Sunday, January 29, 2012


Today I’m going to tackle some big issues. Some massive ones actually. And you will have a definite opinion and be vehemently for or against each one for your own very distinct reasons. 

Right then, forget Australia Day, Julia, Tony and THAT shoe, let’s discuss the big stuff:

Number 1

Are you a Folder or Folder or a Scruncher?

You know, toilet paper? When you wipe your, yeah, you know..

Now, according to Annie at Living Life as me

"If someone is process driven and is always on time, they will be a FOLDER" 
"If  someone is creative, can multi task, can handle interruptions, is outgoing and a people person they will be a SCRUNCHER"

Right, so I’m a scruncher. Always have been, figure I always will be. I put this down to being a FANTASTIC and creative multi-tasker. Or it could be that I'm perhaps, a wee bit lazy. Yeah. The latter.

I knew even before I asked my husband whether he was a folder or a scruncher, what his answer would be. He is exceptionally clean and routine driven, hence, he is a Folder.

Personally, I think this should be the first question you ask a potential mate. At least then you know what you’re getting yourself into. Unless of course they fold then pinch. Then Jesus, you’re on your own.

Art imitates Life

 Number 2

Should the toilet paper go over or under?

Over. No. Doubt. About. It. This really requires no further conversation but in the spirit of democracy, I’ll allow comment. But just so we’re clear, under is incorrect.

I mean, why would you make life difficult for yourself by trying to find the end to the toileting holy grail under the spool? This can surely only end in stabbed finger marks into the toilet paper on your quest to locate the last square used?

Let’s not forget how appealing it looks when it’s just kind of hanging there, easily accessible, putting your mind at ease and thus letting you relax knowing that when you’re ready, it will be too.

I’ve been known to go on a one woman crusade and change it to the ‘correct’ position at a friend’s house, safe in the knowledge that once she's experienced the awesome, she’ll never look back.

Thankfully my husband and I appear to be on the same page when it comes to this although there has never been an actual discussion. I’d like to think though, in any living situation, whoever changes the roll  - WINS! That right there is INCENTIVE!

Okay, fair to say, I’ve thought this over a *little* too hard. But I’m right. I await your rebuttal.

No! Jesus God NO!

Number 3 

Does the Vegemite/Promite/The Aldi Ripoff live in the fridge or in the cupboard?

I know. This is a contentious issue. Seriously, this has been known to be a total dealbreaker.  I have witnessed seemingly normal people become ridiculously passionate and frankly, out of control, when trying to make me see the error of my Vegemite positioning ways. Here’s where  I’d like to make a pre-emptive strike and say that I believe that this is very much a nurture over nature thing. As in, what you are brought up with is what you will continue to do. My mother always kept the vegemite in the fridge. Hence, so do I. Go your hardest to change my mind.

I'm guessing Susie doesn't give much of a shit where it's been kept. 

So there you go. Everything you need to know about someone can pretty much be summed up by their response to the above three burning issues. Now. Tell me what YOU think. 

Monday, January 16, 2012


Once upon a time, I had quite the prolific social life.  

Once Upon a Time.

Rewind the years and you may or may not have seen me unofficially onstage helping myself to Skunkhour's Bongo drums.  You also may have seen me dressed like a complete piece of crumpet, handing out trophies to a V8 Racecar driver, Charlie someone or other at one of the Gold Coast Indy events.  Look even harder and you would  have seen me snogging a random guy at a Hunters and Collectors concert at the Old Pacific Hotel.  And, if you attended a Big Day Out concert circa 1994, you definitely would have seen me up the front, almost being crushed to death in the  Soundgarden moshpit. 

Now, well, now I have a different social diary to maintain.  And it appears I am just the gatekeeper.


It would seem that the baton got passed at a particular point in my life, and my own social life became somewhat of a slack second. This was fine of course, I was too far up my own arse discussing training pants and boy germs to notice.  But now that the dust is starting to settle, I am beginning  to realise I am missing out on some fairly momentous events.  

Everywhere I turn, people are talking about seeing Florence and the Machine,Big Day Out, The Blues Festival; you name it, it’s all been happening.  Imagine if John Farnham had retired and done a final concert!  Imagine if I missed that! 

This weekend we have had a full on weekend.  It involved Jack’s 4th Birthday celebrations where he started the party like this:

Midway was still going hard and looking like this

And ending up like this:

It's just not a good party if you don't end up nude in the middle of your loungeroom

Completely knackered and naked.  Today he had a 5yo girl(friends) bowling party that went for 3 freaking hours.  The longest three hours of my life.  Yes, the baton certainly has changed hands.


The last completely massive night we had out involved Jack Johnson, a squirrel and a bathtub.  Not nearly as kinky as it sounds, let me explain.

Maddie and Sam were safely tucked away at Grandmas.   It was the Easter long weekend and my best friend and her husband had miraculously secured us a double hotel room at the Marriott at 70% off. Yes, so far, it just felt far too full of win to be true.  It was a Friday and we made our way to Bonnie & Jeremy’s house to pick them up and get on the road.  Problem number one.  Man down. Well, man missing.  Jeremy turned up 2 hours inexplicably,  late.   Once we had him sorted, we got going.  Nothing stopping us now.

We managed to check in, throw our bags down and flag down a cab to take us to the Botanic Gardens.  Keeping in mind, this was now around 7:30pm.  We hadn’t eaten and my husband and Jeremy had been drinking since roughly 3pm.    We got to the gates and Bonnie didn’t have her ID with her.  Now I’m sorry, there is no miracle of aging going that could hide the fact that were indeed, over the age of 18.  It didn’t matter, those security guys weren’t having a bar of us and our geriatric mole hairs.  Problem Number 2.  Smuggle in the 28 year old.

So in an effort to a) curb our insane hunger and b) smuggle our clearly overage friend into the 18 plus area, we spent a lot of time NOT seeing the bands we were meant to see.

We did get down to see Jack Johnson.  About 30 minutes before he finished.  By this time, Phil & Jeremy were righteously smashed.  I wasn’t far behind and Bonnie was moderately hammered having only been able to drink for a quarter of the time.  Before we knew it, people were hotfooting it out the gates.  This is where the Squirrel comes in.  Problem number 3 – Phil gets deserted due to squirrel sighting.

Phil decided he needed to use the amenities.  Or the back of a large tree, either or.  So we said we’d wait right there for him.  But then Bonnie spotted a squirrel, even though as far as I know, we don’t have squirrels in Australia.   So we decided we needed to do a little squirrel hunting.

I am unsure here, how long it was between us three and Phil reuniting at the gates of the Brisbane Botanic gardens, but it was enough for him to be pissed, and more than a little dubious of our squirrel story.  

We pushed on, towards home.  Unfortunately towards home included walking past a lot of bars.  One such establishment sold posh beer and salt and pepper squid.   More beer was consumed, a glass was smashed (not by me, oh no) and someone skidded through a vomit patch on the dance floor as part of a very classy exit out of the establishment.  Again, I doubt this would have been me.

Then we got home.  This is where the bathtub becomes part of the story.  See it was about here that Phil was starting to feel a little off and so, as a precautionary measure, spent the night (at his own request) sleeping in the bathtub.  You know, just in case.  I don’t think his back has ever been the same since.

Three out of four of us made it to the all inclusive buffet breakfast the next morning. Phil wasn’t one of them.  
The fluorescent green bile he vomited up for the next two days was a constant reminder of Jack Johnson and inexplicably, Squirrels.

So that was probably our last event.  Our last major organised, let’s go hard or go home event.  

What did you do when you had kids?  Stop going out?  Meet in the middle or make them work around you.  

Or, if you don’t have kids, what’s the biggest event you’ve been to of late.  Go on, make me completely jealous.

So this is a repost as my trusty Toshiba has finally shat itself. Hope to be up and running in my new digs soon(ish). Luckily on the 7th day he/she created interest free finance.

Tuesday, January 10, 2012


I remember the first mix tape I ever received.  It was circa 1988 and I found it shoved inside my school bag. To this day, I still don’t know who put it in there. It was definitely meant for me. How do I know it wasn't accidentally placed in the wrong school bag you ask?  Well you know, one can never be 100% sure about these things, but  the dead giveaway for me was the cardboard insert on the front that had ‘ Mixtape for Bernadette’ scrawled across it in the messiest handwriting I’d ever seen. Chances are he went on to be a doctor.  

But back to this sweet, sweet mix tape that was, from memory, a bonanza of the Top 40 at the time. Including but not limited to:

Simply Irresistible – Robert Palmer

She’s Like the Wind – Patrick Swayze (I shit you not)

Perfect – Fairground Attraction

Get outta My Dreams – Get into My Car – Billy Ocean (WTF? I assume being 12 he couldn't exactly drive yet. Wait was car a metaphor for something else. You'll have to excuse me, I can be slow to catch on.

And to round it out......

You really got me – The Kinks. Which was the reason the first CD I ever purchased on my own coin was ‘The Best of the Kinks’. So ambiguous, perhaps doctor type, thanks. I owe you one.

There were other songs, but I think the theme here was fairly obvious. Whoever made this tape was totally into me. Possibly psychotically so. And even though stalker wasn’t a term back in 1988 I’m pretty sure it could have applied here. And let’s not sugar coat it. I wasn’t exactly 'the Swan' in year 8. No. I was more the lanky white child with an unexpected afro and an over abundance of freckles. Whoever dug me was clearly wearing coke bottles and had low self esteem. Whatever. This did not stop me from listening to that tape OVER and OVER and OVER again. I read into every lyric. For instance check out these lyrics from Patrick Swayze: 

a) She's like the wind through my tree (yeah, huh?)

b) She rides the night next to me (rides the night? The night’s pretty long. Was this a suggestion I was riding, no wait. I was 12)


But seriously, how sweet and/or romantic is a dedicated Mix Tape? Something that has been carefully thought about and laboured over with only you in mind. And there is something that makes you love a song more when someone you like is into it. I went through a massive phase of Fleetwood Mac and Creedance Clear Water Revival for this very reason once.

And sure, my mixtape from 1988 had a decidedly uncool array of pop, but someone, somewhere, sat down and wanted me to know they were thinking about me. Through song. Or as @mrgrumpystephen on Twitter so eloquently put it, ‘if the answer to "why" (they’d make someone a mixed tape) isn't "to get into somebody's pants" then they are lying.

And how's this, a friend recently alerted me to this freaking amazing event/night/thingo

 On Saturday 7 January, The Northcote Social Club hosts “The Mix CD Social” – an evening of assorted aural delights, in celebration of the humble mix CD.

Did you ever make a Mix CD for a secret crush? Or a road trip? Perhaps when YOU were putting together your musical list of your “all time favourite songs” de jour, you were dubbing to tape.

Regardless of which format you were on, the making and sharing of ‘mixes’ has no doubt played a key role in your discovery of some totally bangin’ tracks.

At “The Mix CD Social”, bring along your own compilation to receive discounted gig entry. At the end of the night, the discs will be swapped in a blind lucky dip… And everyone goes home with a mystery disc of new music!

Live entertainment will be supplied by indie-pop dynamo Georgia Fields, Duke Batavia, and The Barebones. Special guest DJs include Dan Kelly, Angie Hart and Sean M Whelan.

The soiree kicks off at 8:30pm, and tickets are $15 on the door, or only $12 if you bring a Mix CD to contribute to the lucky dip.

Happy burning…!

This had my name written all over it.

I think we’ve lost the art of mixtaping. And no, I don’t mean playlists on your phone/device of  choice. I mean, heart and soul, message through music, put it in a lovesong, burn onto something that said person can take away and listen to privately kinda thing. 

It doesn’t necessarily have to be for a lover. I made one for one of my best friends for her 30th because she lived far away and I thought this was the best way she could feel my love for her. I’m not ashamed to say it had the one song we both loved the most as kids, one that featured heavily on the original Karate Kid. One we may or may not have had specific dance moves to.

That’s the thing, the song may be complete shit, but if it means something to either you or them, it means enough to go on a mixtape.

So get mixtaping people. Show someone what they mean to you. 

And now, for your aural pleasure, Here is Peter Cetera and the Glory of Love. This one’s for you Bron.   

And check this out

Wednesday, January 4, 2012


Sadly this will not be a post about the bastardisation of the English language by lazy Gen WTF. But that is a great idea.

No, this one's about wanting one, just ONE outing with my children that doesn't end in threats of lifetime television bans and me losing my shit*

*shit will be a recurring theme in this post - fair warning.


‘This is the WORST Christmas Day EVA!!!’

That above? Yeah those words? They are the exact words texted to me by my daughter on Christmas day. My 12 year old daughter. From the car she had locked herself in. Not 30 metres from where we were sitting. Ten minutes prior to this, she had been joking, wearing a paper hat from her rubbish Christmas Cracker, repeating the same crap joke and chasing her brothers around the bench with ice. But, as these things tend to do, it all went to hell. All of a sudden the ice down the back of the shirt ‘gave her third degree burns and nobody cared!!!’  Cue swiping her brand new mobile phone from the park bench, storming over to the car and locking herself inside. Cue the text message. Cue Phil and I lying down on the park bench, full to the gills after consuming what felt like an entire Turkey and longing for the days when she would simply just shit directly in the shampoo aisle at Woolworths.

Speaking of which, not twenty minutes prior to this, Jack, the 5 year old, decided he needed to do a poo. Desperately. And it seemed although this magnificent park had a fabulous BBQ and rotunda, the council didn't quite have the foresight to put in an amenities block. So on Christmas day, in an anonymous park in Torquay, should you have driven past, you may have seen a lady with a purple paper Christmas Cracker hat on her head attempting to successfully calm a small child down who was FREAKING THE FUCK out about doing a poo behind a bush ‘like a dog!'  

Meantime Sam was running around the park. In circles. On some kind of individual solo marathon race against himself, often commentating on his own performance. ‘And yes spectators, even though it seemed impossible just moments ago, it appears Sam is going to break the world record! Watch this amazing feat people!’

And for the most part, Phil and I simply lay down and looked over at each other under the picnic table and gave each a look that I believe translated to a cross between FFS and WTF? Because we wanted the day to be serene and a little bit perfect. 

But maybe this is just the modern family. Or some variation of it. No outing is ever perfect in our world. Christmas day was no exception, but to honest, I like it this way. Perfect would be kinda boring. Although, let's face it, I'd be willing to try on the kind for size. Maybe just once.

When have your outings not gone to plan? Or do they ever?