My IdeaLife: humour

My Kingdom for a Kiss Upon Her Shoulder

It's been 18 years since his blood warmed our hearts and his, but his voice remains and still inspires...Read more...

The love of your life

Is it a man, is it a career, no it's superbaby!...Read more...

A lifetime of beauty in a song

Middle East (the band not the place) have somehow condensed the human experience into this soulful song: Blood...Read more...

Superwomen have it all by NOT doing it all

Superwoman really don't exist, it's more like Insanitywoman, so stop pretending and start outsourcing...Read more...

Showing posts with label humour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humour. Show all posts

Monday, 17 November 2014

Actor transforms grown woman into hysterical teenager!

I've always been quite proud to admit I've never been an hysterical fan. When I watch young girls screaming and crying as some slightly talented teenage boys lip-sync in front of them, I often find my top lip involuntarily lifting in disdain... that was until last night... 

This was me inside a slightly older body with darker hair... (key word slightly)
I am lucky enough to work for a corporate sponsor of the Sydney Theatre Company and I therefore get to attend a few opening nights a year. Now this particular opening night was almost going to hit the scrap heap of many of my social possibilities, in favour of sleeping, so as to deal with mr 4 and 5 the next day. Knowing it was Cyrano de Bergerac and Richard Roxborough I thought, in my constant state of exhaustion, "drag yourself along" and so I did. 

As usual the luminescent Cate Blanchett floated past me at the pre-show function, and as in the other few times I have seen her, I admired her Grace Kelly-like elegance, but coolly continued my champers and conversations with my colleagues (that wasn't the case the first time I saw her by the way). 

Looking forward to what turned out to be a great production, I had no idea that the state teenage girls seemingly often find themselves in was my destiny in a few short minutes. The whisper of one of the gorgeous STC staff produced such an effect as the words "Robert Redford" were matched to some other words, namely, "do you know who's here with Cate?". 

My jaw dropped in shock "Nooooo" left my mouth around 4 times as I struggled with this reality, my breath and adrenaline. And there I was morphed within seconds into a fluttering teenage groupie out of control and hell bent on seeing, talking, touching this actor prior to fainting.  

Now just to be clear, I am not the type that gets giddy, I mean I would be completely giggly if Gerard Butler or Ryan Gosling were having a drink within metres of me, but I would probably approach them more for the selfie-fame than because I literally couldn't stop myself. 

Robert Redford on the other hand represented something altogether different, I mean he's in his 70s so it wasn't lust, it was more like my life flashed before my eyes. Don't get me wrong I'm not that old, but I am lucky enough to have a Mum with amazing movie taste and I watched Robert Redford and Paul Newman from a very young age. 



Of course I became Katie in the 'The Way We Were' hopelessly in love with Hubbell, I was also Karen in 'Out of Africa', jelly in Denys' hands, and later after I was married I was Diana and Annie, tempted away from monogamy in 'Indecent Proposal' and 'The Horse Whisperer' by his easy confidence and determination. The guy has been every man I wanted and couldn't have, stringing me along for years and there he was the real representation of my fantastical romantic history, just standing there. Shiiittttt!

Alas social etiquette kicked in and I was held down by two STC staff...well not really but that's how it felt as I was being drawn to him like metal to a magnet. Instead I had to stand still and pretend I was so important myself, being a fellow "VIP" (as if!), that Robert Redford was nothing to me. 

As I walked away from what I knew was my one chance to make a complete ar5e of myself I was philosophical about not getting to hear his unmistakeable voice ... comforting myself that it was for the best and it may have smashed my fantasy about the legend with a less than extraordinary reaction to what would have been a huge foot in mouth moment from me... then I metaphorically slapped myself in the head and began to figure out how I could get another chance! 

So Robert Redford you still may have to endure 2 minutes of raving compliments at some time in your not too distant future. Hopefully it will be fun and flattering - well I can only continue to dream! "Looooooovvvvveeee yoooooooooouuuuuu!" ah argghhh arrrrrrrr *cue hysterics* 


Tuesday, 19 August 2014

How to do the celebrity intercept with substance and no style - Marc Newson

This celebrity behaviour started a long time ago, I think it is somehow related to one of two things: I'm either out of touch with reality so badly that I think they would actually want to talk to a stranger, or the one I prefer, that my reality is they are just human, like me and so why wouldn't they chat to someone friendly with a big smile???!!!! (I think the words "like me" are what's wrong with my justification)


Would you say no to this look? It was 14 years ago but I'm sure I recognise it...
Yet it is what it is and no amount of working out 'why' is going to stop me it seems. The following is the story of my first celebrity intercept, yes this is where all the craziness started, and how I have times be labelled, wrongly I might add, as a stalker (thank you Joe Hildebrand!). 

It all started back in the year 2000, I was heading to a gala evening celebrating the lighting of the Opera House for the first time, this was the father of VIVID. A man I had admired due mainly to his creation of quite a few biomorphic metal objects, was going to be there as he had designed the lighting. And as I had designed the event identity nothing was going to stop me from talking to this gorgeous fellow designer, marc newson. Think gluon, orgone or as I did at the time, embryo...

I think he was wearing orange - can't believe I remember that, I think he was single too. I unfortunately had my then boyfriend there with me, but this was a minor moral bump that I happily skipped over as I approached my idol. "I loved him way before I'd even met my boyfriend" I rationalised. 

I started quite normally explaining my bower-bird-like attraction to his bright shiny objects (we're talking furnishings at this point people) and that I had designed the identity on the flags all over Circular Quay with his 'neon' signature within it. Which he did confirm was a designed identity rather than the real thing, "Oh yeah of course", like I knew that, arggh, it was going well...not. 


Just in case you thought this was a work of fiction. 
Just when it looked like I had escaped an awkward moment, out of the blue and with little context I blurt out "So are you making any money yet?". This does cause him pause, I suddenly see myself through his still, wide eyes and time slows as his thoughts form in a bubble above his head "wow, gold-digging and proud of it, interesting", his turn to spin a little white lie, "a little yes..." 

Mortified by now I try to start explaining at high speed, "Sorry, no, it's just that I watched a documentary a few years ago and you said there was no money in Industrial design and I studied Industrial design but have never practised it because yes there seems to be no money in it, nor any jobs and of course I'm not as talented as you and I was just interested because I only earn..." and on I went, I can't even remember the rest as it blurred into pure desperation transformed into lots and lots of words.  

By now he was smiling, amused by my lack of filter, I can only presume, or maybe impressed by my ability to verbosely back pedal, seemingly make logical sense at the same time as flirting. Our conversation was just levelling out and he was kinda getting friendly, he even complimented some brightly coloured thing I was wearing. Well that's what I was telling myself, when my boyfriend wandered over. Celebrity intercept almost turning into groupie evening foiled, damn. I did the polite thing and introduced them and in true rock star celebrity-style Marc moved pragmatically on. Let's face it there were probably ten of me at every event he went to, and the other nine were quite possibly a lot cooler, inconceivable!? 

The celebrity lesson here? No it's not "don't ask celebrities how much money they make", and it's definitely not "leave them alone you groupie weirdo", I'm sure he was at least entertained. It is without a doubt - if you are going out with someone and you realise you want to go home with Marc Newson instead, chances are you're with the wrong guy. We broke up soon after, but unfortunately not as a result of me running off and living in London on a Lockheed Lounge. Damn!

Fortunately for you there are more stories like this to come - so stay tuned and if you follow my tips I'm guessing you may learn from my mistakes and end of bagging Prince Harry or something... but probably not if you have a couple of kids and are married... we can just dream. 

Thursday, 31 July 2014

How to do the celebrity intercept so they never forget you (but wish they could)

I am one of those annoying members of the public that more often than not will say g'day and start a conversation with a celebrity I admire. Sometimes I get a picture of reality that stops me (and I don't mean a selfie!) but if I've had a wine...no such red flag appears and off I pop.

Not sure if it is my alcohol sozzled brain or just the nervousness I can't fully shake but usually if I do end up striking up a conversation with a famous person, more often than not I say something somewhere between plain embarrassing and truly startling. 

My latest was closer to startling though. Over the weekend when engaging in what was a conversation going in a seemingly charming way with Hugo Weaving, I suddenly stated that Shakespeare's writing was "so bad". Now on its own it was a statement that would silence any room, but I happened to be talking to someone who had just come off the stage and out of the character, Macbeth. 


Hugo Weaving and Andrew Upton as happy as only two thorns between two roses could be...
What I was trying to say obviously in an incomprehensible way was how dirty his writing was and the context was I was surprised that students studied Macbeth as a result, at this point Hugo's smile was replaced with a wtf-type expression, "bad?" he almost exclaimed, and then upon my back pedalling explanation "what's wrong with sex?" he almost barked, at this point my husband was shaking his head and I was saved by another Hugo-admirer who probably thought Shakespeare was quite a talented bloke. Needless to say even with the screams of nipples, loins and blood the play was amazing, but not as amazing as this particular celebrity intercept by me. Bravo!

The one before that was with a man made of equal parts crazy, intelligence and generosity - Joe Hildebrand. Generous 'cause he publishes my better opinion pieces, thank you Joe!!!!! and says things like "I like your blog"... *writer faints from shock*. 

When I was lucky enough to steal half an hour of his time for some real writer to try-hard writer advice, he went so far as to confirm on the phone to his producer, in front of me no less, that I was definitely a stalker, but a well-dressed, articulate one so it was all ok. She was obviously worried for him...when I expressed regret at ruining his life with my so-called stalking (just because Joe, his producer and my husband say it, doesn't mean its true), he gorgeously said "yes poor me, having to deal with adoration from intelligent, attractive women, its terrible". I instantly forgave him as any good stalker, I mean grateful fan would. 

In any case I think I almost made it out alive from that encounter, and by alive I mean with some shred of dignity left but only just and Joe's too kind to correct me on that one... well I'm hoping he is?!

Then there was the brilliant Claudia Karvan. That started well as I am a complete sucker for most of her series', lately Puberty Blues had rocked my world so I was keen to chat about her fantastic character in the show. I was such a fan I couldn't remember her character's name, nor that of her husband in the show who's character I also adored. She responded well to this as of course she quite liked the character too and told me how teenage girls have been expressing disdain over her characters' fall from conservative grace. But as she patiently filled in yet another blank that of her previous series name, Love my way, and that of its creator I think some level of awareness came over me and I moved on and away from the poor woman. Here's a tip, if you are planning on approaching a celeb do a quick wikipedia scan in the lead up, or just don't be so busy you cant remember what day it is let alone details about TV series!


Think she is looking to be saved by someone!
Now sometimes my celebrity intercepts are not complete trainwrecks, like the really fun conversation I had with Wippa at a charity weekend away, he actually seemed relieved to be talking to someone that evening. Woohoo. Maybe I'll ask him if I can mind his new pet piglet one day just to push our interactions into the norm of my other celebrity relationships...hmmm there's more where these came from stay tuned for more examples of how to make friends and influence really influential peeps or more accurately how not to!



No celebrities were harmed during or prior to the production of this blog post...well not physically any way, there is a chance they have been mentally scarred but they haven't contacted me to confirm that...yet...

Thursday, 21 November 2013

The Bachelor restored my faith in humanity...no really!


I have made no secret that from the second I saw Ali twinkle her eyes in the light reflecting off Tim's shiny hair that somehow, despite my known hatred of all things reality TV, I got hopelessly addicted to The Bachelor Australia. Initially it was more of an anthropological study for me, as I stared curiously at the motionless brows, false eyelashes with breasts to match and unnaturally thin noses, that I don't normally encounter IRL (I'm not in event planning on the Gold Coast obviously... ok so this one fashion blogger I know who doesn't do event planning on the Gold Coast seems to have a very still face, but everyone else has nerves that still work and sad limpy breasts)

As Rosie Waterland discovered Ali is Bambi!
But I digress, anthropological really is my way of saying I couldn't look away from the car crash, I was dying to see what intellectually stimulating conversations people could make through very large lips and fluorescent white teeth while teetering on 10 inch stillettos. Obviously I am jealous as have never managed any of these things, except the stimulating conversation bit...ask my work colleagues, that happens every day. 

Don't be fooled by the fact this is a still image, trust me nothing moved...ever.
Oh man I digress again, my point in all this is that watching The Bachelor and then reading Rosie Waterland's recap of it every week made me laugh harder than I had in a long while ( I have irish twins...now it all becomes clear). There were some nights I had to put my hand up as the fakeness mixed superbly with obvious intellectual handicap was too much to bear, but tonight even as I read my very cynical twitterfeed (girls where is your heart?!) I was relieved, so relieved that it actually restored some of my faith in the human race....why because the only really intelligent and genuine girl on the show got picked!!! This never happens, the fake moron or the bitchy manipulatress always wins. The natural, confident and successful girl with a funny chin misses out.....right? Especially when the bachelor's brain has been fried by a weird mix of beach-staring induced endorphins and human growth hormones. That walking bicep was so going down the Rochelle or Dani path in my version of "what's wrong with the world?". 

Dani breaks into a sweat trying to move her forehead
But no, I underestimated Timmy, maybe steroid abuse has been good for him, maybe travelling by helicopter and/or boat for 13 weeks somehow delivers some sort of intelligence via osmosis, or maybe his Mum clued him in. Poor old Rochelle's high-pitched facade was not getting past an usually very active brow that gave away Tim's Mum's "I'm a psychologist babe, and you're hiding something!" distrustful frown. I knew it was in the bag for Anna, by the polar opposite facial expressions of Timmy's Mum - replay it back, check it out, she loves her and knows she's for real - Oh f*#k it! I'm just gonna say it "I love her too!" #tragic

You can't tell Rochelle's not really comfy being real from this photo...much...not that Tim's hair can talk!
I'm going to try to restore my cynicism, but my tears when Timmy choked up telling Anna she had his whole heart, were real, and yep she and Osher's attempts at being stiff and serious, have made me believe in fairytales again. Thank goodness my knight in shining armour has already arrived or god knows what I'd now end up with. Off to buy some growth hormones for the hubby after I google whether botox actually is dangerous. And you can be sure you will not see a twinge on this face until Ali turns up as the Bachelorette! 

Thursday, 11 April 2013

The Bloggess! that is all.

Ok so was going to do a selection of posts from any number of wonderful bloggers that have made me happy or made me p1ss myself laughing or preferably both. Then someone called Jenny Lawson happened and despite being inspired by her and her 5ft metal chicken in the past, I realised I had to dedicate a whole blog post to just her blog posts - so today is about THE bloggess - another day in Happyril, that mythical and weird place in time that some people just call April, I will share the love amongst other very humourous bloggers. 

The reason Jenny Lawson makes so many people happy is because (as if I know!?) she is not only an amazingly talented writer, but she is also real in an extreme sense and SO generous. I know this because if you have over 300,000 tweeps following you and you sometimes get over 3000 comments on your blog, you don't have to answer inane questions from small mummy bloggers from Australia... but she does! And that's why I love her, that and her stuffed squirrels, warm my little heart. 



This is what happens when Plato and The bloggess cross paths! Source here

Today I give you: 

1. The one about the meth lab and the first post of Jenny's I ever read

2. The one where you realise why Jenny suffers from anxiety . 

3. The one about jizz

4. The one with random phone messages that make me feel strangely comfy

I'm going to stop sharing now because once you go to her site you'll get stuck - it's like Pinterest for people with no taste who can't go a day without craving and then failing to resist imperfection and wrongness. Hopefully you'll get stuck there too, hopefully that is not an insult hmmm? 

Is there a blogger that makes you happy... or is Jenny all that for you too?

Wednesday, 3 April 2013

10 movies that made me PML

Milton and his stapler from Office Space
I adore laughter and frankly life is far too serious for me most of the time. So I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to see the funny side of things, even in corporate meetings, what can I say? wisdom and humour don't always go hand in hand. I wouldn't go so far as to say I am a funny person, one of my particularly funny friends often reminds me of this, as does my hubby, but you know, points for trying please. For instance I am no where near as funny as The Bloggess or Joe Hildebrand, although putting those two in the same sentence is sort of funny. 

Anyway my point is, not for me to make you laugh directly but indirectly and so I share my top ten movies that have made me howl, roar and p1ss my p@nts laughing; they are in no particular order otherwise my shanty town for a brain would get too lost: 

1. a recent one - The Five-Year Engagement
2. a modern day monty python type one - The Trip
3. Does Seinfeld's Ugly Baby episode count? (breathtaking!)
4. a dysfunctional one - Home for the Holidays
5. another dysfunctional one - Sideways
6. in the words of my hubby, a really weird one - I heart huckabees
7. Ok because I should have said ten - Knocked Up
8. because will ferrell just is - Step Brothers
9. because Maude is my hero - The Big Lebowski
10. because I worked in Advertising - Crazy People
11. and finally because Seinfeld is not a movie - Office Space



Laugh a little - stuff that - laugh until you snort your drink out your nostrils! Research loosely shows it improves your immune system and reduces stress - so worth a bit of germy liquid spraying on your lucky dinner guest me thinks... or in my case I'll be targeting my really "funny" friend - you know who you are. 


P.S. And if you do crave the more serious side of happiness - check out yesterday's post where a real researcher has unlocked the secret that happy people inherently know. 


Saturday, 22 December 2012

Why are there so many Santas Mummy? and other unanswerable Christmas questions

Man Christmas is exhausting, not because of the queues, which by the way are insane, not because of having to choose and then, in case you thought you were going to make it through alive, wrap an inordinate number of presents and not because your kids have decided that holiday time is the perfect time to start backyard UFC. Christmas is exhausting because it is the one time of year you have to lie, in a very detailed and twisted way for an extended period of time. 

Source: The Sunday Times  (Kai Wiechmann)
It is so stressful that I have already had discussions with certain relatives about whether they sign Santa or Nanna & Pop on the card, which I responded in utter desperation and confusion, 
"Aren't all the presents at this age from Santa?"

Apparently not I am told . And this conundrum leads to the next: 

"If Santa brings all the presents can some presents arrive under the tree beforehand?"

"And if they do, how did they get there?" My answer today after putting a selection of gifts out was "Santa brings some in advance". And before you think this was a question from an extremely astute three year old, I was answering to an adult. Effing hell this is complex and not at all the fun thing I thought it would be. 

How can you have a tree sit there for four weeks without any presents under it? 

If Santa only delivers on Christmas Eve the tree looks complete for all of about 6 hours when everyone is asleep and about the five minutes I know it will take a 2 and 3 year old to rip every present into a pile of paper that could fuel a small power station for a week.

So here I sit with three sleeps to go thinking I can't wait for the phase where the now blissfully ignorant Mr 2 & 3 start to go through the logistics themselves and ask questions like: 
"How is Santa in so many places at the same time?" 

Which I remember distinctly quizzing my parents about, their answer was that all the different shop Santas that you see, sometimes in one shopping trip, are not really Santa, they are his helpers...WTF! Even back then it didn't quite make sense and sparked the beginning of the end of my belief in the big red man. 

What ridiculous stupidity have you blurted out this year in the name of keeping the reindeer flying?

And more importantly what the hell are the real rules of this big fun red lie?


Monday, 29 October 2012

Two boys and a vasectomy

My old man's little fellas had a bit of augmentation last week. Not so much in the cosmetic sense...let's just say the lid is now firmly shut on our current family size of four. It is quite surreal now to think that we have taken such an extreme measure to ensure we have no more children and it might be enough to give someone pause... that is until they hear about the week we all had after the op. 


The Friday was like a trip into the twilight zone especially for my hubby, who elected for a full general for the procedure. Deadlines, meeting times, ETAs don't exist on Hospital Planet, instead an unusual and completely incomprehensible set of rules somehow maintain a steady flow of humans being cut open, sewn back up and booted out of vinyl recovery recliners all in one day. So upon rushing around like mad people to get the munchkins packed off to kindy in time to arrive at hospital by 8.30am, we were met with the strange and quite annoying reality that we could have arrived three hours later and still been there an hour earlier than the operation start time. 

But Friday was not really the issue, as thankfully punctuality and surgical skills are not mutually exclusive, it was the days that followed. Hubby was out for the count, walking around like John Wayne on the odd occasion he made it out of bed, in addition to making a meal of most of the bathroom when he tried to aim at the toilet. What was sanity-threatening was not the mess, the mayhem or Crash dragging Bang headfirst off the top of the cubby house, but the relentlessness. Not being able to say to another adult "Ok your turn, need a break" was killing me. Every nappy, spill, fight, night terror, bath, meal, wee, walk, playground, accident, smoothie, pick-up/drop-off was mine for what turned out to be seven days. 

This is the point where I say "Single parents...oh my effing god, you deserve a medal, a knighthood, a bloody huge lotto win... I don't know but something big and massively rewarding!" After two days of complete shit in the metaphorical sense and one round of real shit from one of our numerous park adventures, I was losing my mind. 

Hubby just laughed as he watched me slowly go down hill, which then made him double over in pain, which then made me laugh. It was a cycle of hilarity at someone else's expense and karma that went on for days. It was probably only fair that I suffered too given what he'd just done for us. Think about it, he had let someone cut open his crown jewels and potter around in there, endangering a lot of what makes him a man. Even Master 3 was sympathetic "Daddy can't come swimming with me cause he has a sore willy" he told the street from our front balcony.

On night six as we both fell into bed, broken in our own special ways, hubby said "who'd have thought getting the snip would be easier than looking after the munchkins by yourself", "I know" I shrilled with relief at his acknowledgement. Before our laughter could reach hysteria we had both passed out, but not before both feeling even more convinced that two little monkeys were quite enough for us and that the Snip was worth every groan and giggle it had caused. 

Has your hubby had the SNIP? 

Tuesday, 17 July 2012

The toddler force! Darth Vader's never been so popular.


I love this ad, you've probably seen it as it played during the Superbowl. I think its success is in showing the simplicity of a child's imagination and the joy of surprising them. I'm so glad I still have this phase of my boys to look forward to. 



Bang is just reaching this stage at 3, he told me he was four yesterday and that he turned four when he had a batman cake. The thing is he's 3 and has never had a batman cake. But that's toddlers, their minds are not as logical as they may be at some stage but they are cuter and funnier than they'll ever be and it is so fun to watch and a real privilege to be a party to their machinations. 

Enjoy every minute!

Tuesday, 22 May 2012

One frozen nappy short of a picnic

The fåecal collection kit that will never see fåecal in it's life (also here so you won't see fåecal either!)
I was at a business lunch on Friday and luckily for me there were a few other parents there along with my long-suffering Gen-Y team. Long-suffering because I think with all the spew, poo and "I got woken up at 2 and 5am last night" stories I have single-handedly turned them all into life long DINKs, with the emphasis on the No Kids part. Unfortunately for them though with parents of toddlers at the table conversation was quick to take a turn towards smearing, screaming and the grey film of sleep deprivation again. So it was no surprise that it came to light that only last week, along with dragging my 20month old to the doctor for the umpteenth time since he joined the ranks of the nursery room at kindy, I also had in hand three frozen nappies. 

Hold the phone, even the other parents stopped at this, while one non-parent started to gag,  "Frozen?" one Dad quizzed, "next to the frozen peas?"
"Yes" I answered as I began to see how mental this all sounded, "but in double-zip-locked bags" I offered logically and of course hygienically.
"Oh well that's alright then" another Mum answered, with only a slight hint of skepticism in her eye.  

 At this point I felt compelled to try and explain why I had not one but three nappies in my freezer, next to the other food "that was also wrapped in plastic" but everyone including me was giggling so much at this point that it was hard to get the words out without ending up with wine snorting out of nostrils. In any case, not one to give up easily I stuttered out "You don't understand.....*chortle*..... the desperation ...*snigger*...all these bloody 'nothing we can do about it'  viruses incite in parents." At which point the parents at the table did nod their heads, or maybe it was just the laughter causing increased vibrations. 

Anyway they must have agreed because then the faeces sample kit was brought up by another mother and the utter ridiculousness that you have to get six in a row, without urine at which point I shrilled like a deranged lunatic just let out of the asylum only to meet some fellow inmates on the street, "and somehow get it in the container and back to the surgery fresh so they can detect anything!" Commiseration noises and rigourous nodding ensued at this point, except from the 20-somethings, one of whom had excused herself to the bathroom. "And they wonder why I turn up with frozen poo!"

"Serves them right" said another parent, "Absolutely" I agreed "and they did cop it because when I opened that bag, the smell almost knocked the GP to the ground, not even freezing was gonna stop what had obviously taken on a whole life of it's own. But she got her own back, she wouldn't use the frozen poo for testing!". "No we need a fresh one, so get it back to us as soon as possible after he's gone", she calmly stated. "No problem" person who obviously has not yet had children, because all mother's do all day is chase a toddler around with a plastic container under it's bum waiting to catch poo, just so they can then jump in the car, without taking 40 minutes getting the toddler ready to leave the house, and get immediately to the doctor's surgery." 

By the time our over-sharing was complete even us parents were exhausted and we declined coffee to get back to an existence, that for a few hours at least, would be excrement-free. 

What have u done that has made u stop & think
"It's official Motherhood has made me a complete loon"?

Saturday, 19 May 2012

Zooey Deschanel and Apple's Siri: a match made in soup heaven


If you were wondering the true effect of Steve Jobs on everything Apple you only have to watch this ad to know he is gone. On the plus side though I am marveling at the talent required to make two of the coolest things in the world, namely the iphone and Zooey Deschanel, appear so so... actually I will let you fill in the appropriate word in the comments, am too big a fan of Zooey to call her retarded. Although I am open to being told this is Generation Y humour and somehow I missed it, being the way cooler, I mean older Gen X. 


But the best thing about this ad is the inspiration it has supplied @MissPaperlilies below. 


Hellogiggles indeed....

Tuesday, 1 May 2012

Danger: Toddlers! (5 injuries to expect from your children)


Other than the horror stories that you hear before you give birth, there are injuries that will occur that no one really warns you about. And a million kegals a day won't spare you unfortunately. I am a Mum to two toddlers so this list can only get more extensive I'd imagine as they get older. But for now by three you should expect these five injuries at the very least. 

1. Regular Random Bruising 
Whether it is a plastic golf club to the head or a hard plastic dinosaur tail stabbed into your leg - you are going to find yourself bruised and battered by your bundle of joy sooner rather than later. And their laughter at your screams of pain only adds to the adventure of it all. 

2. Temporary Blindness
I can't remember ever having being poked in the eye before, but Bang changed all that with his little seemingly ineffectual forefinger which he accidentally shoved in my eye. This very effective and razor sharp mini-weapon sent me racing to the bathroom to see whether my eye was bleeding or scratched, because I was in agony. All worked out well and I can still see despite not requiring hospitalisation.  

3. Broken Heart
If I heard a baby cry pre-parenthood I used to curse it's existence and that of it's obviously inept parent who would allow such out-of-control behaviour in public no less. But that all changes once you have a little munchkin of your own. Now when you hear any child cry, especially your own (which happens, by the way, whether you are Mother of the Year or not) you will have a mini-nervous breakdown. For me my heart wrenches and my stomach turns with empathy and an insane drive to comfort them. Luckily the heartbreak is equally matched by heartbursts, phew!

4. Head Butts and Fat Lips
My first fat lip was caused by a 7month old, yes they are little but boy do their heads weigh a lot and at full flight easily make an adult lip bleed. And if you are lucky enough to escape with your tooth not protruding through your cheek then you will probably end up seeing stars as they catch you on the forehead or nearly break your cheekbone. I've been lucky enough to have all three happen - although not all on the same day. 

5. Pride Impairment
When you used to control your world down to the last eyelash, you took pride in your appearance, decorum and ability. Then you meet a very small human, who, not content with near destruction of your ladybits, quickly goes on to level the whole structure of your predictable world. You are now a person who is often covered in someone's bodily fluids. Breast milk, projectile poo or spew and drool are often your new hair styling products and the grey film of sleep deprivation just adds to the makeover. Add the wirefree bras and trackies and the look is complete. But before you confuse yourself with the local vagrant, remember a homeless person wouldn't be stupid enough to trip over a slippery dip backwards or almost knock themselves out climbing up to save their infant at the local playground (remembering metal bars are placed at toddler height would have been useful). Two short years from birth, no semblance of pride left^

Every one says get plenty of sleep before you give birth - as if it is somehow cumulative by nature - and yes sleep deprivation is an ugly injury I have reserved whole posts for instead of including here. But I say before you give birth think about buying some protective clothing, bruise cream, an industrial first aid kit and a CPR poster. Oh and most important, get a therapist on speed dial!

If you just have or are about to give birth, the saying "no use crying over spilt milk" has never been more useful only the milk is more likely to be baths of poo, buckets of spew or pumpkin wall art...and ironically somewhere deep in your now newly demented soul you will love it!



^Pride other than in them of course and every first they accomplish, every sound they utter, every smile, giggle... shall I go on.....

Tuesday, 24 April 2012

"Shake your bøøbies" Mummy! Parents dancing and other really cool stuff

When I was 16 I entered my first night club on a fake ID. It was called the Tivoli, which way back then was where the Metro is now on George St in Sydney. It was the start of a love affair with dark, smokey, throbbing rooms that my parents probably could have predicted from the day they saw me doing "isolations" to Prince's Raspberry Beret on stage at a jazz ballet concert years before.  

Late into my 20s I was still addicted to dancing until the wee hours, there were many nights at Danceteria, Metropolis, and a late night North Sydney basement we went to after the others had closed, because 1am was far too early to go home. 

I had a 5 year hiatus where I became a rowing nut and went to bed every night at 9.30 to get up at 4am and paddle about in the dark trying to avoid the rivercat until I saw the "light" and joined a surfclub. There I discovered fitness and partying needn't be mutually exclusive. The clubbing began again. The only difference now was instead of arriving at lectures with both eyes closed I was turning up to work that way. Didn't really matter though, it was Advertising, a hang over was considered lightweight compared to most of my bosses, who cured their own with substances said to "enhance" their creativity. 

Fast forward to now and I am still sleep-deprived, in fact I feel hung over all the time, problem is I haven't had any alcohol...or drugs (before you suggest it). I am the cancer council's poster child yet a picture of horror. So going out dancing is a distant memory that I currently don't miss...or so I thought.



So when Bang, my 2yo yelled out "Shake your Boobies Mummy" in the car yesterday other than laughing my head off at the substitution of the word "Booty" I was surprised at how excited I got to throw my arms in the air, anthem style, and do a caricature of my former self, complete with half-closed eyes while gliding my head side to side. My style was only rivaled by my 18 month old who looked like a seasoned podium dancer, holding his hands together and thumping the sky in time to the bass. From the outside, the car must have looked like it was transporting a bunch of loonies to the asylum, either that or a group of teenagers any given Saturday night, even driver 'Dadda' was punching the air. All that was missing was four fluorescent tubes and a strobe. 

Who knew motherhood would be a constant dance party?! Ok so "constant" maybe too strong a word, but I am now* encouraged by two very short people, to spin, shake, stamp and wiggle to Cars 2, the Wiggles and anything with a bit of a beat, like Crash's favourite song "Feel so close"! 
(*That is when they are not screaming, falling from height, crying hysterically, fighting over a toy or trying to strangle each other for fun.)


What have your kids made you remember?

Friday, 20 April 2012

Fitzy does a Nudie Rudie in front of my sketchpad

I hadn't even eaten breakfast when I was faced with a man wearing only a sapphire necklace winking at me. "WTF!" I thought and then I remembered that two short days prior I had actually brought this little, I mean quite large (sorry Fitzy!) situation on myself by sending the tweet below. 


The day started like any other; Crash nearly choked on the apple he snuck out of his kindy bag, Bang didn't quite make it to the potty and I took too long in the bathroom. Then I found myself standing next to Ryan Fitzgerald's wife while her husband de-robed. Despite the indisputable thrill of getting up close and personal (there's a fun euphemism) with my fave radio personalities, Fitzy & Wippa, the real fun was when Fitzy's son Hughie started yelling "Dadda, bum bum...Dadda BUM BUM".

Since becoming a Mum of two boys myself, watching this little man, trying to tell his Dad that he possibly should put some clothes on was priceless. Little people are SO cute and effortlessly hilarious. With Fitzy as your Dad though you may get a bit of a head start in the humour stakes, and showing signs of this Hughie almost stole the show, well for me anyway. Give me a toddler to talk to any day over staring at a 6'5" super cut naked male body! LOL!
(You can see the full hilarious exchange on the video from Nova and also discover that the photo of me was taken surprisingly when Fitzy still had clothes on - see not the dirty p€rve you thought I was). 

Anyway I did manage to get some sketching done despite the utter mayhem that was going on around the easels see below but don't think it does him justice.

"Still Life...my ar5e" a frenetic work of art by Nicole of Fitzy!

Sunday, 8 April 2012

The true meaning of Easter? ..the bunnies speak out!




If you were wondering about the true meaning of Easter, and whether it had become too commercial, well fear not! Two blue furry creatures that sing have made sense of it all!

(What I'd really like to know is since when did it become ok to give the Easter Bunny uppers? What is the world coming to!)

HAPPY EASTER!


Monday, 6 February 2012

WOULD YOU SOONER FORGET YOUR WEDDING?

Every year a tradition is remembered by those that chose to walk down the aisle in a white dress, a tradition to celebrate the day you spent way too much money on a very large dinner party and happened to commit your life to another human being. Every year without fail I forget this tradition, I don’t know whether it is pure absent-mindedness, or a deep subconscious reaction to my marriage but I never wake up on our anniversary prepared and usually get reminded about 8am by a less than impressed husband.




I don’t really think there is anything to say about this other than I seem to have had baby brain prior to having babies, and even more so once I did. But if there was a deep-seeded feeling that blocks out the day of our wedding from my memory it would have to be the fact that my fiancé at the time decided that a bucks night the night before the wedding day was a good idea. His brother stlll tells me that if it wasn’t for him dragging him out of whatever establishment they were partying in he wouldn’t have made it to the wedding at all. As it was, when the photographer asked him to spin all 58kg of skin and bone that was me back then, around, he nearly spewed. So as far as I’m concerned he’s lucky I married him at all let alone remember the day it happened all those years ago.

And it wasn’t that the day wasn’t memorable for other reasons than the groom being hung over, it was perfect in every other way. You could say that if you swapped the Groom for someone else who was sober, the day would have been nothing short of a fairy tale. It was at Jones Bay Wharf, I was in a simple but stunning dress, the bridesmaids were in gunmetal silver, we arrived in white Cadillacs to a small stone church that looked as though it belonged in a country town.

If you put aside the psychotic florist from a company that really should be called “Brides be Doomed” rather than it’s more deceptive upbeat name, who had mixed me up with another bride and refused to meet up to correct her obviously failed memory. Or the heartbroken hair stylist who obviously put his sadness into my style, the day had hope and joy written all over it. Especially if you were a groomsman it seemed. As though the enormous celebration of love created a strange love potion and nearly everyone got lucky, either that or people had their own “potions” in their pockets, whatever, the point was if you were single at our wedding and even slightly willing you were in for a night of looove.


The stories were so debauched my now hung over husband was struglling with the decision he’d just made. Talk about bad timing and probably a very logical reason for my annual blank. But despite the obvious trauma associated with my day as a princess, I am not trying to forget I’m married (well except the other day when I was in the park and I wanted to channel Kate Winslet’s character from Little Children), and after a beautiful lunch where Boom and I had a conversation that didn’t go something like “I did the last three poos so it’s your turn.”, “well I stayed up putting them to bed and then got up in the middle of the night so fair’s fair”. It was a lovely anniversary and one that now I’ve remembered I won’t forget…well at least until next year.

Head over to Facebook and share your wedding pics & most importantly the back story!


Wednesday, 18 January 2012

PARENT LOSES WILL-TO-LIVE AT INDOOR PLAY CENTRE

When I was a child-free, busy career-woman waking up to the sprinkling of rain on a weekend was kind of romantic and the perfect excuse to stay in bed longer. The worst that could happen is a picnic or BBQ would need to be moved undercover, but to be honest I wasn’t really rolling in picnic invitations. In fact most weekends I was suffering from at least a minor hangover, so really the world could have frozen over outside and as long as I had a doona I’d be happy.




Then two tenacious little wriggly things changed all that when they found their way through the perils of my uterean landscape into ovum heaven. Rain on a weekend now means only one thing and it is no longer a nice warm lie in, it in no way resembles a snuggle as you drift between hazy consciousness and la-la-land, and it causes worse brain damage than any amount of alcohol consumption. ‘IT’ is the INDOOR PLAY CENTRE.

Three simple words that in isolation are all quite innocuous, they could even be seen as quite positive, but when combined in this particular order contain the power to strike fear into the hearts of the brave, reduce the stoic to cowering messes of tears and transform the cool, calm and collected to hot, bothered and berserk.

Funnily enough the truth of this doesn’t prevent desperate parents from once again venturing into the fray at the slightest hint of rain. For some reason the last memory of play-centre insanity is overshadowed by the more recent hell raised by two trapped banshees, I mean boys, in the space formerly recognised as the home. Which, after a morning of rain, is easily mistaken for a small landfill site. And letting them loose in a ball-filled pit of despair seems like the better option to living in a tip for a day…until you arrive.

The noise itself, something akin to the screams of a thousand cats being strangled, would send any normal person running in the opposite direction, but to a parent on a rainy day, they stay the course, wildly hanging on to the hope that this time, despite blood pouring from their ears, it will be fun for all.

It really isn’t until you are through the door and you lose sight of one child in the multi-level tunnels, nets and padded shapes and the other disappears under a rainbow of germ-infested plastic balls that the horror returns and you realise the error of your ways. By then it is too late to retreat as your hell, is your children’s idea of the most fun they have ever had in their whole life.

On this particular morning I looked jealously at parents sitting at tables, relaxed with coffees, smug in the knowledge they can leave there over-four year old to fend for themselves, which is code for my child is now big enough to run into, push over, throw balls at everyone else’s children. Conversely I removed my shoes and ran around on padded vinyl, batting big kids out of the way and diverting incoming missiles as my 16 month old giggled his way through mazes and ball pits. My only consolation was knowing my hubby was currently squeezing himself through a wobbling, netted tunnel three levels above the ground in an effort to keep sight of our 2 year old, who was about to disappear into a mess of mangled bodies hurtling themselves down a 30ft slide on hessian bags.



Don't be fooled by the pretty colours and cute monkeys...this is HELL on earth.
There is always an island of respite with a sign above it stating, “under fours only”. Again a glimmer of hope returns as you drag your child towards the single level, fenced in, near empty toddler area, and almost hysterically sell-in the excitement of what is obviously the most boring area in the centre, even a dirty cup off the floor is more captivating, because god-forbid you could be allowed to relax for more than 5 seconds. Their sudden possession by the spirit of hell drawing them back to the rampaging levels of mayhem drives you back through the gate to hell again. And you watch as they head, giggling for certain injury.

We escaped this time with only a four year jumping on our 16 month old’s head from height no less, but xrays were not required, and other than the obligatory “Damien” impersonations as we try to extract our little energy balls from their extremely fun “pinball machine”, we escaped with our lives only just. But I know I left about ten years of my life in there and if I ever consider going again I require you to smack me in the head with a large shovel.


 ©2012, My IdeaLife, All rights reserved