THIS IS IT - THIS TIME I KNOW IT'S THE REAL THING

Sitting down in the movie theatre to witness this 2 week only event, I heard two middle aged men, accompanying their wives, make an inappropriate Michael Jackson joke. Inappropriate because directly in front of him was my 10 year old daughter and her friend. All I thought to myself was “oh here we go”.

But I heard not one more word, because once this doco/movie started, the whole cinema, the trouble making emos, 3 rows in front included, were mesmerised.

The biggest tragedy? The fact that this concert was never seen by a real audience and appreciated for the event that it would have been. Because it would have been freaking amazing.

I am by no means a massive Michael Jackson fan. I, like most people, have liked his music at particular times in my life. The black and white phase was my time to find and identify with him, not so much the 'Bad' era. Yet, I, like most people, jumped on the MJ bandwagon when he died. I started listening to his songs again and heard the genius. My daughter also jumped on board. Unfortunately, through his death, a new generation of fans has been born.

This movie is a rare glimpse behind the scenes of his rehearsals for his concert that was meant to be titled “This is It” which turned out to be a self-fulfilling prophecy. As most, if not all people know by now, Michael Jackson died – some say murdered – on the 26th of June, 2009 aged 50.

Not once is his death touched upon in the movie nor is this a story about Michael's supposed drug addictions.

And honestly, if Michael Jackson was in anyway medicated during those rehearsals or in any way compromised, he should be nominated for a posthumous Oscar for best actor. I am a cynic by my very nature, but believe, after watching this; he was well prepared to perform those 50 concerts. I mean, I spin in a circle and get dizzy. He runs, dances, spins, flips and sings and barely breaks a sweat. He kept up with the incredibly young, fit and toned back-up dancers on every move. Every one.

Comments have been made that his voice is weak during the movie. Except for one of two songs
where he admits he is preserving his voice, he sings fantastic.

Also amazing are the special effects that were created for most of the songs. Makes Harry Potter look like dribble. From recreating old movies which he stars in, to showing the devastation our rainforest's face, just to mention a few, it will blow you away.

I do admit I spent a lot of time fascinated by his face. I’m sure most people were. He often wore sunglasses and different hair (wigs) and some might even suggest his nose looked ski-slopeish in some shots and elf-like in others, but no one has ever denied that the guy had some major body and self-image issues.

And sure, he was partial to a be-dazzler but he, and probably only he, could get away with wearing a Sargent peppers jacket with Swarovski crystals and Ed Hardy MC hammer pants on a daily basis.

Strip all that away though, and you see how this guy interacts with his dancers, his band, his back up singers and production crew. He can only be described as professional and honestly, just incredibly kind. It made me grieve for a man I do not know, because I genuinely think, he just wanted to entertain and be loved.

EBB AND FLOW

We all know how men just LOVE going to the doctor. How they roll up every 6 months to double check everything is just hunky dory. That there are no problems with their blood sugar or cholesterol. What’s that you say? Not any male you know? Me neither.

My husband, this Friday, after my insistence, is going in, for what I like to call, the 30,000km service.

Last year, I had my first 30,000km service which basically involved some blood tests and the 2 yearly “lady” test. When I got the call because the “doc wants to talk to you about your results” it was immediately, in my head, worst case scenario stuff. Already I had myself dying of cervical cancer, or breast cancer or else my cholesterol was going to be through the roof and I was a heart attack candidate. 5 days to sweat it out until I could get an appointment. Turns out I need more iron. YOU COULDN’T HAVE TOLD ME THIS OVER THE PHONE? But at least now I had a benchmark.

So now, it’s dear husbands turn. And he is shitting himself. Scared about the finger up the bum bit. You know, the test for checking your prostate. Trying to make light of the situation, I asked him he’s scared he’ll enjoy it too much. That’s when he revealed, he is genuinely horrified at the thought of a stranger doing *that* to him. Um, hello. I have a cold metal crocodile shaped object stuck up my clacker every two years to check me for cervical cancer. It’s what I do to SURVIVE, not to relive my first trip on a merry-go-round.

So that sorted, it really is a major topic that I’m betting most men, under 50 and not in the “high” risk category, really don't want to think about or act upon. But if there is a family history or you are over 50, and you have never had a test, now is the time. Between the ages of 60 and 69, you need to know it is the second most common cancer in men. After 70, the most common. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen before that.

Most guys don’t even know what the prostate does. Neither did I til I used the power of google. Guys- basically it helps your boys (sperm) to get out and to it’s destination. It produces the nutritional (hellloooo ladies) fluid that accompanies the sperm and gives it projection. Without it, basically the general population would not exist.

If you have had failure to launch (hard to get a pee started), been getting up at night to pee or have had pain with ejaculation, you should get checked. These are not the only symptoms, but the ones I bet you would notice first. Nine times out of ten it’s not cancer, just a benign enlargement, but wouldn’t you rather be sure? Get it before it gets you?

So, now you know you’ve got to go, what happens?

1st test- Index finger to the rectum. From what I understand it feels like doing a poo. Let’s face it, the amount of time you boys spend on there, this is clearly something you usually enjoy doing. The rectal exam is a short procedure that is over before you know it. It’s usually done at the end of the consultation so you don’t have to worry too much about eye contact if it still makes you uncomfortable.

If a problem is found

2nd test – blood test

If there are still doubts,

A Biopsy. Involves a spring loaded needle to be inserted into the rectum to gain some tissue for testing. Sure, it’s not going to be pretty, but neither is chemo for advanced cancer.

So have I persuaded anyone?

I hope so. My mum has advanced bowel cancer, which her brother passed away from nearly 2 years ago. I asked Mum, knowing her family history, why she didn’t get a bowel scan kit and test herself. Her answer, “oh no way, far too embarrassing”. Let me tell you, after what I’ve seen her go through in the last 2 months, I bet she’s rethinking the meaning of embarrassing.

Just go boys, it can't be any worse than having read this.


For more info visit http://www.prostate.org.au/

OINSHKA BOINSHKA

Ikea

If marriage was legal to it – I’d do it.

I love that joint and I am NOT alone.

It makes me want to transplant all of those rooms, exactly as they, into my house. And not pay.

Sadly though, each time we go, we walk out with nothing we need and everything we don’t. Like 6 suctioned dish brushes or a $3.99 glass salad bowl.

Well Ok I do need both those things, but it’s not what we went for. Today we started our trip earlyish.

First we had to pick up the 10yo up from a sleepover, from which included a school disco the night before. Apparently all went well. No bitch fights, no smackdowns. I asked her if her “crush” Ben was there. Her answer? It was too dark, couldn’t tell. She better sharpen those skillz before her nightclubbing years.

Her friends mum and dad Robyn and Steve, told me of their Ikea tale. Yes, they, like all of us, have a tale. I particularly however, like theirs. One Saturday, they got their two girls especially babysat from 8am. They then did the 45 minute drive to Ikea and had breakfast in the cafe. If you’ve never been to Ikea, then don’t talk to me. I’m kidding. If you’ve never been, then you’ve never seen the massive cafe they have selling food ALL DAY. For fuck all. Seriously, it’s probably cheaper to feed the family there than feed them at home for a week. The food is a bit on the bizarre side – prawn and egg sandwich anyone? Or some Hällakaka? Maybe some oinshka boinshka? (ok I made the last one up) but the menu has a distinct Swedish meatball feeling to it.

Anyway, Robyn and her husband Steve, then went and shopped the first level. At leisure. I know at this point if you have no kids, the previous sentence will mean nothing. Because you can do whatever you want, whenever you want, completely at you leisure. Oh how I fondly remember those days.

So back to their Ikea tale, they got to explore a mock room, sit on the couch, imagine it being their own TV room without a 2 year old bolting for the unplumbed toilet to pee in the bowl. They looked, they, *gasp*, discussed ideas UNINTERRUPTED and they made plans for their purchases.

They then went and had lunch and the Ikea cafe. Probably kransky and mash or something like that. Next on the agenda, the second level. Which took them up to just on dinner time and the return to their home and children. So this wasn’t a trip to Melbourne to see Acca Dacca or an all day Winery Tour sans children, which I imagine most would constitute a fabulous outing but to me, it sounded like bliss.

Today though did not mirror this.

Jack, our ever loving (read hurricane on a stick) 2 year old decided today was the day he would like to be a skeleton. So dressed like that, he basically addressed every single person we went past with a “Hello lady/man” Cute huh? Until they don’t answer him back and he would shout at the top of his lungs, “howrible laby said NUFFING to me" Growled loudly and did what can only be described a slightly mental stomping dance.

Between that and him and his elder brother thinking the flat pack trolley was a rally car whilst dodging the 80 thousand other (un)happy punters there, we didn’t stay all that long.

Specifically today we were there to check out and preferably buy a vanity unit and basin for the new bathroom. We walked out with a big arse cubed bookshelf and 3 suction dish brushes. Oh and two shark puppets.

Sadly, my lovely husband got, oh 10 minutes in until he started competing in the Ikea Logan half marathon. “Let’s just keep moving” and “Nah, we don’t need any of that shit” were often muttered whilst we sprinted through the arrowed aisles barely looking at ANYTHING. Sure, when we lost the 2yo only to find him spinning in a covered pod chair, I myself agreed it was time to go.

The thing is, the place is awesome. It’s often way more expensive than what you initially think because if you need one part, you often need another and another. But the ideas you start to conjure and the dreams of a life of total order it makes you believe in, makes it worth the mini nervous breakdown it often induces.

That and the 50 cent ice-cream cones.

GOING ONCE

EBAY – You across it? If the answer is no then my next question is WHICH ROCK TO LIVE UNDER?

I first stumbled across eBay many years ago, on a particularly late night at work when I had nothing much to do,  than scour the internet for shit. And I hit the shit jackpot. But the reality is, eBay is not shit, it is a veritable goldmine for compulsive shoppers like myself. This particular night I came across some brand name clothes for my daughter, at a bargain price only situated up the road. The transaction went so smoothly, I was instantly hooked. eBay became my drug. Like Bobby and Whitney to a crack pipe, I was drawn to its endless possibilities.

Why yes, I do need 7 nights in a luxury apartment in Penang for $137.98. What a bargain. Oh and the kids CANNOT live without that gigantic pool slippery dip we have no pool for. But it’s only $120 and that is just too good to go past. However the most addictive part of EBAY is not so much the bargain price, but the thrill of the chase and securing the win. Basically ego takes over and it becomes more about winning than the price you are paying. By any other name, it’s gambling. And like any good gambler, there is post play regret. You win something you know you don’t need, that you now have to make arrangements to pay for and it all starts to feel dirty. And if winning was dirty, I was basically caked in dirt after lounging in a mud bath for weeks on end.

Time for a self-imposed EBAY ban. I was banned from opening the page, even to browse. Because browsing leads to gaining interest and interest leads to bidding and bidding, well, often in my case, usually lead to winning. i.e. buying. With real dollars. Dollars we were fast running out of.

So how better to get dollars than to sell stuff? Where better place to sell stuff than EBAY? Ban lifted!

I started with my daughters clothes and after selling off everything that wasn’t nailed down, I started to study the site like a wall street trader.

Guess what was making the big bucks? Surfboards. Guess what we had in spades in the garage? Surfboards. Guess who would rather his balls run over by a tilt train than give up even one surfboard? Yep, that’s right, the surfboards rightful owners - my husband. But seriously, how many surfboards could he ride at any one time? His comeback? How many shoes can you wear at any one time? Touche’ my friend, touche’.

New plan of action, buy clothes from the Op shops and car boot sales and sell them on eBay for a humongous profits. Mambo loud shirts were a MASSIVE seller. I would pay max $5 and sell them for $80 plus. Apparently the shirts were what all the big blokes liked to wear, drinking beer, shooting shit at summer BBQ’s. Whatever dudes, just show me the cashola. This continued to work for just over a year at which point the Salvos cottoned on to what I, and a lot of other *cough* entrepreneurs were up to. Hence they started structuring their prices aimed more at your James Packers (pre-flushing good money down Las Vegas Casino venture JP) than the average Joe on the street. That coupled with the momentous effort in uploading photos and listing of items made me lose my eBay selling mojo.

So now I'm considered a casual user. In control. Mostly.

Currently I am bidding on some mini breaks and DS games from Hong Kong, hoping to score a bargain. I feel now I know my limits and know (mostly) when to walk away. I guess the relationship eBay and I have now is similar to the one Warwick Capper has with old gold meter maid undies. I can get through most of my weeks without having to take a look, but there will always be those certain times, I can’t resist a peek.

WAY DOWN IN KOKOMO

So Surfers Paradise has been getting a flogging lately. Both figuratively and literally.

The Gold Coast Bulletin has started a campaign to save it from itself and even the A1 cars won't be seen dead there. (Side note - A quick congratulations to the QLD Government for their researching prowess this year)

But in all honesty, has it really ever been any different?

The reporter from the GC Bulletin went in to Surfers undercover like for the night and wrote of sighting a big orange “spew” at the entrance to McDonalds and the accompanying pictures showed young girls wandering around, heels in hand or being piggy backed. Really? That’s the best you got? More goes on behind Richard Wilkins head at the live New Years Eve broadcast.

Then they interviewed a couple who are staying in Surfers with their young children saying they cannot go out past 9pm. Um, hello, shouldn’t the kidlets be safely tucked up in bed by then anyway?

I remember as a kid, only going into Surfers Paradise to meet our Victorian relatives when they came up for a holiday. It was a wonderland for me. Grundy’s and the massive waterslide. OK not massive but I was 8 and everything looked big. Walking past Charlies and indulging in Porky’s Spare Ribs the small pleasures. I vividly remember waiting at the bus stop across from Bombay Rock watching all the “young hooligans” as my mother referred to them, skipping in front of cars on their way in to watch a band. Probably a band like Kids in the Kitchen or INXS.

That was the Mid 80’s. By the Mid 90’s that was me. Drunk, stupid and having an awesome time occasionally spewing in a garden beside Hungry Jacks. It was what was done. It’s what is still done. Drug of choice well may have changed so too the way the boys carefully coiffe their hair within an inch of its life but the main aim of getting loose, dancing and hooking up with a random backpacker? Not so much.

Sure, something needs to be done with Surfers Paradise. Clean up the cigarette butts for a start. Stop the smoking in the mall. Strolling thru Cavill Avenue feels like you've sucked down a pack of Winnie blues, and that's just during the daytime. Finish building the Hilton. Bring in zero tolerance for jerkoffs with heads bigger than their overinflated, steroid enhanced chests. All a start. But take away the nightclubs? Good luck with that.

So what will my kids be doing come their 18th birthday. If they are anything like me, they will be there well before they turn that age. The amount of times we told Mum we were going out to “dinner” and meanwhile we were standing around shitfaced sucking down cocktails at Bensons was ridiculous. And no doubt all the clubs will have changed names 10 times over by the time she is venturing into the seedy Orchid Avenue strip, but the main aim will still be the same. Am I OK with that? I’d like to think so. Get back to me in 2017.

THE BURGERS ARE BETTER

The second picture illustrates the end result of a massive day for a 2 year old after attending a fellow kindy mates birthday party at Hungry Jacks .

I spent the best part of Saturday at the local HJ’s watching my 2.9 year old getting loose in a pirate costume refusing to partake in ANY of the festivities.

Luckily he wasn’t alone. The birthday boy also wanted NONE of it. NONE. He did however want to blow people away with the fake pilgrim pirate gun my son brought along to the party. Jack of course was happy with this as he got to play along using a crayon as weapon of choice.

It was a lovely thought, don’t get me wrong, for the parents to invite his wee friends from kindy and it was fantastic bribe material for a whole week. You know the kind “If you don’t eat your peas, no party on Saturday” “Right, if you don’t pick up every piece of lego in this room, no party on Saturday” Repeat .

So we went shopping for the gift. Mini fishing rod purchased, eye patch sought and we were good to go.

Of course, the bigger two kids wanted to come just because it’s at Hungry Jacks and apparently that place is a mystical wonderland. That or it’s a great excuse to come along and have HJ’s for lunch.

Within 10 minutes of being there, Jack is down to his undies. I shit you not.

Stupid me did not dress him in civvies under his glorious (self-imposed) pirate costume and so almost immediately the six pack abs that comes as part of the costume, gives him the shits. It’s off. So too the bandanna and eye patch. We are down to a very dodgy robe and his undies. To their credit, none of the other parents (few of which I’ve met before) are showing me disdain directly to my face.

The big two were hungry. Jack wouldn't stay in the party room without me. So we went and ordered and when we come back, there was a silent game of pass the parcel going on. It was so bizarre. I swear I was the only one in the room who couldn’t hear the music to the game. The parcel was being passed, no music, and then it stopped at a particular kid and then all the rest of the room cheered. What the fuck? Is this some sort of exclusive pass the parcel club I am yet to become a member of? The silent game and music continued for two more turns before the food came.

And so, we come to the part where Jack teaches the birthday boy to blow away every car that came through the drive-thru with their guns (In Jack’s case, the one he fashioned from a yellow crayon) This is the point where he go got down to his undies. OH yeah, tell me I’m not going to be hot topic at the PTA meeting next week.

The cake was consumed, the birthday boy lost his shit on the party room floor and the Bacon Deluxe burger I ordered sat untouched in the paper bag in the corner.

I make this day sound, I guess, somewhat more terrible than it was, but, I must say, my child wasn’t the most violent in the slippery dip of death, nor did he kick anyone else in the head or squeal repeatedly. He just got loose. What every 3 year old kid should be doing on a Saturday as far as I’m concerned.

P.S. Above shots are after and before.

BETTER GO AND GET YOUR AMMO

Hands up if you’ve never been stressed. What? All hands firmly down? Oh, wait all except Paris Hiltons’ of course. Being stressed would require her to give a fuck. And let’s be honest, unless it involves someone blocking her access to those braided headbands she wears around her forehead, life isn’t going to get too complicated for that vacuous blond piece of fluff.

The subject of stress led a friend and I to talk about 2009 and to how, quite frankly, a fair bit of it has sucked. She was talking about how my mother being sick, was the most stressful thing and that she ought to stop whinging about her woes.

But stress is stress. It's all relative.

Be it her husband having trouble securing a job as often he is “‘overqualified” and the threat of their 6 person family losing everything, to our other girlfriend who’s business is going through some very tough times , we all go through a period or periods when the big “S” is inevitable.

How you deal with it depends solely on the person.

Like the lovely Miss C I work with.

A little history about Miss C – At age 20, she and her boyfriend who we shall refer to as Cock, were in the process of building a house when he whisked her off to Hamilton Island and proposed. Big fuckoff engagement ring, boozy days drink-driving the golf carts and excessive consumption of champagne induced sunstroke were to be had.

Consequently our workplace doubled as a wedding planning office. We researched venues, we helped choose colours for bridesmaids, the songs were being chosen. It was all systems go.

One weekend on their way to taste wedding cakes, Cock and Miss C had a minor bingle in his new ute with a young woman we shall forever refer to as Mantrapper. Unbeknown est to Miss C, Cock and Mantrapper were swapping more than insurance details if you get my gist.

Right well, so Miss C gets a text (Oh yeah, all class) about a week before Valentines Day, approximately 5 months after he proposed to her, saying “I can’t do this anymore, I want you to move out”. Seemingly from nothing. No fight, no discussion. Nada.

Clearly Miss C was shattered. Having said that, she came to work everyday and although obviously upset, was professional to all the clients and with her work.

Within 3 months Cock was exposed for the cheating toss that he is. He’d been getting it on with Mantrapper, who already had 2 children from a previous relationship, since the week after their minor car accident. Bigger news, she was pregnant again – To Cock.

What about the house they were in the middle of building? The one he was meant to contribute half the repayments into? Well he no longer kept up those payments. Apparently three children and one skanky hoe cost LOTS of money.

So Miss C, not even 21, was working 2 jobs, living at home with her mum all to keep the banks off her arse and ruining her credit rating. All the while, Cock would not agree to selling the house, nor would he help with insurance, rates, repayments and all the other lovely expenses that come along with moving into your own new home. The only way out, for Miss C was to refinance the house so she could pay for it herself. Which she worked out how to do. But then Cock wouldn’t sign the transfer papers. Just this week, he asked to know what Miss C's Super is worth. He wants a slice. 2 years after the fact, he, through no fault of Miss C's, is still in her life and still stressing her the fuck out.

I am by no means a violent person. Lover not a hater, but how this guy hasn’t been bazookered Damir Dokic style is beyond me. Even I want the guy to go down or at least give him a taste of my egging services.

For one person who should be superstressed, Miss C amazes me everyday how having been through such a shitful time in the last couple of years, she can be so unbelievably mature and the fact that she has not lost her bundle, I mean really lost her shit, is a testament to her as a fabulous young lady.

So point is, if there is one, is that I’m learning we can’t just get off the roller coaster when it suits us, but I’m hoping the unseen button pusher is going to ease up just a little, just for a bit. Holy shit, hope it's not Paris Hilton.

WELL SON, IT'S LIKE THIS

"Mum, what is Wacky Tobaccy?"

This from my seven year old Sam. I’ve mentioned before that Sam has Aspergers. As such, Sam tends to take things literally. If he overhears someone saying they are going to whip their butt, he genuinely wonders where the hell they are going to get the whip from.

Of late, he’s been asking me, regularly, what certain words mean. “What does neck and neck mean?” “What does maniac mean?” “What does drink-driving mean?” He has just this minute, said to me that something was freaking scary. No son, don’t say that. And we go into a description of what is a good describing word and how freaky is OK, but freaking is not.

But what started it off was this: “Mum, is prick a bad word?”. Um yes son, prick is a VERY bad word. Cue the tears. He clams up. I cannot get out of him who he’s heard the word from. Sure my husband and I swear and quite honestly it only takes one read of my posts to work out I am partial to a bit of colourful language to get my point across, but rarely do we do so in front of the kids. Or so I thought. Obviously we are not saints and the “It’s not Sunday dickhead, do the speed limit” comes out whilst driving from time to time, but we both try our hardest to limit it.

So I was racking my brain. Have I called someone a prick of late? Maybe I did one of those ‘say it under my breath but it was loud enough to hear’ things when annoyed at hubby. Nope, no name calling of late.

I sat him down and asked him why he was asking me about the word Prick. He cried, he attempted to tell me about 4 times and in the end, after confirming over and over I would not get angry at him, he told me he had said in the playground in school. Horrified, I asked him who he was naming. The answer – “No one. I just said to Owen* prick your bum”. Total 7yo bottom humour. But not for Owen. Owen threatened what no 7year old boy wants to hear. "I’m telling the teacher on you for swearing".

My son, who is basically the worlds police, shat his pants. What. Telling the teacher. That means I’m basically going to Year 1 jail. The threats continued for 3 days before Sam cracked under the pressure.

Hence the question about the word and all his questions from that day forward.

I had had enough of the continuous questioning after oh, 2 days. So I sat him down and although this will not earn me any mother of the year nominations, I decided to tell him the words he needed to avoid. “Sam, look I’m going to lay it out for you buddy” To which he thought I was going to physically lay myself down on the ground in front of him. Take two. “Right Sam, these are the really bad words – Shit, Fuck, Bitch, Arsehole and dickhead” I figured that was enough to start with. His eyes were bigger than dinner plates. “I don’t EVER want to hear you repeat those words, but now you know, pretty much everything else is Ok to say”. He nodded and digested. He didn’t move for a good 3 minutes and then wandered off to play in his room.

About an hour later, he wandered out and asked me “What does lesbian mean?” Holy shit, where is his kid getting these words from? I explained it is when instead of a man and lady liking each other, a lady and a lady like each other. His response?

“So lesbians could go on a trip around Australia in their lego campervan OK?” Sure babes, can't see why not.

*Owen not the real little kids name.

Side note: My big girl turns 10 tomorrow. Life for us forever changed that early morning 10 years ago. For the better. I look forward to the next ten. (And the bonus teen angst we will no doubt get to be a part of) Love ya Maddie Happy Birthday Beautiful x

ALL FUN AND GAMES TIL SOMEONE LOSES THEIR HEAD.

It is oh so cute to see a two year old play make believe by themselves. Rare occurrence in my household.

Jack seems almost incapable of amusing himself. Some kids do some kids don’t, so when I noticed him huddled in the corner and overheard him saying “You sit here wif me awewight or I'll get vewy angwy”, I had to have a covert look.

I thought, I was sure to find him with two power rangers having words over a misused sword or possibly even, two of his elder sisters bratz getting a stern talking to about their skanky behaviour the previous night. Not so.

What I found was far more sinister and frankly, hilarious.

It started a couple of days before when I saw Jack, the human tornado, line up a dead Christmas beetle and roll over it with the front tyre of his trike. Took the head clean off. Unbeknownst to me, he then went and hid this lovely treasure. Clearly he had plans for the headless one.

We found another Christmas beetle which was on it’s last legs on the weekend . It had just enough kick in it to grab your finger with it’s prickly legs. This scared the bejesus out of Jack, so of course my husband thought it was freaking hilarious to continue placing it on his neck. All fun and games until the 2 year old learns the power of “accidently” headbutting you in the goolies.

So to keep him appeased, Jack and I did a special ops mission and delivered the half-dead beetle safely back to the garden. Or so I thought.

Huddled in the corner, sitting on a barbie dolls lounge chair, were both the headless beetle and the half dead beetle. And clearly headless had been up to no good from the tone of Jack’s voice. I’m not sure what barely alive could have been getting cross with headless for. Losing his mind? Not turning up to the Sunday Roast? And what could she possibly be threatening headless with. Death? Too late sunshine.

This continued for a while and I went away, had a giggle to myself and wondered what this meant. Is he going to be deranged? A dictator? Would he grow up to work with less fortunate? No, I think he's just simply, a normal little boy.

Hey, When I was a kid, I used to make pencils get together to make nuclear famlies and have family meetings. I clearly have no right to judge.

And anyway, it sure beats the day I snuck up on him and he’d pulled the poo out of his undies to paint me a picture on the wall. Actually most anything beats that day.

WHAT NO ONE TELLS YOU.

So here’s what no one tells you when your mother gets sick.

She will turn in to someone you don’t want to be around.

Awful. Truly awful I know.

But I guess what I’m trying to say is that, in a normal day, when someone says something awful to someone, things get said, things get processed, things might get said in retaliation and then, either immediately or in time, things continue on.

But when someone gets sick, really sick. Sick enough that you honestly don’t think they will see their grandchildren hit their next birthdays, you say nothing. Because you can’t. Because what if they are the last words you say to each other and they are awful?

If you are a regular reader, you know my mum has aggressive cancer. She’s 76.

She’s currently riding the wild ride of surgery, drugs, depression, cancer pain, more drugs, stents, losing her home of 20 years, radiation, severe nausea and a whole heap of tears. It sucks to be sure.

So when I turn up to visit Mum each afternoon, more often than not I am confronted with a very upset, often incredibly cranky woman who has no one to take it out on but me.

Please don't get me wrong, I love my Mum and it breaks my heart to see her fading away and her getting so frustrated at the now incapacitated position she finds herself in.

When we found out Mum had cancer it sucked, but I guess I just thought, well OK, we’ll just get it treated and get on with it. Not so. It’s like walking the Kokoda track with no preparation or guidance. You’ve just got to hope you are at least fit enough to do the walking part and then have the sound mind to handle the uphill climb.

Today though, after being there to see her once again talk down to the nurses and refute everything they said, when all they were trying to do was help her, angered me. And the last thing I want to do is be angry with her.

I just wanted to shout at her and say exactly this “ You make my visits here miserable. I bring my daughter here after a long day at school, whilst my husband does double duty at home cooking, cleaning, looking after the 2 youngest, only to be told off on a regular basis and to hear nothing but negative"

But I can’t and won’t and I shouldn’t.

I think I need to remind myself I get to go home at the end of each visit. To do as I please and kiss my kids when I feel like it.

Time for me to cut her some slack and hope I can direct her in a more positive direction.

Perspective. I think I just got some.

RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE

My mistake. I took three children to Robina Town Centre, week two of the school holidays with no quality bribes. No lollipops, no jumpys, no matchbox cars, nothing that would scream: forward thinking.

But then again, I didn’t think I’d get stuck behind the worst ATM user ever. Ever. No, I don’t think you understand.

By my calculations you should need to press 8 buttons, 10 max to get some cashola from the Automatic Teller Machine.

It should consist of the following:

4 presses - Pin number. Pretty. Fucking. Simple. People. You got given a 4 digit number that needs to be memorised (if this is too hard, pick a number you remember, like the amount of times you forgot your allocated pin number in the first place).

1 press – What you are there for? Seriously, are you there to withdraw, check your balance or deposit. That’s it. Don’t use it as your own personal banker and start trading currency. People are waiting.

1 jab – Assuming this is a withdrawal, let’s say it is, press WITHDRAWAL. I assume 90% of the

time you are there for this and not to get a medicare refund or a cheeseburger, however the length of time it takes for some people to decide this, makes me believe otherwise. This button push is to select the amount. Just do it.

last hit – Do you want a receipt – yes or no. Yes or no. Get it on the screen if you don’t want the paper. I do.

Righteo, money comes out, you move the fuck away from the ATM and put said money in your wallet.

So why is it that I can stand behind someone, at first very patiently, that seems to press no less than 36 buttons, all to walk away with nothing. No cash. Not even a stinking receipt.

What in the fuck, are they doing? Dialling China?

I understand some people are old and new to this technology. I give them a break.

The guy in the flannel today though, that nearly lost his card due to 2 incorrect pin entries, then checked his balance 3 times only to swear at the screen (which sadly stayed silent) and then took his card out only to RE-ENTER it so he could confirm his stupidity and repeat this again, I do not give you a break. All I can give you is my perfected “Hurry up or I will stab you” look.

This coupled with the 2 year old going batshit in the stroller ready to tip backwards with the ridiculously heavy, fuck knows what’s in it handbag strapped to the back, and the other two older children moonwalking in front of the masses, I thought my head would spontaneously combust. But then he magically whisked out his 20 dollar note , studied the receipt in FRONT OF THE MACHINE and then wandered off oblivious to the danger that was behind him.

ATM Rage is alive and well. Don’t underestimate it.