from.  One woman is jetting off overseas again tomorrow on the back of her eco-friendly cleaning product sales.  I just don’t get it!  I understand she works very hard and has a plethora of people working under her and has several suburbs ‘cleaned up’ in the surrounding areas – and I have NEVER heard one individual speak so passionately about micro fibres BUT I don’t want to know that my overpriced effing salad spinner bucket is financing her all expenses paid trip to Phuket (maybe they can only actually travel to places that rhyme with their products).  There are glamourous AGMs in upmarket locations that they live to post photos of.  Hobnobbing with the Regional Managers, who have climbed up the (impeccably cleaned) ladder to the echelons of a Company financed Rav4; so covered in Company sign writing that the Police could probably prosecute the driver travelling behind them on the freeway for reading whilst at the wheel.  I don’t feel the need to see photos of you in eveningwear with your fellow consultants at a Casino on the back of my over-priced rampant rabbit. 

Here’s a novel business model; don’t send the desperate housewives on jollies where they get drunk and post photos of Barbara from Canning Vale drunk with her gown stuffed in her support garments trying to snog the waiter.  Just maybe knock $50 off the price of the sodding mop and bucket and I will use the money to get drunk myself, tuck my own knickers in my skirt and attempt to snog the sales assistant in Dan Murphys?

Now, who would like to host a demonstration?

Ready, Steady, STRIP!

This year I should have celebrated my 20^th Wedding Anniversary.  Well, actually, I did!  I celebrated it in a way that I haven’t ever celebrated an anniversary in my entire marriage – I did something that I actually chose to do!  OK, so my marriage may have fallen apart slightly after our 19^th anniversary (I say fell apart, but really, I think I woke up from a 10 year long coma of abuse and being taken for granted and treated like shit!  So it wasn’t so much ‘fell apart’ as ‘I fucking woke up!’).  We never celebrated our anniversary really.  I think we only really exchanged decent presents on our first year anniversary – after that it was a card and a meal out or a trip to the pictures (if I was lucky); hardly romantic on the ‘Officer and Gentleman’ scale.

So to celebrate MY new found confidence and refusal to be a door mat any longer, I scoured Google for ways to commemorate my metamorphosis into this mythical woman that I was slowly changing into. *insert image of the German caterpillar from a Bugs Life*

Me!

A friend had mentioned that she’d had a Boudoir Photo Shoot (i.e. letting a stranger take photos of you in your undies in a drafty warehouse*).  If ever there was a more un-Julia-like thing to do – you would be hard pressed to find it.  I committed!  I was also inspired by the recent transition of Bruce Jenner into Caitlin Jenner.  OMG – the man was a beautiful woman!  I have NEVER looked as sexy as that in a photograph and I was BORN with all the equipment that he has strived to obtain!  That was all the incentive I needed – I am never going to be as young as I am today and I should celebrate who I am, how far I have come and my wobbly bits that make me a woman! 

The experience was slightly surreal.  I arrived with a bag of my sluttiest underwear, Ralph’s MC jacket (I have never wanted to ‘impress’ someone as much ever before, but I was feeling brave and wanted to shock him (as much as a middle aged, cardigan wearing woman ever could shock a tough ‘Biker’ who’s lived a life!), stockings and a Tutu.  As I unpacked my bottom drawer secrets, I felt like I was on the cookery show, 'Ready, Steady, Cook’.  I explained to the make-up artist that I had in my bag three, slightly past their sell by date, floppy vegetables and a kilo of mince and I would like her to produce a 5 course degustation banquet, fit for a Queen WITH a dessert.  She laughed.  I laughed.  Sparkling wine was consumed. The ice was broken and we were off!

I did lots of things that day that I have never done (and if I’m honest, probably won’t attempt again!).  I have a new found respect for models – it’s tough holding things in, trying to make bones appear (cheek and collar), whilst carrying out hair flicks in 6 inch heels and trying to look alluring whilst attempting not to look like you’re holding in a fart.  I pulled muscles in places I didn’t know I had muscles!  And I became a MASTER of the ‘fake laugh’.  Ha ha ha….. I fake laughed like my life depended on it!  Proper ‘head back, mouth open’ funniest joke in the world, fake laugh!  I had to sniff my shoulder(!).  Apparently, this was a tried and tested way to make you appear sexy without trying too hard.  I have to admit I felt vaguely ridiculous doing this, but when I was instructed it was more of a feint, subtle sniff – as if taking in a fine scent from the Chanel counter – rather than sniffing phlegm after day 3 of the flu – I think I nailed it.

If you didn’t overthink it, it was an enjoyable experience.  I’d never had my hair and make-up done and been the sole focus of a photoshoot.  Even on my Wedding day, I’d slapped on my own Max Factor and tried to camouflage the fact that I’d ripped out all my eyelashes on my left eyelid two days earlier in ‘the Great Eyelash Curler Incident of 1995’.  I tried to embrace the experience for what it was; empowering, confidence boosting and a little indulgent. 

If the photoshoot was nerve wracking, viewing the images for culling was even worse.  I was SO nervous.  We all have this ‘utopia’ picture of the best we can possibly look in our heads.  I guess mine was circa 1992 but with less perm and better clothes.  I was directed to the velvet sofa with a coffee and my images were projected onto a wall for my viewing pleasure.  There is something quite confronting seeing your boobs 2 feet tall, but from over 200 images, I culled them down to 17 that I would look out without immediately shouting ‘NO’ and hating something in the image.  I tried to focus on the parts of me that looked good.  There were bones in some of the photos (good bones – not that there’s a bad bone when you’re over 40 and the wrong side of ‘cuddly’), I especially liked the ones of me smelling my body parts.

I now have three images in a frame hanging in my house to be admired by visitors.  OK, I’m not as thin as I could be and my boobs look slightly like spaniels ears, but I look SO happy!  I have the biggest, most open smile on my face that I’ve seen in a very long time and that’s there for eternity.

I’m glad I did it and it’ll be there forever on the Hallway landing; frightening burglars and reminding me of what happy truly looks like.

Julia Jenner

* It wasn’t a warehouse, nor drafty.

Laughter is the best medicine – unless you’ve got Xanax, in which case, always choose Xanax!

Throughout the dark, nightmare-ish road that I’m currently travelling, named divorce, the only thing that has kept me ‘semi-sane’ is my sense of humour.  Yes, sometimes, it’s proved to be *wildly* inappropriate* but the look of shocked horror on my accomplices faces has only fuelled my ability to shock and stun – it’s ace!!

Today was a pretty shitty day on the sphincter scale.  I had a rental inspection (where a woman resembling ‘The Governess’ from the TV show The Chaser comes round to inspect your home for cleanliness levels and generally how much of a scrubber you are). 

I AM a scrubber – but not in the ‘clean freak’ way.  Unfortunately, OCD evaded me and I’m basically a slob who will be found dead amongst my body weight in empty ready meal containers; I’ll probably feature on the news as my cats would have started to eat me, so that’ll be my 15 minutes of fame, thanks, Mr Warhol.  As if the two days of cleaning wasn’t bad enough, I had to banish my pussies to Ralphs for an overnight stay.  The logistics of transporting two feral cats meowing their hearts out along to Celine Dion with my in car stereo was no mean feat (it makes for a pretty epic Snapcat video though - see what I did there?).

Coupled with cat logistics and fat woman with white glove, I also had my car booked in for a service and had to negotiate the men’s domain that IS the mechanic’s lair.  To be fair, the blokes at the garage that I use do have a sense of humour and I don’t feel that they are always trying to con me into having my big end regassed (or whatevs!).  I managed to vacuum my kitchenette, pack up Celine and Dion, drop DD off at school and swap my Miley Car-us for the Hyundai Jackie Chan (diesel) all before 9am.  I HAD this shit!!

Unfortunately, it was a Tuesday, which means radio silence with the ex is broken for 3 days of ‘open season’ via email in terms of provocation, belittling, and condescension and downright bad manners – but hey - he knew what he was getting when he married me – Boom tisch!  It seems that as soon as my name appears in his inbox, he’s off and running – what shit can I fling at her today until her ears light up like a novelty night light and she can feel her temples throbbing in time with her pulse?  He really is relentless.  If he used his power for good (instead of winding me up like a wanker), he really would be a force to be reckoned with.  But no….. instead, he uses his time, effort and energy into goading me into a miserable fug for three days.

I have therefore decided to award an ‘email of the day’ for the most pathetic waste of wearing down index fingers in the plain hope to rattle me into giving in (extra marks will be awarded for the best ‘spelling error’ of the day and bonus points if the same spelling error is used consistently in subsequent emails).  Let’s turn the negative into a positive.  

Yes, when I initially receive the emails, they do make my blood boil, but when I read them back, later (MUCH later) on the wrong side of a glass of wine, they are actually hilarious!  The sense of entitlement!  The fact that he truly believes he is so much ‘better’ than me – or anyone, for that matter – is genuinely laughable. 

Here’s an excerpt from today’s ***EMAIL OF THE DAY*** (I so need a radio-style jingle for that bit! - and an oversized leather bound folder and a big winged red velvet chair like that old bloke on 'That's Life').
Tuesday 18^th August; pathetic level = expert:

“Until settlement has been agreed, I would like to be able to have unrestricted access to our boat.  I think the best and fairest way to do this is on a by-weekly basis (5 bonus points for by-weekly), and I (think he means ‘it’) would make sense that I have access for the week that I have 'son' (and 'daughter' should she wish to come).

I will leave the boat as I find it.

Please arrange for a set of keys to be made available from Friday 28^th August 2015.”

Now I can see why he’s pissed off.  I ‘have’ possession of the boat and Ralph, the kids and I are often out on it – chasing dolphins, looking for whales, generally having a giggle and fishing.  HE on the other hand has possession of: the family home (including home theatre, swimming pool, spa etc.), A 1000cc motorbike, a 250cc motorbike, full access to the office unit and a Porsche – so I can see why he’s a little disgruntled (NOT).  

Maybe I should have replied ‘sure thing!  Whilst you’re out on the boat, I’ll be at your place, watching a movie in the home theatre.  Or better still, Ralph can give me lessons on your Repsol so I can get my bigger bike license (would be an AWFUL shame if I dropped it under a truck though – or revved it off a cliff!).’

The thing is, I moved the boat as my rental apartment has a mooring included with the rent, so it actually costs us nothing extra to keep it here – and seeing as we’d been paying $240 a month for a Broker to try and SELL it for us, it was a no brainer.  Move it and use it – boats don’t like being sat there with no action (much like my good self).  It’s Private Property, so – sucks to be you! And there is no way on God’s Earth he would be able to park the boat back into its mooring here – it’s the boat parking equivalent of the Top Gear challenge when they couldn’t get the supercars out of the garage in Paris to even start the challenge! 

But – where exactly does he get off barking orders at me?  No ‘please’?  No ‘thank you’?   Just a complete sense of entitlement and that I should bow down to him consistently.   I don’t want Biltong’s scrawny arse on the floating love palace!

There were other strong contenders for today’s accolade, but I think the above is a deserved winner.

After the steam had stopped whistling out of my ears and I had come off the boil, I loaded Barbara and Mavis back into their cat carriers for the return journey home and replaced Celine Dion for a little Mariah – no wonder they have hair in their ears – must be to drown out the warbling!

Dropped off the Halls Head 2 back to their incarceration and headed for the testosterone fuelled garage workshop.  Mr Mechanic took his seat in his faux racing driver office chair (mechanic in a reasonably priced chair)…… I prepared for acceleration from $ 0 to $ 500 in a matter of seconds.  

Ahhh, your back tyres are down to the canvas.  ‘Is that bad?’  Well, yes, actually – quite dangerous.  ‘Oh, OK….. I’d better get 2 new ones then :/  They will be good quality ones though won’t they?  I don’t want any dangerous, cheap imports’ (the irony of this statement was not lost on me, even though I was doing to automotive equivalent of driving round with my skirt tucked in my knickers – only WAY more dangerous). 

Miley Car-us (so named as she’s a show off and takes her top off for attention), also had more oil leaks than was healthy.  I blurted out (in her defence), well, she is getting older – it’s probably just incontinence.  She hasn’t been able to do a star jump for years and who doesn’t wee a little when they sneeze?  Her front brakes are also 80% worn – ‘no worries’ said I, ‘I’ll just use the back ones for a bit’  This is when the look of bewilderment took over the mechanic’s face – I was used to that, half astonishment, 50% WTF?

So, Miley is going back to the workshop tomorrow for a new pair of shoes and to have the skirt picked out of her arse crack. My radio’s also stopped working, but I think in all honestly, the apprentice saw my One Direction CD in the foot well and he removed the fuse on purpose!   

Oh, and when I got home, the Governess had left her calling card.  I had a great inspection; but need to work on the following areas for next time please:

·         My washing machine needed a wipe down (no worries – I’ll bung it in the machine next wash).

·         My door frame between the laundry and the toilet was dusty (I don’t think I’ll ever be able to show my face in public ever again!).

·         The racks in my oven were greasy (who knew).

·         The carpets were un-vacuumed in a teenagers bedroom (get me to the gallows IMMEDIATELY!).

·         The carpets will also require a clean prior to next inspection – not a ‘professional’ clean, but you can hire a carpet cleaner from Bunnings and give them the once over (or pad round the house on my hands and knees with a straw and suck the stains out personally).

My washing machine shame and door frame scandal.  How will I live with myself?

The joke’s on her really as the Halls Head two went undiscovered for another 3 months and they are currently crocheting the stairway carpet with their claws.

And here endeth my Tuesday.

* like the time we were sat at the airport to wave Ralph off to Queensland and I happened to mention that if the 7.05pm Perth to Kalgoorlie shuttle accidentally dropped out of the sky, it wouldn't *really* be a huge loss to Humanity with the 67 overweight, ugly people that the jet contained.  Harsh?  Maybe, but very accurate.