Picture this. It’s 4pm on a Thursday afternoon. Crazy after school traffic fills the streets, and the kids and I are off to swimming lessons.
My car, packed to the ceiling with swimming gear and schools bags, dodges in and out of traffic. A feat in itself considering it’s a two and half ton 4wd and does zero to sixty in three quarters of an hour.
Silence has descended on the car after a heated discussion between myself and my three boys regarding the lyrics of Britney’s latest song “If you seek Amy” and why it’s inappropriate for them to be singing it.
”Just because!” seems to be sufficient enough answer…for now.
I sigh, relieved and enjoy a moments silence as we wait for the lights to change.
From the back seat I hear, “Muuuuuum?”
I reply “Yes matey?”
“Is there such a thing as a quandong?”
“Yes mate” I answer.
”A quandong is a fruit native to Australia. The Aborigines refer to it as Bush tucker and tastes a bit like a mango.”
I feel a bit like super mum with all the answers, and a bit proud of oldest boy for asking such an interesting and diverse question (of course he gets his natural curiosity from his mother)
Another moment of silence ensues, then Master Nine turns to his little brothers and says “Boys…..always wear a quandong.”
Frikkin’ heck, I think I just heard my sanity slam the car door and walk off!
There’s just something about the cleavage. Hypnotic in its appearance, it draws the eye, both male and female.
A soft, warm place that takes us back to our early years where we sojourned in our mothers embrace.
These days the cleavage has popped up in the most unexpected ways.
And I’m not sure I’m happy about it!
Cleavage that I like to see:
A lovely set of jiggling jubblies spilling lusciously from a satin gown? Nice……
Cleavage on a bikini clad celebrity (similarly aged as myself) looking fiiiiine!
Cleavage that I don’t! :
Front bum cleavage commonly seen in skin tight acid wash faber jabbers (Faberges jeans for those unfamiliar with social uniform of the “Westie” or “bogan”) Also known as the “camel toe“
Back fat cleavage
Cleavage enhancements
Now I’m not a booby discriminant. If you need help in that area (I know I do) please make sure your “boobie aides” dont make an unexpected appearance.
There’s nothing more off putting during a nice night out, trying to enjoy your chicken parmigiana only to look up to see the lovely lady across from you displaying her own chicken fillets!
To my mind this suggests you need to buy a pair of shoes that fit! I mean isn’t toe cleavage really pandering to all those foot fetishists out there (weirdos!)
Any cleavage that involves nips!
If your nip decides to come up for air during a social outing or heaven forbid a photo opportunity you probably should just invite everyone round to watch you in the shower!
Coz everyone’s imagining you naked anyway.
I’m just sayin’!
Butt cleavage that involves any type of underwear!
Big granny undies bunching up the top of your jeans and you run the risk of looking like you’ve had an accident with a parachute!
And a G string……well that just leaves me with the impression that somehow you’ve gotten your underwear confused with one of those cheese cutter thingies.
I mean its not call bum floss for nothing!
Boobies that threaten to smother my children.
These can generally be found on yummy mummy types volunteering for school tuckshop duty. Whilst it is true that all men are boys, all boys are not men!
Your breast are rated M 18 years and over. Stop trying to seduce my kids! .
Unless of course you’re interested in finding out what it feels like to be drowned in a cafeteria sink?
Butt cleavage and variations of butt cleavage .
For example: 3 inches of crack sliding out of a young mums low rise jeans as she squats down to attend to her children in the middle of Mothers Day Mass is INAPPROPRIATE!
Bad boob job cleavage
This includes lopsided, sunken and hot air balloon proportions.
Over tanned Granny cleavage!
Think Joan Collins and Sophia Loren and Bridgette Bardot……now…….not then!
Acne cleavage
Scary cleavage
This involves any Janet Jackson-like piercings that threaten to remove an eye or puncture jumping castles at childrens’ parties.
And finally any type of cleavage occurring on the male body.
There’s just something a little off putting about a hairy G-stringed butt that can be a real distraction from an awesome set of man boobs……………………….(cringe!)
Wanted: One Mother\wife – like person to adopt a menagerie of men children and various forms of pooping\puking domestic wildlife. Successful applicants will be required to fulfill and undertake the following criteria-
Be an arduous task master when it comes to scraping dried cereal from the floor and kitchen table
Be adept at scrambling under beds and finding missing school ties and 35 over -due library books
Expertly utilise an entire weeks worth of towels to sop up bathtub overflows. Sometimes blaming it on the kids, but occasionally confessing to a few too many wines and a little distraction known as Facebook
Maintain a grown up, respectable telephone conversation with an “out sourced” Indian telephone operator, whilst silently separating fighting offspring with an expert arm yank
Be able to keep a straight face during the most excruciating conversations with 5 year old boys about testicles and why it’s not a good idea to try and “pop” them!
Convincingly appreciate (and keep forever!) the entire recycled waste of a small country (think Sweden) creatively fashioned into various forms of art presented to you on Mothers Day morning
Successfully pretend to be going off to an office job as you go through the McDonald’s drive through for a coffee when in reality you merely going home to blog and Facebook
Successfully feign interest when the MOTH (Man Of The House) is extolling the virtues of a square pie over a round pie
Expertly hide yourself and the children in a darkened house as Mormons knock incessantly on the front door
Be a Maven of emotional blackmail, frequently making statements like “everything I do for you kids, and I never get a thank you…………………..”
Be able to forage through knee deep refuse on Xmas afternoon, looking for instructions for toys that were accidentally thrown out, despite the garbage bin smelling like a cat’s died in there!
Happily provide expert medical care to pseudo sick family members whilst bleeding out ones’ own ears.
Clearly an exciting career opportunity for a highly motivated go getter. Wages are non existent, however the successful applicant will have unlimited access to mountains of cold leftovers.
Interested parties, should not bother contacting me, I’ve already left!
It’s 9:15pm on a Wednesday night. The bath, full to the brim with suds and bubbles, hides a soaking Dahling. Eyes closed, glass of red in hand, the house is peaceful. Two of three children sleep, the youngest (by 19 minutes) can be heard flopping around in the hallway, complaining of phantom leg cramps, and occasionally calling out “April Fools!” despite it being April 23.
From two rooms away, a familiar theme streams out from the television. Dahling sits up at the sound, head cocked. There are mutterings, the sound fuzzy, then the words “My name is Earl.” She gasps, leaping from the bath, a tidal wave of froth spilling onto the floor. Her towel barely covers her pinkness, as she skirts the through the hallway maze, leaping over a prone child in the doorway.
“I’m gonna make it,” she thinks to herself.
A triple loop half loop double toe combination sees her pass through the kitchen, grabbing the cordless phone as she goes. Her fingers slip as she punches in the 10 digit number that will connect her with interstate MOTH. She considers possible electrocution as she presses the phone to her ear. It rings for an interminable time. As she sits, pondering Jason Lees’ spectacular moustache, her heart is pounding. Adrenaline sweat disguised as bath water puddles around her. Eventually he answers, and she can hear their show in the background.
I detest clichés! When heard, my eyes start to roll back in my head, and my skin starts to crawl.
Recently I mentioned to the MOTH an idea I had for a novel. That’s right! A whole frikkin’ book. Penned by me. I don’t know who I think I am really? I mean the average novel contains 130,000 words. Somehow I’m gonna be wry and witty over several hundred pages?!? I dunno.
Anyway, his response to my idea (topic not actual ability to write) was “Isn’t that a bit clichéd?” Whaddaya mean?!
A space age novel with a spunky, young captain and her roguish crew captured by baddy guys who barter their way out of a gruesome death by offering to embark on a perilous journey to a far away galaxy in search of hidden treasure? What’s clichéd about that?
Never mind the whole copyright thing
(“ding dong”)
“Oh hello Mr Lucas, what do you mean you’re going to sue the pants off me? ( Randy old bugger!)
Anyway, my first response to this suggestion was one of sheer indignation. “How dare you call me clichéd!?” I’m as unique as a chocolate flavoured omelette (bit tastier too I’d suggest!) “I strive for individuality!” “Whatever everyone else is doing, I’m doing the opposite”. And as he slowly started to shrivel and die of boredom, whilst still making eye contact and therefore not incur the wrath of “Did you just roll your eyes at me Wife”, I started to think about how any idea is ever really original.
Sure, there are some sayings that are truly barf worthy.
“It was a rollercoaster ride of emotions!”
This is moronic boy talk, usually heard dribbling from the mouths of athletes who lack the ability to express any true emotion.
“Uuummmm…. I felt sad …and…… then I felt happy….and….then I felt sad again.” Ugh!
Or “traffic was a nightmare!”
No, what is a nightmare, is being held in concentration camp, slowly being starved to death whilst those around hope that the next person killed is you and not them!
Sorry.
Got a bit heavy for a minute there. Hang on, just turning the Lithium IV up a notch. “Laa, Laa la la la oooh look I can see the music”….Right, much better!
My point is (and I’d be surprised if I can actually find a point in this rambling shemozzle) is that some clichés, said ad nauseam, seem to lower an individual’s IQ. And, in a world where burping the alphabet seems resume’ worthy, none of us can really afford to dip below 110.
So, I’m really a bit stuck (I was thinking between a rock and someplace else, but I think we’d all get more confused than we already are about this topic).
I want to write, but am gonna need a frikkin’ brain transplant from an alien to actually come up with something that hasn’t already been done before.
Am I being too elitist (coz being being a “little” elitist is OK…right?) or should I just suck it and see?
Have you ever heard something, on the television for example, that came as such a shock that you coughed, chocked and made red wine come out your nose? Well I have, and I consider myself pretty unshockable. It was nothing outrageous, more an indicator of cultural differences.
Here’s the tale.
I’m perched on a stool in my kitchen. I call this “guarding my post.” Technically I am sitting down, but to the children, I am in the kitchen, so I could be very busy, and so they don’t feel obliged to get me to do stuff for them. So, I’m sipping my wine, appearing quite vigilant, whilst indulging in a little Bold and the Beautiful. The kids think this is my show (so does my husband for that matter) which is ridiculous, but keeps them at bay for 30 minutes each day.
Anyway, I’m sipping, when out of the blue, Ridge (chiseled faced philanderer who’s had it off with several wives and some step children!) announces to another character (Valley or Crest or frikin’ Fjord!) that she’s not too old for a smack on the fanny!
Cue the coughing and the nasal discharge Shiraz style.
Now alot of readers here right now, are from America, and this saying is used colloquially in the States. Ya fanny is ya butt!
However…….(long pause)……(and this is where it gets interesting) in Australia, a smack on the fanny seems like just about the cruelest thing you could do. And believe me, brings a tear to the eye of any woman who’s ever heard this saying!
Ya fanny is ya va jay jay! Yep, put into the context of giving it a smack seems like an extreme punishment, and kinda personal!
“No thanks Dad! Think I’ll skip the vagina smack for now if that’s ok with you!”
Maybe our country is still in the midst of puberty (I mean we are still a very young country, Hell we’re no Egypt!) because alot of the American slang makes us snicker.
Another fine example is the term “We’re rooting for ya.” Again I see this and I’m snorting to myself. We know what it means. “Go team Go!”
In the land of Oz however a “root” is a sexual term, and most Australian women could attest to being “hit up” for a “root” by their partners as teenagers. ”Wanna root?” Hell my husband used the term not 2 weeks ago!
So when the Yanks use the term “we’re rooting for ya!”, all I can imagine is a husband giving his wife a good solid shag, with every thrust “Go Redsox”!
It’s even worse if someone says they’re rooting for YOU! Yikes. Don’t do it for me!
On a less immature note, a flip flop is what a fish does. In Australia, it’s called a thong. And yet if we showed our American friends a thong and asked them to put it on, they’d be some funny walking and alot of chafing!
I don’t really mind though, coz in the privacy of my own home I can get all Beavis and Butthead about it! I do though, resent being reminded in person when an American uses these terms in front of me. I’m obligated, as is my civic duty, to correct the poor soul, saving them further ridicule as they travel this incredibly mature and cultured country.
Their response is not one of gratitude, it’s more like….”Are you retarded?”
So, clearly during the typing of my previous blog post, I mistook the mineral turpentine for vodka. As I imbibed, drowning my pitiful sorrows, I announced to the world that I am 36. That’s right….36! Soooooo what!? Well……..I’m 35. Apparently, according to my mathematical wiz husband, a person born in 1973 in the month of September is still only 35. Who knew?
No, I didn’t lie to get in good with all the over 35s in the audience. I really believed I was 36. See, you reach a certain point, and it’s just not cute to brag about your age. When I was 25 I was more than happy to let the world know of my youth, particularly if surrounded by a group of “older” mums. Cries of “Oh you’re just a baby” made me squirm with pleasure. Now, I’m the one saying it to the youngies.
I’m rambling I know, so here’s my point! When people stop asking, you really have no reason to remember. It’s a bit like your PIN (notice I didn’t say PIN number!) for your ATM card. Stick it in, push the buttons, money’s exchanged. It’s second nature, thinking not required. But sometimes you catch yourself, and then bingo! The number is gone, and you’re standing in the line mentally bashing yourself whilst the people behind you are thinking a similar thing. So, this is what’s happened with the age thing. People stopped asking.
Not that I mind being 36, in fact it sounds a bit sexy. Like I could still be hot at 36!
And 35, well it’s a bit like standing in the middle of a see saw. I could go either way. A couple of drinks on a sunday afternoon and I could very easily go sliding back to 31, and still get away with it.
I guess the thing that scared me most about 36 was that 37 was next! I’d done a Rip van Winkle and lost a year…..and I’ve got such high hopes for 36!
Not that I could tell you what they are. It’s just a feeling. But to give you an idea, here’s a list of things I wont be doing at 36!
Making out with a stranger ( hell doing it with my husband is strange enough)
Joining a fight club ( for starters, I can never keep anything to myself)
Starting my own band ( why share the spot light when clearly I am already bigger than the Beatles?!)
Not sit in my car at the local pub, pointing my hairdryer at cars as they drive by (coz that’s just mischief…..right…….?)
I will not be taking anymore “natural” poses of myself with my webcam.
I will stop going into the changerooms at Myer and then announcing in a loud voice “There’s no toilet paper in here!” (seriously, those bitches deserved it!)
I will stop getting upset when my husband doesn’t remember “anniversaries”(his therapist is starting to get suspicious. Like she’d know when the tenth anniversary of the first time we washed the car together was!)
Folks it’s a real issue. Truthfully, despite the maths, I think the MOTH could be wrong!
” Shhhhhhhhhhhh”….don’t tell him that though.
He’s starting to doubt that his hair has stopped growing!
Gonna have to be a little more careful with the nocturnal haircuts from now on!
