Archives for posts with tag: Fitty

There’s a show I watch, one that I love, but that Fitty cannot stand. It’s produced and filmed in Canada, and it’s all about a series of home-owners choosing whether to stay in their unsuitable “bought it on a whim 10 years ago” homes, and have a Designer renovate their house to suit their current lifestyle or at the same time, a competing Realtor shows the family homes that suit them right now – no reno required.

The key here is the renovation – sometimes the Designer does such a good job the home-owners fall in love with their old home all over again and choose to “love it” rather than “list it”.

There’s a list of must-haves for both the renovation and for the new home. The show follows the same plot line each episode. *Gasp* the budget is too small for the list! *Gulp* the new home is out of the preferred area!

The other shit thing about the show is the simulated hatred and competition between the Realtor and the Designer, but I deal because I love the home transformations. Fitty can’t deal with any of it, but will sit beside me and watch it seething and making irritating comments the whole time.

Anyway, this show has got me thinking…what if there was a show….

“Love It or List It – My Life”

Must-haves to stay in my life:

  • A Nice Boss:  Having lived with Fitty for 10 years, I’d say shock was an understatement of the feeling I had when I finally met the man who inhabits his body 9 – 5. Brat, Dick-face, Prince of Darkness – a few names that would suit his work persona nicely.
  • A smaller ass: One of the secret symptoms of giving up smoking is that your ass enlarges. (If you add in the menopausal stomach augmentation commonly experienced by women in my age group), you soon find you can no longer fit into your clothing! It would be nice to have the ass I had prior to giving up smoking. It’s not like I’m doing anything *stuffs chocolate slice in mouth* to cause the expansion of my middle region, *eats bowl of peanuts*  I just can’t understand the weight gain at all? *inhales bag of chips*
  • A sister-wife: I do  try to keep the house clean, it’s just that by the time I’ve endured a 40 hour work week with Fitty, the last thing I want to do all weekend is hang around the house (with him) doing the housework! I’d much prefer to visit friends/family/woodland animals, or go to the movies with Magoo. A sister-wife would be a friend and a handy helper at home. I see her washing, cooking, cleaning, and playing with my hair!

Must-haves to buy new life:

  • A Palace of Gleaming Surfaces: Plus a family with put-away skills that would blow your mind! Nobody would leave anything anywhere and everyone would shit bubblegum scented rainbows. I tire of the routine scolding and teaching of people who are too old to still be learning how to put things away and look after their own stuff.
  • A 10 Hour Work Week:  I love my job, but I reckon if I cut away all the bullshit hours I spend tidying up after the toddler (Fitty), arguing that I am in fact RIGHT and giggling over stupid shit, I could do the work I need to get done in a couple of hours a day. Then I could get back to the important aspects of my menopause healing like retail therapy and remedial sleep treatment.
  • Total Remote Control: No more News Marathons, no more four straight hours of science, or watching the dude from Ancient Aliens justifying his research grant. No more Mythbusters, Air Crash Investigation or random world current affairs. No more “Ways to Hate Donald Trump” on CNN! A little of the above is fine, but you can’t constantly watch serious. It kills your soul.


Related Fun – Because he was initially terrified I would actually sign my work emails “Boomshanka”, or tell jokes to the clients, Fitty used to make me read emails to him before I sent them. (Okay, yes I may have definitely created this problem for myself by repeatedly threatening to punk the clients and by always whispering “Boomshanka” at the end of his dictated emails.)

One day at work, I was reading an email to Fitty, (As I read the words ‘new home’ Fitty the Satanic Boss shrieks, “This isn’t some flowery Canadian Reno show ya know, this is a Business!  Call. It. A. Dwelling!” God help us if some non robot-like humanity sneaks into our work correspondence!

I laughed so hard I nearly peed my pants. He can be such a funny fucker at work, but most of the time I just want to staple his lips together with the industrial stapler…


















“You haven’t posted in 14 days…..” Thanks Facebook! For reminding me that I have nothing to say. I’m kind of…


Writer’s block? Life block? Menopause…? Nicotine withdrawal? Or am I simply running out of things to say? I’m a little concerned really… I mean, what if I never write again? I’m forcing myself to put together this post – just write – to stay in the loop until I get my mojo back.

One of the things stopping me at the moment is the mundane nature of life right now. I’ve mentioned it before, but honestly, I’m struggling with the amount of time I’m surrounded by Fitty!

Giving up smoking has not helped at all. I’m cranky as fuck, even with the nicotine patches that Fitty is way too delicate to wear. (Hey they itch the hell outta my skin too, and I have ugly red patches where they’ve been, but anything to stop the murderous impulses – right?) Pussy!

It helps that we started with a very healthy and happy relationship I guess, but the sheer amount of time we spend together is wearing us down, slowly but surely.

Fitty is a Virgo, and as such is perfect.

There is nothing wrong with the way he behaves, EVER.

I’m the kind of person who will argue until I’m blue in the face if I think I’m right, but I am prepared to admit when I’m wrong. (The grey area here of course is when I think I’m right, but I’m actually wrong.)

With Fitty there is no wrong. He’s either right – or you’re a fuckhead.

I’ve learned to cope with that over the years, but I tell ya, being with him 24/7 is not helping much anymore.

He actually FIRED ME the other week! I could barely contain my excitement…

We had an argument at work over a computer program. I knew I was right, but he kept saying things like “who’s the I.T. expert around here, huh?”

“Well you’re fucking DOING IT WRONG my love.” *smirks*

I cannot tell you how happy it made me when it turned out he was wrong. I made Fitty eat it for a number of hours, in fact he was still eating it at 8 am the following morning, as I strolled around at home in my nightie talking about the many joys of being unemployed…

Nicotine withdrawal is a bitch, but so am I!

I made him suffer, and he had to repeat: “Please come back to work for me even though I am the most unreasonable asshole boss ever?”

We accept that there are going to be times when the stapler looks like a weapon, when it’s a good idea to move the scissors into another room. But there’s also time for closing the copy-room door and indulging in passionate kisses! Times when a client makes you both crazy and you can indulge in name-calling and fun-making together until the stress abates. Times when you run down the stairs and out of the office giggling together and holding hands.

As long as there is balance between the good, bad and downright ugly, I guess we’ll live. We have learned to respect new things about each other. I know for a fact he is surprised at how much I’m loving the work I’m doing, and how well I’ve taken to it.

I know that I never thought about how talented he is at his job. Dude’s a genius, as I’ve said many times, but I have a new respect for the way he works under pressure, and the intricate problems he solves!

FIL’s been away, (cruising around Malaysia with MIL), and ever since he left, Fitty and I have been swamped with new jobs, and old ones demanding to be finished. I’d have to say we’ve made a pretty good team while he’s been away. Even if sometimes communication breaks down to this:


Talk to the hand Fitty!


*I’ve also changed my colour scheme slightly in recognition of my cycle (for unknown reasons) reinstating itself as a regular bitch again! How dare she, after months of promising to stop altogether? My uterus is an utter COW!

Restraint – The act of controlling the expression of one’s feelings – Farlex free dictionary.

In the last 7 days, I have been subjected to a lot of stress. A lot. I’m sick of restraining my feelings, sometimes you just gotta have a go, say what you want to say, and feel better. Right?

First event: The youngest child (and usually most sensible/sensitive), had a demonic outburst of anger and hatred which lasted approximately 15 hours, (one hour of declaration and 14 of withdrawal), which was directed solely at me. Luckily I had the sense and maturity to restrain myself from reacting, and carried on with life and parenting as usual – because “teenager”.

It didn’t stop me from having a couple of sleepless nights worrying about the cause of his outburst, or trying to discuss the situation with OM, (his mother), which was unfortunately the wrong move for me this time. I can’t, for all that is sensible, believe in or condone  free range parenting. I see it more as a neglectful, abject dissolution of responsibility.

But that’s just me..

I restrained myself from commenting further because what I wanted to say would have come from years of frustration, and probably not helpful in any way other than unburdening myself of said frustration!

Sometimes I struggle with the 3 way parenting model. Sometimes I struggle so hard I want to scream. Instead, I’ve spent years intensively working on trying to accept that my parenting style is not perfect, and not everyone has to adopt a similar style in order to raise children. But I have my limits!!

Second event: Fitty had been complaining of pain in his right lung, neck and shoulder for about 2 weeks. On Tuesday night, around 6pm I arrived home (from a visit with my spiritual cleanser and bestie, T), to find that his pain was increasing. I suggested, as I had been for a week, that we really should get him to a doctor. Fitty had been refusing, but his increasing pain was starting to talk him round..

By 7.30pm I was speeding him to the emergency room with a suspected collapsed lung. He was in terrible pain, hyperventilating and going into shock.

We didn’t think we had time to wait for an ambulance, so it was up to me to get him safely to the hospital… I don’t think I need to comment further on the amount of fear, anxiety and panic created by that situation?

Upon arriving at the ER, he was immediately surrounded by 3 staff, attaching all kinds of cables and monitors. His heart rate was way up, his oxygen stats way down. He was in a lot of pain. At the time, I busied myself filling out the form, and trying to stay out of the way, whilst trying to control my own hyperventilation!

It was when they wheeled him into the critical care room and rolled in the “crash cart” that I began to feel the overwhelming seriousness of the situation, and my utter helplessness!  I felt sick, fearful and ready to burst.

I restrained myself immediately, opened the curtain that separated us from the rest of the patients in the emergency room, took myself away from Fitty, into a corner near the exit and stared at the wall. I can’t even tell you what I was thinking, it would hurt too much, but I will tell you that I didn’t cry, I didn’t collapse, I just took a couple of long deep breaths and told myself to hold together. It wouldn’t do to have Fitty see me in tears, the last thing he needed was more stress! I returned to critical care and stood once again by my love’s side, with resolved strength. (I doubt he even noticed my absence.)

I have since thanked all the Gods in the universe for his safe return home to us. The staff at the hospital were able to stabilise him quickly, and although a thorough diagnosis is still not available 5 days later, Fitty’s pain is manageable and his symptoms have abated. We are waiting for further test results to determine the cause, but we both feel confident he is receiving the right treatment. He is soo much better!

Upside: Fitty gave up smoking the morning before he fell ill. He knew something wasn’t quite right. A few days later I stopped, and we are now both smoke free. (Those who follow this blog will know this isn’t our first rodeo, if fact this will be attempt number 7!) “They” say it takes an average of 7 – 10, so we’ll just keep trying until we succeed.

The teenage angst has passed, he told me he didn’t even know why he said the things he did? Well fuck son, thanks?

Seriously…  Now it’s the dog…

SIKLate last night Pooh dog was vomiting and shitting liquid waste. Listless, forlorn and sleepy, she hadn’t eaten properly and wasn’t drinking much either. It was the excessive “bowing” that clued me in to the fact it may be gastritis. I remembered reading about the behaviour having something to do with gut pain. I followed the advice I got online, and she’s doing much better today.

I guess it does you good to get smacked upside the head with a bit of “life” now and again, but I really need it to stop now.


Meg XO

*this post brought to you by “nicotine withdrawal” and “fuckoff life I’m sick of your shit”*

F:  “I can’t find the section text for the “Wahwah” job?”

Me:  “I didn’t touch it!”

F:   “I didn’t say you touched it, I said I couldn’t find it!”

Me: “I didn’t do the doc’s for that job, maybe it’s in the “Weewee” file?”

F:    “Why the fuck do all our client’s names this week begin with “W” anyway?”

He’s right. All the current jobs on our desks are client’s whose surname’s start with “W”. To make it even more confusing, two are the same surname – and similar jobs!

*Fitty checks the client file named “Weewee”.

F:    “Nope, not in “Weewee”.

Me: “Well, I don’t know, maybe FIL knows?”

(FIL has left the building, which he often does without telling me, so I can take a phone call, tell peeps he’s there, then hafta explain how he’s not there anymore.) I’m thankful that Fitty and I sit in the same office – for that reason, and that reason only!

Me: “Maybe it got accidentally deleted? But I gotta tell ya, I didn’t even open that file on the computer, not today, not last week, not for ages.”

F: “Go and look in FIL’s recycle bin?”

Moments later…

M: “Yep, here it is, found it!”

Fitty walks in, squints at the screen, he doesn’t trust me at all.

F:  “How do you know that’s it, it doesn’t even have the name on it?”

Me: ” Because I opened it, you dick! Look it’s right here!”

F:  “Well how do you know it’s the right (latest) one then? Did ya check the date? Huh?”

He’s finding it very difficult to believe I have found the document he’s looking for. My competence is growing by the day, but he still isn’t getting that I can do stuff. By myself. He likes to hold my hand and make sure I do things his way. His way is the only way to do things, even when I get the same result in exactly the same amount of time!

Me:  “I ordered them by date!” *make ridiculous tard-face* “It has the right name and the latest date on it. Should I restore it then? Fitty don’t start clicking stuff! This computer…..”

Fitty begins opening and closing files rapidly, (he simply can’t believe I’ve found the file so efficiently.) I know this is a bad idea on FIL’s computer, because it is a little slow, like me. It gets confused easily, and will throw a spaz if you make too many demands of it. Just like me..

An endless circle fills the screen…

Me:  “Aaaargh for fuck’s sake! Why can’t you just fuck off and trust me?”

F:  “Sorry darling, it’s oka…”

Me: “NOPE! No, fuck off, I’m going home….”

I stomp off down the hallway while he rehearses ways to make this not his fault. (But really I’m just going to the bathroom, calmly, casually – with steam coming outta my head and my arms flailing wildly in the air.)

I know that when I get back to my desk, all I’ll want to do, is settle back into what I was doing before the Wahwah event. I also know that Fitty will have a power point presentation ready in order to show me how it wasn’t his fault. So as I’m coming back into our office –

“I’m sorry Fitty, I’m gonna have to let you go…. You just create too much drama.


*We don’t really have client’s named Wahwah and Weewee, but I so wish we did! We do however have four or maybe five current “W’s” in the job list – which has created some brilliantly confusing moments between the three of us.

Also, I have learned to keep the scissors, and other sharp objects out of my reach at work. *Wink*

For my birthday this year, (instead of Fitty buying me some appliance that will not fit in my kitchen), I asked him to take me to Canberra to visit the new IKEA store – because IKEA!!

He agreed, and then sat around pulling faces every time I mentioned the trip. So I did the only thing I knew would prompt him. I shamed him on Facebook.

The very next afternoon we took the 2.5 hour drive to Canberra in the rain, to stay overnight with the Fitty sister – Janet, and her hubby Steve, (who are almost as silly as us!)

I was tired the next morning, but excited to visit IKEA, (but not as excited as Fitty who had the car packed and was standing in door of the car shouting “C’mon!!”) while I was still drinking my first coffee…

So we arrived at IKEA around 8.45am, which was great… but IKEA doesn’t open until 10am!

Desperate to distract myself with another shiny thing – so I didn’t die from disappointment at having to wait over an hour – I spotted a huge building full of shiny things called “Costco”.

Umm NOPE. Doesn’t open until 10 either…

We decided to go grab a coffee and wait it out at the mall next door, buuuut – they didn’t open until 9.00am!

“Fucking hell Fitty! You rushed me through my sacred-waking-coffee so we could stalk closed shops??”

Anyways – after the damn shop opened – we had a coffee and arrived back at IKEA with the intention of touching everything in the store.

  • I was busting for a pee but couldn’t see a sign for the toilet even though it was right in front of me. I used my never fail method of following a pregnant lady (because those women go to the bathroom every 15mins!)
  • Fitty slashed his leg open on the furniture trolley because it is not a skateboard, not even if you do fully sic 360’s and slide sideways on it.
  • Touching everything that opens, shuts, slides, and spins is fine – until you are halfway through your lunch and realise you haven’t washed your hands and you’re prolly gonna die because 1 million other hands are eating your lunch with you. Fuck.

After loading the car with flat packs and things that, (were awesome but unnecessary), we headed innocently toward Costco.

Call me a fool, but I’m Australian, and round here we don’t hafta pay money just to walk into a shop. I’d only ever heard of Costco in books and movies, so we didn’t know –

From the Costco FAQ:

Can I come and have a look before I sign up? “Costco is a membership warehouse club and you will need a membership to visit and shop at Costco.”

As we walked through the entrance of the store I noticed a tall youth staring at his reflection in the glass, inside the store. He was putting on a camouflage balaclava! Again, call me a fool, but generally peeps don’t need to wear full face coverage when shopping so I immediately jumped to this conclusion:

“Fitty! Shit – look at that guy! He’s putting on a disguise! He’s gonna spray us with bullets and kill us all. OMG, look at him!!”

Fitty casually looks over while I pull out my phone and snap a picture of the guy. You know, just in case the Police need one after the disaster. I’m ready to run..


Said dude notices me taking his pic and acting all weird, shakes his head and continues donning his murderous disguise.

We did not notice other people, (like every single entry), flashing their Costco memberships to the security guard before being allowed into the store. I was way too busy fearing for my life! I approached the security guard and spoke urgently to him.

“There’s a dude putting on a balaclava around the corner!!”

…Okay – so he’s just a trolley boy tryna protect his face from sunburn! (And I’m an alarmist-fuck-panic-attack in the making.)

Fitty is laughing at me. The security guard is laughing at me – so I walk off into the store

Security guard is obs too busy laughing at me to ask for a membership card.

We found an item we’d priced at home $200 cheaper in Costco! Amazed at this saving, we decided to explore all the aisles. We found an apple pie bigger than my ass. An impressive cut of meat called a “Tomahawk Steak”, (the size of a plate) – loads of bargains – which would probably save us a fortune, particularly when catering for our large family.

We bought the big save item, but only after a dry run at the registers’ where sales staff were horrified that we’d been in the store for over 2 hours without a membership and marched us promptly to the front door where it was put to us that we could either:

“Join up, or get out!”

Lawd – you’d think we’d donned balaclava’s and gunned down the shoppers?


There’s a lot going on in my body right now, what with my estrogen and progesterone packing its bags and leaving, my egg production in rapid decline, and all the symptoms making my head spin like a possessed woman – I’m increasingly enamored with the idea of a complete gender reassignment.

I’ve often noticed the difference between the having the penis and not having the penis in my relationship, and I kinda feel like I’ve been dealt a raw blow. If I had the penis – would I be as annoying with it?

Probably.. but first I want to share way too much with you – about the penis and what I might, and might not do, if I had one.

Would Not:

  1. If I had a penis, I would basically not spend 80% of my time tryin to stick it in Fitty.
  2. If Fitty went to lay down in the daytime, because he was tired from all the work he does to feed me and keep me alive, I would not always appear second’s later in the doorway, naked and lewdly suggesting playtime by nodding my head and saying “Hey…..hey…. heeeey?”
  3. I would definitely not pretend that my “morning wood” was a “rudderless ship” attempting to “moor” by banging into the “dry-dock” repeatedly.
  4. I would never stand with my arms above my head, eyes closed, and pee all over the toilet seat.
  5. If I came into the bathroom and found Fitty naked after a shower, leaning over the basin cleaning his teeth, I would not pin him by the thighs to the edge of the vanity, lick his ear, and dry hump him until toothpaste came out his nose.
  6. I would try not to spend every waking moment adjusting my junk and then shaking people’s hands.


  1. I would employ only the very best surgeons and have them craft me a designer cock. One Fitty would be proud to put in his mouth!
  2. I would enjoy arriving home from work and having a meal cooked for me, and if I felt like cooking, I would enjoy that too… infrequently.
  3. I would listen to the things my penis was telling me constantly, but I would reply knowing who I was talking to. “Yes, yes I know you need me to tweak his nipples and grind him into the bench, but we did that yesterday remember? Do your balls still hurt?”
  4. I would prolly think that the best way to help on the day we’re having people over for lunch, would be to get up and start drinking beer, while standing around the barbecue looking relaxed  – because I realise that my penis would entirely inhibit my ability to help with cleaning and food preparation.
  5. I would enjoy taking frequent dumps without ever having to clean the toilet, and squirt shower products up the wall. (It’s not like my penis and I can do anything about that situation!)
  6. Most of my beverages would be brought to me where I sit, and I guess I’ll just get called for dinner like everyone else – now that I’ve got a penis!

The absence of a penis means so much more suffering. The hormones (my vagina and it’s assorted company) require to transition from “fertile” to “not fucking interested at all” are making me unpleasant and prone to long bouts of whinging. I go up and down like a yo-yo, never quite fully aware of what I’m doing and saying until after, when I quietly think about it… realise I’ve been a bitch.

Sure, a gender reassignment is probably not going to happen – but the look on Fitty’s face, every time I remind him that it is entirely possible that I could pay the money, come home with a sorta functioning dick, and chase him around the house with it wanging around in my hand – it’s just too priceless to ever let go!

*I always get Fitty to look at a post like this before I post it. (I am somewhat sensitive to his feelings after all.) The only comment he made other than laughing was in reply to the designer cock in mouth situation –

“I so would fucking NOT put it in my mouth!”

And so, it appears we have an agreement of sorts!!


Have you ever been so busy and exhausted that you couldn’t afford to stop for a moment? Have you ever spent all the hours of every day with your true love? Have you started a challenging new job in the midst of  a menopausal-nightmare of hot sweats and anxiety?

Did I mention hosting two Christmas functions, my son’s 21st birthday, a 12 hour wedding shoot, and a freaking ‘Santa Photo’ job, in the midst of that?

Living. The. Dream.

Fitty’s parents always go away together for Christmas, so we plan a special Christmas on a date that suits family members (either the weekend before or after the 25th).  It’s a great plan for getting everyone together for Christmas regardless of the actual date but.. every year?

Two Christmases.

MIL and I had established the date months earlier, me forgetting at the time that the Saturday before Christmas was the very same day as 5’s 21st birthday. So we did both on the same sweltering hot day. At the time we made the date, I also wasn’t working at all back then, so had no idea what December had in store for us!

It’s typical for Fitty to book a band gig on one of our birthday’s, or a rehearsal on the day we’re supposed to visit folks. He’s got too many hobbies, and we frequently have to save him from himself when it comes to agreeing to do stuff – then spending 5 nights a week doing the stuff, and complaining bitterly that we are all doing no stuff.

That’s because you agree to do the stuff, dick!

Not content with keeping my weekday’s busy at the office,  Fitty had also agreed to photograph a wedding one Saturday in December, and taken a phone call at some stage about doing “Santa Photos” locally. When I overheard the Santa plan I immediately started shrieking at the top of my lungs about how busy we were going to be for the couple of weeks before Christmas..

“I love you,” I spy camera equipment over his shoulder, “but I fail to understand how I can so deeply and thoroughly despise you at the same time.”

I’m receiving a crash course in photography. Fitty needs a back up for the “girly bits” of the wedding, and to increase the balance and variety of the shots. Fitty insists I learn about apertures, and focus and shit. I insist I can point the camera (set on auto), and shoot – so shut up and go away.

In the end I get both a crash course, and an argument.

“If you make this too technical I will shut down and refuse. Stop talking about exposure, we covered that yesterday, and I still don’t understand so just give up okay? Why is this so heavy? Where’s the little lens you had on it yesterday? This heavy thing will break my wrist, and I’ll be drooping on the ground with it! Do you want all the pictures to be of feet?”

Was going to the wedding anyway – had no idea I’d be seeing it through the lens of a camera! Had even less idea I would throw myself into the task so thoroughly that I would forget I am a cripple and start crawling around on the beach on my knees, looking for perfect light and framing. Up and down on the sand I sprang, snapping the bridesmaid’s as they walked onto the beach, the bride, the ceremony. Never for a second imagining that I wouldn’t be able to walk for four days afterwards…

It was thoroughly good shit. I’ve never had every single guest at a wedding smile at me so winningly every time I walked by with the camera in hand.

The bride was 4’s long time childhood friend, which meant a flying visit from 4 – in which she impressed upon her father and I, how much growing up she’s done since she moved away. There was no shred of apprehension as she managed the task of “Bridesmaid and Beyond”. She was her usual dynamic-creative self, and she managed so many tasks that were exquisitely and joyfully undertaken.

In some quieter moments at home, she helped me to untangle my frustration with her father, his ability to overload his schedule, resulting in the need to ask for my help. She unpacked him in two seconds flat..

4  –  “Don’t help him.”

Me – “But then he will fail?”

4  – “Let him fail – it’s the only way he’ll learn.”

This is why I love 4, she is way more grown up than us.

With the wedding over, I spent Sunday screaming in silent agony every time I had to use my legs. Excruciating pain. (*Note to self, never knee-walk in sand again.) Wished solidly for one of those stair-chair-lift thingies to whiz me up and down the stairs because I had to wash clothes, and do the housework with two solid clumps of ouch hanging from my hips.

In the days leading up to 1st Christmas, I tidied up every loose bit of crap that wasn’t nailed down, putting away most of the clutter left from redecorating. Created a sleek looking space with clean, dust free surfaces. I was inspired by some minimalist Christmas decorations.

How to Stick Tree: See stick tree on Facebook. Think “I can do that”. Rope in help from 7. Avoid tick bites while collecting huge pile of sticks from undergrowth. Drive Pooh dog crazy with huge pile of sticks. (Pooh dog love sticks.) Move sticks upstairs to outdoor area away from dog who is screaming at sticks. Notice vine curling naturally around one of  sticks. 7 agrees this is a beautiful thing – this vine wrapping naturally around the stick. Go back into the undergrowth to find more “special vine wrapped natural renewable Christmas tree sticks” with 7. Dump 3 kilos of ugly sticks back in bush. After several minutes of listening to 7 complain about the lack of beautiful sticks with vine in her search area – find perfect stash of vine sticks. Lug sticks upstairs, tell dog she is a whiner. Tell 7 she is a whiner. Gain complete control of the project and don’t let 7 touch anything until I am ready to let her help me saw the sticks. Get a ruler? Fuck the ruler. Guess. Cut stick lengths with 7’s exceptional saw skills. Praise 7’s saw skills!  Hastily tack string in a tree shape on back of sticks after laying out in order of size. Pick up top stick and hold your breath??? When nothing breaks scream at Fitty to put some fixings on the wall to hold up your stick tree. Spend way too much time decorating the sticks. Notice how much extra space you have with no big pine tree looming out of the wall. Be grateful for your sticks. Be smug about your tree.

A few days later I walked in late one evening after picking up one of the kids from work, and 50% of the living room was full of photographic gear. Two studio lights with reflective umbrellas, two tripods (for each), two cameras on huge tripods of their own, and all the associated bags and cases.

“You’re a fucking maniac, I can’t believe you’ve done this. When am I supposed to cook and clean with all this?  What are you doing with all the bullshit and batteries on the table? If you ever do this again I swear to God…!”

Remember the Santa shoot that I was shrieking my head off about? Because ridiculous timing?

He’s taken the job. Against my advice. He’s set up in the middle of the room to work out how the Santa shoot will work. At this point in time I am so sick of him I could spontaneously burst into flame. Flame with intent.

– I go, I help, I do the freakin Santa shoot! I take the names, and the money, the orders for the pictures. I am the happiest fucking elf in the Kingdom of Santa.


Fuck you this IS my happy face.

Fortunately for me, the Kingdom of Santa was set up in my favourite furniture shop. I have purchased whole rooms in this store! In between helping Fitty snap kids – in varying degrees of distress – being forced to sit on a bearded red man’s knee – and be flash-blinded by space lights, I managed to take several laps of the stock, finding many things to my liking. At the time, I’m thinking – the money Fitty makes from the pictures, pretty much matches the amount of money I’m willing to spend right now in the store!!  And that’s how Karma works.

1st Christmas occurred on the hottest day ever. Cheese melted! We did manage to have a lovely family day, despite the heat. I made 2 huge batches of everything, one for lunch and one for the 21st, so it worked out incredibly well in terms of catering, and provided endless fun playing  fridge Tetris with all the food!

My kid’s 21st birthday’s are celebrated in their father’s paddock with loud music blaring until morning. This is a family tradition. Fitty and I sleep on a mattress in the back of our car like all the kids do, (because drunk and really comfortable anyway).

This is the first time the Police haven’t shown up at 3am telling the kids to turn down the music. My kids like their music loud. This is why they have parties on their dad’s  property out of town. I spend every minute after midnight turning down the volume of the music myself, or nagging a kid to turn down the volume. Because I don’t want to have to visit with the Police about the noise.

I was impressed by 5’s friends, an incredible bunch of  young people, even though they look like a bunch of  new-age smelly hippy children! These were great friends with long histories – everybody laughed and had fun all night, despite the searing heat of the evening.  Apart from the need to destroy each others ear drums with loud techno-bullshit music, I have no complaints about my son’s choice of friends.

When I stuck my head out of the car window at 7am the next morning, (having passed out from drinking sheer exhaustion around 3am), the music was blaring and a few scraggly drunks were staggering around still pretending to be human. These kids were drunk and tired enough to cheer “oooiiiiiieeee” just because I had woken up. A more realistic shout of “here comes trouble” from one as I moved deliberately toward the volume control. I cut the music right down to a mystical hum and crept toward the coffee…

Fitty and I worked together irritably until social events and work responsibilities blurred together. That’s how I spent the lead up to our Christmas holidays – I was irrational and emotional when I was awake .

2nd Christmas (the 25th), was much cooler, more casual, with an air of “didn’t we do this just a week ago?” about it.

Fitty and I got drunk together into the late afternoon, (when all the kids had gone), and I realised something. “Fitty! I’m sick of your face!” I said. “For the last 8 weeks or so, I have spent almost every minute of my life either next to you at work, in the car, at the meal table, in the kitchen, with your camera’s and so on, sleeping next to you…”

He looks at me and says “get over yourself will ya?” And with that we retire to bed and eat a box of Belgian Biscuits.

Now, on the first day of 2016,  we sit on the balcony in the cool breeze watching the lake, hearing the sounds of the bush, soaking in the peace. The water is calm here.

We have had all the people we love around us constantly, helping, supporting, there’s much to be thankful for coming into the new year…

A new year which began, I might add, with Fitty awakening, poking his head straight around the doorway to observe me tapping away at the keyboard, the wild look in his eye announcing his intention to crack a really bad joke: “MORNING! I’ve only been happy for ONE minute this year!”

Wait until he reads this?

It’s gonna be a long New Year’s Day people!


Many years ago in a math class, I told my teacher the following statement during a lesson on Pythagoras, “I will not need Pythagoras, (or his Theory), in order to fold nappies!”

This – at the end of a long argument between he and I about whether or not I really needed to learn mathematics. I’d have to say that my obnoxious comment was spur of the moment. I was willing to say anything to get out of learning maths.

At that point in my life, I could make change from a note, do basic maths fairly quickly in my head and had no desire to learn the relationship between letter’s and number’s in algebra, (or formulas for working out the area of a triangle.)

To this day I have no clue about algebra? (I once tried to do some very basic algebra homework for 5 and I got every single sum wrong.) I wasn’t surprised at all – I just don’t get why the alphabet had to get all up in maths’ face in the first place?

I did need some mathematics in my life in order to bring home money, but it was the kind of math I was already good at, so for years I convinced myself that I was right, (Mick Green – math’s teacher to the clueless – could eat my shorts!)

I have no ambitions to be clever beyond stringing words together in a fashion which promotes people to want to read them.

I never have had any real career aspirations, just a desire to  earn enough money to eat, wear clothing and occasionally get legless drunk….

Don’t think I wasn’t interested in learning, my intolerance belonged only to maths. I was a very keen history and English student, and science was fascinating for many reasons – I’m still hooked on reading, learning, taking in facts.

So – now you have a credible history of my feeling’s toward anything remotely hard to do with numeracy, you can completely commiserate with me about the following….

Work is Hard.

I’ve had to use my brain in my previous jobs a few times over the years, (not much.) Getting people pissed is not rocket science – mostly I pulled beers and processed sports and racing bets through a machine that did all the hard work for me. I spent time working with Poker Machine’s and paying people a tiny percentage of their money back. (Maths, see?)

I work efficiently and very quickly. Like someone on crack – which works behind a busy bar, but doesn’t translate to the office environment.

I haven’t worked in an office since I was pregnant with 3, back when we did everything on paper/ in ledgers/ on typewriters. I have just started working in a 2015 office…

I am like a dolphin in a sandpit.

There’s that, and then there’s the nature of the business – Building Design is what “they” do.”They” being Fitty and his father, (let’s call him FIL, as we do here in blog-land when referring to our father’s-in-law.)

When I agreed to “help out at the office”, I thought along these lines; filing, data entry, emails, answering phones, being friendly to the clients, being cheerful, cleaning up, wandering around the street “getting the mail” etc. (I find it hilarious every day when I go to the Post Office to get the mail and see all the other office-bots!)

When I first started “work”, I sat beside Fitty learning how he does what he does. I cleaned the office areas I could get to, made cups of *gender stereo-fucking-typical* coffee, ate cake and made numerous funny references about Fitty and I working together, (which cracked us both up.) Fitty is Satan at work, but those first few days were pretty smooth nonetheless.

Week two saw me sitting at FIL’s desk learning about what he does...

Now in the ten years Fitty and I have been an actual “thing”, I have enjoyed FIL’s company – we share a love of bottles.

Bottles with wine in them.

We have polite conversations about the children, Fitty, the house renovations etc. Not once have I let on that I am Stephen Hawking level intelligent! In fact, FIL once jokingly called me out on incompetently made toast at a family breakfast!

I cannot fathom the amount of confidence he has in me to even ask me to do some of the things he expects me to do in his office?

FIL stands there speaking to me like this: “Can you get the <insert acronym for yet another form/standard/requirement>” that I don’t yet understand, so speaking in capital letters is not really helpful?

I’m just standing there like ——-? Wot?

But I go, and I get the forms, and I pretend to fill them out, and then I ask him to check them, and lo and behold?  I get a bit wrong, because I am not a building designer with a college education who has been doing this since Jesus was a baby!!

His expectations are like, high!

My anxiety is flourishing in this environment.

Fitty thinks it’s funny, because he has been dealing with wavering level’s of my anxiety since the beginning of time our friendship 30 years ago, but let’s just ask my sick to the stomach, non-stop hot flushing, sweaty-panicky-heart-racing body if it’s funny Fitty?

“You’re doing great!”

Nope. I’m not. I’m holding my head above water. I’m learning on my own curve, which is not even close to the curve Fitty and FIL can achieve or expect, but it’s a start. Ya know?

“I know what I’m doing! It feels awesome!”

Some days I feel like that – then FIL asks me to establish things like – area, lot size, dimension’s, square root’s, finding the scale, figuring out the directions/slope/lay of the land – that’s MATHS!

Fucking hell people!! It’s like every time I identify or admit a weakness, Fitty will lure me into a situation where I have to step up and face it, or humiliate myself.

I hates him right now. (But only at the office), as evidenced the other afternoon where the process of walking out of the office door together changed our dialogue from “fuck I hate you“, sticking his foot out at the bottom of the stairs threatening to trip me – to us both bursting into loud laughter as we passed into the afternoon sunshine on our way home where we immediately fell into giggling and cuddles on the bed!

I don’t know how I’m able to put up with his stress-driven snappiness at work, but so far I just imagine smacking him and it’s working. I have not yet accepted the fact that me being gullible enough to “help out at the office” has resulted in a full time 9 – 5  actual “Job”.

Cool for me huh?

Fitty thinks I should end this blog with something hopeful like, “one day this dolphin will cease to feel like it’s flopping around in a pit of sand and fly gracefully through the waters”, but I snorted and said it would be more realistic to end it like this:

One day I might cease to feel like a dolphin in a sandpit and instead feel like a slightly overweight walrus flopping onto a rock saying with an exhausted sigh… “made it!”


Nathan Edwards / Newspix via Rex USA






I talk a lot about procrastination, but there is an exception to my need to prolong tasks, and that is when I get a creatively-crafty idea that humours me.

Inexplicable desires to create explode in my brain, causing me to cease all other activity and research said idea. If things are looking good at budget/ I’m gone quicker than you can say “what the fuck are you up to now..?”

I have had so many unfavorable flashes of fantasy! Like that time I spent a whole day stuffing pantyhose with newspaper so I could go to a fancy dress party as a spider. I even sewed all the eyes on a headband and wandered blindly around all night with 8 arms wildly waving and a headband over one eye.

Fitty knows.. He puts up with a lot. He can leave a perfectly ordinary house one morning and arrive home to a fondant fountain of fuckery.

See my blog, "Have a Sex Toy Party they said" for more details..

See my blog, “Have a Sex Toy Party they said” for more details..

He may glow with pride as he takes in this charming scene of his grandchildren creating seasonal sensations with Nanny M.

He may innocently be sitting at the office and receive the following text:


I think this could be my most popular idea yet… I know the kids will be on board, just not sure about the Pooh dog, or the hoards (at least 5), of people who run, walk, ride or drive past our house..

I can’t help being just a little bit evil. My very first victims will prolly be that gang of cyclist’s who terrorise the quiet morning’s with their upbeat banter. I can see it now…

“…and then I bench pressed 250, went for a hundred kilometre sprint and washed it all down with a protein sha… what was that noise?”

*From behind the tree at the bottom of our drive..”…C C R AAAARRK……GRR RR  OOWWL..” (this will be the sound activated recording that plays)

Then BOOM, out swings a perfectly horrific paper mache Zombie Scarecrow!

*Takes bow.

Fitty will try and tell me how this is a bad idea. Fitty will not be successful because 6 will lawyer for me. (He is so darn good at lawyering, it makes me wonder about the Pizza shop job? Why waste a god-given talent being a professional, when you could be Doughboy?)

Anyway, I think we all know this is gonna happen. You know I’ll be in touch when it does…

I am the mother of this child.


I am also the mother of his two younger brothers. My middle child (5) is terrified of his older brother’s driving skills, and drives sedately. My youngest (6), drives like an Asian in New York traffic when he is on a lonely dirt road. (He is only learning?)

Stepmother to another five adorables, I reckon I know a thing or two about worrying..

When the above pictured maniac first got his license, I went a little crazy with the safety advice, and a routine was born. Every single time my kids got in a car I’d start.

“Don’t drink and drive. Who’s driving home after? If you get stuck call me or sleep in the car? Don’t speed. Promise? If you’re drinking, no motorbikes, okay? Where’s the party at? Who’s looking out for you all? Parent there? Do I know them? Look just stop for a minute! I love you okay, I just want you to be safe..?”

We are Mothers. We bleed when you cut yourself. When you cry, we bravely try to blink away our tears, they fall on your shoulder, (behind your back), because we know we need to be strong for you. But you can feel our shoulders shake, right?

So you know. We love you. Would do anything for you. Always will.

So why do you have to make it so hard for us? Why do you ride a four wheeler on two wheels in a rocky, tree studded paddock with no helmet and safety gear? Didn’t I always tell you how precious your sweet little face is?

Don’t you know your head is just a watermelon waiting for the right set of circumstances, to explode?

I know I am anxious and paranoid as a mother. I get that I fear things a little more than “normal mum”, but dammit I could never stop the endless stream of horror movies in my head?

I used to imagine they stopped breathing all the time. Things would get too quiet, and I’d tiptoe in to make sure. In my head, I’m seeing a blue baby boy, his eyeballs rolling back in his head. I’ve left him too long. He’s brain damaged! In reality a peacefully sleeping baby confronts me.

It just got worse. The kids didn’t help at all. Sporty, active and death defying, 3 tested every nerve in my body. When I received a phone call from his school telling me he’d been hit in the head with a 8lb shot put and had been taken by ambulance to Emergency, I darkened. There’s no other way to put it. My soul kinda goes black like death. I can’t breathe, think or speak intelligibly until I know.

The possibility of a broken neck during 5’s football game? Outta the park! I had to follow the Ambulance, my son in a neck brace inside. I have a quadriplegic brother, I know this shit happens. All. The. Time. I’ve been visiting in the spinal ward. Plenty.

I also visit the grave of my tiny stillborn. You don’t need any more graves to visit after that. Trust me.

Mostly we have sensible, intelligent children who do much to protect themselves against the elements of nature and danger. Occupationally, there are exceptions.

Fitty’s eldest son, 2, is in the Armed Forces. On his first posting overseas, he was in Afghanistan. He wasn’t in direct conflict situations, but his job makes pretty sure he travels the unsafe passages and sniper-filled roads. The danger is real.

It wasn’t long after 2 left that I had a particularly rough day at work, (undergoing operations and recoveries at record speed for 12 months will do that). I got home, crept up the stairs in the early evening dark, and left the lights off. I sat in front of the fire, which was still glowing softly from the morning, hung my head and cried.

Fitty had arrived home, and in my pain and misery, I hadn’t heard him coming up the stairs. What I didn’t know was that Fitty had heard there had been an attack on an Australian unit, 4 young men were dead, and he hadn’t heard from 2’s wife or anyone yet. He was a little worried. He didn’t know.

When he came up and saw me in front of the fire, on my knees in the dark, sobbing, can you imagine what he thought? I’ve never seen a man drop to his knees like that, look at me with such a pleading look. A look that shows me how much he will break if anything happens to our children.

Having all this time to think, (and I know I say this all the time now, but I find I’ve never had so much free space in my head, time to process all the things..), I’ve decided to actively change the way I worry. I’m just going to try not to do it so much anymore.

Be Safe.

I have already condensed the safety speech above down to – “Be safe.”

When I first started this a few weeks ago it came out more like, “be safe…?” I have amended it. The question mark is gone forever. I command the universe to protect you. I demand you be safe out there. No question about it!

You’ve been taught, you know the drill, you’ve broken enough cars and bones to prove it. Time to settle down. Be responsible, be safe.

Be Free.

Oh Lawd, the baby girl is a teenager now, has a job and an opinion about everything! How in the hell are we gonna keep this gorgeous kid safe?

I have been lied to, swindled and conned by every teen in this house. I know you people, I know how you operate, (yes, even you trainee-man 8, tryna wink your way into my heart.) You’re just practicin’ on me! You want another hug? Sure baby boy.. but you’re still doing the dishes and making your bed!

Is 6 coming home tonight? Where will he sleep? What street? Near what school? Whose mother? When are you coming home? Tomorrow. Okay. Fine. Yes I know you’re nearly 18 son, but you haven’t slept in your own bed all week, there are 5 nutritious meals in the fridge that you’ve replaced with KFC and Oreos, washed down with energy drink! Have you showered? How’s your flu? I can hear you wheezing.. Where ARE YOU?

I’ve learned. My mother didn’t raise any dummies… What to do?

Practical stuff. Do the shit that seems like it’s actually going to happen. Worry about the real things.

7 will have a boy come callin. She will want to. He will want to more. She will need to make up her own mind about all that, but I have provided her with the information I feel she needs in order to make a decision which will ensure she is respected and ready. It’s all you can do really. They just lie if you treat the subject like it’s not a thing. It. Is. A. Thing.

Fitty and I removed our porch swing from the upstairs balcony where all it was getting were sticks from the Gum trees and love from Pooh dog. An ugly thing, it looks much better in it’s new location under our balcony, strung up on long chains, facing the lake. It is a sunny but private little space.

In Fitty’s head: “Awesome, we’ll turn this part into a frame for netting, and we’ll grow herbs and tomata’s up here? It get’s the best sun here. This is perfect!” Cue another Fitty Recycling Project, (we still have a trampoline on steroids in the yard within it, a luxury brooding house awaiting the final process..)

In my head: “This is cool. Perfect place for 7 to sit and swing and stare at the lake. Kissin on future boyfriend’s face if she wants, and daydreaming about the future… ”

serial killer sunday-1

Fitty’s domain (the yard) is a creepy place full of wonder and junk. I call this shot “Serial Killer Sunday”

There’s an element of reality that you can’t escape when you’re on your umpteenth teenager. Shit is going to go down.

They are going to come home one day, with huge dilated eyes. They’re gonna chatter and race about for around a day or so then they’re gonna sleep like the dead for another. This is Pinger Boy.

They are going to come to you and say “Mum Sally’s pregnant!” (Hasn’t happened yet, but it will.) I’m gonna welcome that child into the family even if it never arrives. This is No-Franga Boy.

They are going to look you in the eye and lie to you about where they are going and who they are with. I’m gonna let them know I see their bullshit, but that they have a choice about the lying. This is Gone Girl.

We cannot protect them, we can only stand by and watch. We can teach them what we have learned about the world, but they’ve already seen it through their own eyes. They’ve built their own belief system, based upon the experiences you have allowed them to have, and the ones you’ll probably never hear about.

I am finally learning. We can trust them. Be safe xox