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Warning: poop alert!

January 27, 2018

Warning: POOP story alert.

Only a handful of my friends and family know about this.

I eventually thought I’d share it, but for some reason I’ve always felt particularly horrified that it actually happened.

Anyhoo… today just feels like the right day to share one of my more mortifying “Australian” experiences of my life.

The Husband and I had decided early on that we were “the ones” and knew we’d get married yada yada yada…one night Adam did the whole “you know I love you, we’ll get married…but can we start trying to get pregnant now?”

A couple of romps and three weeks later I was pregnant. High fives and “yes Dear, you’re the Inseminator” jokes all round.

I made mention to Future Husband early on of not wanting to be a pregnant bride. It had nothing to do with appearances, I was more concerned with watching 148 of our our wedding guests drink Champagne while I sat there in a tainted white dress, fat and cranky jealously sucking on some overpriced effing mineral water.

Even though I maintained this stance throughout my pregnancy, I still didn’t have a ring on my finger at 7 months along. It was Summer so I was fat, hot and a tad emotional that we weren’t ‘officially’ engaged. I should have listened to Beyoncé #wheresmyringyoubastard

On the morning of my birthday (December 14 for future reference people) FH was all sweet and blah blah. He said, “ooooh, I’ve taken the day off and I’m going to take you on a picnic down by the lake”

Nice. As a heavily pregnant starving woman who had only just consumed 1900 calories for breakfast, a picnic sounded fab! So off we went. We drove the car the incredible distance of 900 metres and then I waddled a further 200 metres to a sandy private area by the lake.

Lovely jubbily.

FH spread out a picnic blanket and put out a few little pregnancy approved (read: everything on the planet) munchies for us. I waddled into the water and had a blood pressure cooling dip.

I must admit FH seemed a tad nervous – but in my bloated unmarried pregnant mind, I just assumed he was on edge about being near a hormonally fueled pregnant woman.

And then I felt a low rumblimg.

Oh for the love of God and Adam Levine’s naked body, please not now. Not here. But I suppose what goes in must come out. So I clenched my medium size butt cheeks and said to FH

“Oooh, I really need to go to the toilet”

“Just go and wee in the water babe” was his reasonable response.

“No Babe. I. Need.To. Do. A. Poo”

I started to panic as I wouldn’t make it to the Windang Surf Club toilets. A bikini clad running pregnant women with clenched butt cheeks would never make a 200 metre dash in time. I also knew that an unsupported 90 kilo squat on a sandy knoll was completely out of the question.

So the FH said “Just go into the water and do an Aqua”

“Sorry? A What? An Aqua?”

“An Aqua…you just go in the water, pull your cossies to the side and do a poo. All the Clubbies do it. Just check the current though, you don’t want that thing coming back at you”

Oh. My. God.

I had heard rumours about this -and even knew not to swim in the warm up area at a surf carnival. I just always thought that was about wee. Not a poo biscuit making a potential lunge at an unsuspecting swimmer.

Nope, definitely not for this ex-North Shore Girl non-clubbie classy Laaaady. I’m not a public pooper.

I don’t fucking think so.

But an urge is an urge. And a pregnant woman’s urges waits for no-one. So in I went. FH started giggling and yelling instructions from the shoreline.

Random thoughts of sharks being attracted to poo entered my mind. Could you imagine the headline:

“Pregnant woman’s bum torn out by hungry shark”

Nervously I pulled my bikini bums to the side, defecated like a mad woman and then quickly swam away from the offending shark food.

I came out of the water feeling relieved, mortified and a tad corrupted. FH even had the common sense to look suitably impressed.

I sat on the picnic blanket and we chatted for a while about love, life and all things non Aqua.

Nek minute..

FH had his hands inside the picnic bag fumbling with something. Out pops his hand with a diamond sparkler, his eyes get a little misty and he pops the question

“Will you marry me?”

Holy Aqua Batman! Of course I said yes and cried the tears of a sober, pregnant, recently ocean pooping emotional woman.

Pretty much the next sentence out of my mouth was

“If you ever tell another soul about my Aqua though, I’ll seriously kill you”

Ain’t love grand?

It’s been 11 years and 3 kids since I fed the sharks at Windang on the South Coast now. Why not share this simple Australian story of poop and love with my friends?

#husbandishorrifiednowimtellingpeoplemyself
#crapstorythough
#aintlovegrand
#notaclubbie
#surflifesavingaquapoo

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Men v’s women shopping

January 12, 2018

My husband shopping for groceries without the kids:

Walks in, buys 12 things.

Walks out.

Me shopping for groceries without the kids:

“ooooh, I might just pop into Kmart before I go grocery shopping and look around”

Fills shopping trolley and spends $98.55 on things that I convinced myself we needed.

New framed print for miss 8? Don’t mind if I. A new pillow for
Miss 6 that is glittery and changes colour when you rub it? Ummmmmmm, yes.

I meander my way to the car eyeing off make-up I don’t need, smelling candles I won’t buy and staring at bikinis my lard arse no longer fits into.

I drop the first trolley at the car while shaking my head to three people in cars waiting for my car park. The first two drivers are male and get cranky, and the third driver is female and just nods understandably when I mouth “I’m going back in” and drives off with a smile and a wave.

I head back in with an empty trolley and head directly to Woolies as I’ve been gone for an hour.

I start in fruit and veg section while trying to remember the price of strawberries and blueberries at the fruit market I just walked past. Stand there for two minutes straining my hopeless memory… mmmmmm.

Keep going and fill the trolley with the 23 items the husband missed, while adding 18 that weren’t on my list ( they were on sale, how could I not???) I line up for checkout and read the back 4 pages of a gossip mag – I didn’t realise Kim Kardashians arse was that big now (its fake yeah?) and get bill shock at the receipt.

Duck into fruit and veg shop to buy the strawberries, blueberries and then the carrots and sweet potato I forgot.

And eggs.

And raspberries as they’re on sale and I hate buying them at $2,189 a punnett.

Make it outside and realise I don’t have any wine at home. Duck into shop of wine dreams (aka Liquorland) and pick up two bottles of chardonnay. Ring husband and ask if he needs beer. On my way to beer cool room notice that Brown Brothers Prosecco is on sale. “Oooooh, I should really buy that too”

Little conscientious money saver I am.

Get to counter with trolley and see the ‘spend $30 and you can have any of these for $10 sign’

“Oooh, I might try these thingy and something Ciders too please”

Bargains galore.

I finally make it out to the car and see a car with a female driver waiting for my car park. I mouth “won’t be long” and point to my trolley. She winds down her window and says

“Take your time, I’m shopping without my kids so I’m in no hurry”

Make it home, throw receipts in bin and make dinner.

Life is good.

Woolworths Brown Brothers Winery Kmart Australia

#whydontihaveanymoneyleft
#billshock
#butweneedit

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Subtle hints from the husband

January 19, 2018

My stupid back has been out for two weeks now so the spunky Husband has really stepped up his game.

He’s been a complete freaking champion: making dinners, shopping, keeping the kids entertained, cleaning… he’s been a non-stop hardworking lovin’ ‘n carin’ parenting machine.

Sigh…❤️

Nek minute…he leaves little hints around the house about what he’s looking forward to when I get better.

It’s his version of a get well soon card 😂

#hurryupandgetbetteralready
#❤️❤️❤️
#Rockstarhusband

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Do I have to shag every time we have a snog?

March 30, 2017

I love kissing the Husband.

I’m not talking about a peck: I’m talking about the good old fashioned pash/tongue kiss/snog/French kiss/make out/necking/sucking face.

That romantic, long and slow glorious wet snogging that makes you feel like you’re the only couple in the world.

Love it.

Kissing to me is still a real Mills and Boon romance moment. To the Husband though, it’s really just a preview to a Debbie does Dallas Porn Star moment in the bedroom.

Kissing to men in relationships is purely a precursor to sex.

Full stop.

Exclamation mark.

I recently conducted another one of my extensive surveys (read, 5 women over drinks, three women over the phone, 2 mums at my kids sport and 2 husbands) about kissing and I now know this to be a complete fact.
Women in relationships no longer get to have the long slow Blue Light Disco pash without ‘someone’ trying to swing a leg.

Fact.

If you kiss your partner passionately, don’t think you can just close your eyes and go to sleep without some serious annoying back poking happening.

Fact.

Remember the good old days of the Blue Light Disco when you were sooooo excited to pash spunky Nick or Johnny in the back corner?

Even back then Nick or Johnny weren’t being romantic, they were using this as a way to show you their intentions. Don’t you remember feeling Nick’s intentions through his 501 Jeans on your thigh? 😳

I know romance is alive and well but to my husband (and apparently everyone else’s) a long slow pash equals the start of foreplay – or in some cases the actual foreplay.

Again…fact.

So here’s the deal, if I don’t want to have sex, I give the Husband 3 quick goodnight kisses.

Just quick ones.

They are on the lips, but I do tend to make them quick. No tongue or any real open mouth, a two metre space between the lower parts of the body – all in a bid to signify it’s not “game day” If I make the mistake of opening my mouth, have an accidental boob rub or thigh grab while kissing, it’s on like Donkey Kong.

Am I completely insane and live in a non-intimate relationship? Of course not! We have three kids, a healthy relationship, moments of romance smattered throughout our week and pashing sessions immediately followed by (thankfully non child producing) lovemaking.

As far as the husband is concerned, I should be happy that he wants to jump me every time we kiss. Flattering? Sure, but he’s a guy…it’s in their very nature 🙄

I tell you what though..it would be nice to have a big old pash and not have to put out afterwards.

What do you think?

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The snip party

December 5, 2016

My husband is at a ‘snip party’ ✂️✂️✂️✂️✂️✂️✂️✂️

Yup.

I’m not really sure if it’s actually a thing or if he is just trying to be a trendsetter.

You see, he and his friend both went to get a vasectomy today and then decided to go and have a couple of beers together to celebrate.

Seriously.

They even wore matching shirts, had the same sweaty palms and the giggling nervous schoolgirl laughter.

As a female I have very strong feelings about the emotion involved in getting a vasectomy. I understand the whole nervous “I’m getting gelded” thing, and even the hilarious thigh-slapping comments like “ooohhhhh, someone aside from you will be touching my balls.”

Seriously.

But really… the “we need to have as much sex as possible for two months to ensure there’s no swimmers still getting through…and that’s the doctors instructions” is just a tad too much. That was clearly a freaking male doctor trying to help him out. Let me just say that until I hear it personally from a female physician, I’m calling Mrs B.U.L.L.S.H.I.T.

While I’m at it, is there any other woman out there who had a “my baby tore my foofa so let’s go out and have a few wines to celebrate” party after the birth of their child?

Anyone?

I’m not even sure why there’s a ‘Wet the Baby’s Head’ celebration. Is it because they just pushed a baby out of their boy bits?

I’m confused.

I was as jealous as hell that ‘The Husband’ went out and had a night on the turps while I was in hospital getting my nipples torn apart by a non-sleeping, continuously crying, meconium-pooping new born baby.

Now as you know, my husband is a freaking champion and I don’t begrudge him a good time. But really, shouldn’t I have organised a version of ‘Wet the Baby’s Head’ with the girls to celebrate my husband getting gelded? Perhaps I could have called it a ‘No More Withdrawal Method’ party.

I’m no raging femmo, but wouldn’t that have been fair?

Fair or not, I might just pop a bottle of bubbles now to celebrate

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When The Husband said ‘I Love You’

October 25, 2016

I remember the first time my husband told me he loved me.

We’d been at a Grand Final barbeque at a friend’s house and had enjoyed ourselves just a little bit too much. Drunkanese was our language of choice in the taxi on the way home, and Future Husband was starting to declare his feelings.

I changed the conversation and dragged him into the house as I always feel sober words are more effective. Once inside I went in to have a shower and heard him yelling “I looooove youuuuu”. Now he could have been talking to his chair or the cold chicken he was eating, but I knew it was aimed at me… and I of course felt the same way.

I heard a little giggle and realised that his flatmate was at home in bed and had heard the entire thing. I did the only kind thing and put him to bed knowing that Pete (flatmate) would make him re-enact the whole event the next morning… and for many more to come.

Once we realised we had the whole love thing down pat, we moved on pretty quickly to making ‘life’ plans. FH looked at me one day and said “ummmm, you know that I love you and that we’re getting married,” Ummmm, yes FH I do know this, but could you get anymore freaking romantic? “So” he continued, “do you think it would be alright if we started trying to get pregnant?” “ummmm, sure” I replied and it hit me that I was in fact 5 years older than him and we needed to start trying before my eggs left the building completely.

Two weeks later, I returned a positive reading on all of the 15 pregnancy tests I peed on. The feeling of being pregnant for the first time in my life was insane. The FH walked through the door, looked at the mass of positive pee sticks and cried. That was perhaps the first time I realised that love was an evolving emotion and could continue to grow to dizzying heights.

The next level of love with the FH came when I was eight months pregnant. I was in the shower and had washed under my arms, my belly, gazed forlornly at the tips of my toes and then went to soap up my nether regions. I reached behind me to wash and felt the strangest thing near my bum. I started trying to reach around to see but only ended up looking like a confused dog spinning in circles trying to lick its own bum.

“FUTURE HUSBAND!!!” I yelled at the top of my lungs and he came sprinting in “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS ON MY BUM??” FH leaned down, opened my cheeks and said, “Oh Darl, it’s just a haemorrhoid. You must have strained too much while you were doing a poo – do you want me to push it back in for you?”

Nope…nope…nope…

Now I know you’re probably reading this freaking out, but to know that this man – FH and soon to be father – would even consider doing such a thing for me made me love him just that little bit more.

Don’t get me wrong, I want to smother that sucker with a pillow half the time. The guy makes bending over to unpack the dishwasher a dangerous avoidance sport. He understands me enough to completely annoy the shit out of me when I’m wrong and laughs at me at the most inopportune times. Half the time I’m infatuated with him and the other half I’m doing the whole plotting to murder game in my head.

And to be honest, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Him

Leave pass

August 31, 2016

I’m a happily married mother of three.

That statement however does not preclude me from having a leave pass – and it’s been Adam Levine for a very long time. There’s something about Maroon 5’s lead singer that makes my ovaries quiver and my mind wander to inappropriate places. I understand that it’s not realistic as he has a freaking gorgeous Victoria’s Secret model as a wife, but hey, isn’t that the point?

My husband Adam (my real husband Adam, not the Levine one) indulges this little obsession and doesn’t judge me if a music clip comes on and the urge to lick the tv screen is too hard to resist. My little girls don’t even think it’s unusual for mum to just stare at the screen with the same wistful smile they save for Justin Beiber.

Most of my friends (both male and female) have leave passes that are interesting and varied;

Matt Damon (agreed!)
Margot Robbie
Jason Stratham
David Beckham
Ben Affleck
Karl Stefanovic
Justin Beiber (disargree but whatever floats your boat)
Orlando Bloom (she swears it’s not because of his paddle boarding dick pics)
Emma Stone
Bon Jovi
Channing Tatum
Chris Hemsworth
Ellen Degeneres
Joe Manganiello

Then I have the other friends who say they don’t have a leave pass because they love their husband/partner/girlfriend too much. OMG, yawn and vomit at the same time. To those non leave pass believers, I’m screaming “bullshit!”

Who is your leave pass?

Him

Drinking Parents Categories

August 23, 2016

I love watching people at parties and drinking parents are my absolute favourite. Over the last few years I’ve noticed drinking parents always end up in different categories. Here are a few of my favourites:

1. The Careful Drinkers – these are the parents that go out as a couple and stay together for the entire night. It’s like they always have the others back so that no enjoyment can be had by either partner. They talk to you as a couple and always end up talking about how wonderful their kids are. I like this couple but tend to look at them as the fun police. They never get drunk and have a tendency to be a little Judgy McJudgy on all of the other categories. Can always be seen in the company of other Careful Drinkers and have little shits as children.

2. The Want To Be Young Again Dad Drinkers – these guys walk in and make a beeline for the other dad drinkers and talk football and surfing and their son’s football and surfing. They’ll start the night with good intentions by drinking mid strength beer… hours later – good intentions gone – you’ll find them playing British Bulldog 123 or UFC fighting while pausing for shots of rum/tequila and weeing behind the garden shed. Generally married to Swearing Fuc$%#@ Mum Drinkers and Hot Mess Mum Drinkers

3. The Swearing Fuc$%#@ Mum Drinkers – this is definitely one of my favourite groups. They arrive and start networking through the room regaling stories of their amazing kids, other school mums and their single friends who sadly haven’t met someone yet. After a few chardonnays, they’re talking about their a-hole kids and how they destroyed their once perfect perky boobs, those lucky single bitches they know and they’ll be giving lessons on how to evade your husband when he wants sex – they’ll say things like “just slap the tip on his effing dick and he won’t show it to you again” Basically they’ll just swear like a hooker gypped out of $20 on a Friday night in Kings Cross. Generally found in the company of everyone by the end of the night

4. The Muhammed Ali Drinking couple – we’ve all been there. You’re both two-or maybe five- sheets to the wind and everything is fabulous. Your husband accidentally looks in the general vicinity of that bitch you went to school with 20 years ago and it’s on like Donkey Kong. Just short of chanting ‘fight fight fight’ your friends all take steps back and wait for the show to start. This couple always ends up at the front of the house with the husband weeing on the next door neighbours’ car while telling his wife to go to hell. The wife reacts by calling him a tool and screaming “WE’RE LEAVING NOW YOU A-HOLE!!!!. Generally the topic of conversation in all categories by the end of the night

5. The Jekyl and Hyde/Hot Mess Couple – at first glance, this couple are very responsible conservative parents that just haven’t been out for a while. They drink quickly and look at their phones expecting a “your kids are sick” call to stuff up their night. Within 2 hours they’re drunk, forgotten they have kids and are demanding shots really really loudly. They’ll start dancing on the couch thinking it’s a dance floor while absolutely destroying Whitney Houston and Bon Jovi songs in a strange high pitched screaming voice. One or both of this couple will vomit in a pot plant before 2am and continue drinking only to then pass out on the front lawn. Initially can be found with your non drinking parents but after the third drink work out their rookie error.

6. The Seasoned Parent Drinkers – these are the most professional of the group. They can drink two bottles of wine/case of beer each and maintain coherent conversations till the end of the night. The next morning you’ll find them on the sideline of their kids football match in their BCF folding chair, drinking double strength coffee and wearing dark sunglasses. Probably shouldn’t have driven to the oval but nothing gets in the way of Johnny’s football. This couple is hard core and tend to associate with all categories during the night. Approach with caution as they’ll force feed their less experienced friends drinks… just for the fun of it.

7. The couple with no kids– they get drunk and have fun knowing there is no chance of a child waking them up 2 hours after they arrive home. Can be seen in the company of all categories throughout the night. Smug bastards…

Featured, Him

Porn Star

July 7, 2016

I’m pretty sure my husband thought he was marrying a porn star.

I was 35 when we first met and pretty chuffed I’d met a 30 year-old fireman who was into me (and yes, I know there’s a pun there). He was – and still is – a bloke’s bloke who rowed surf boats, built stuff and was a sexy beast in general. I was working in radio, living in Sydney and had only just declared that singledom was going to be my lot in life…so happy days all round.

I’m not going to divulge how long it took us to become bone crushingly intimate, but I still was learning that his surname started with a C and not a K. Lordy me, it was ridiculously passionate, random and lasted for hours on end. The kitchen bench used to shy away from us in fear, rest stops on long drives were not in fact rest stops and a marathon on a Sunday night was not Game of Thrones, episodes 1 – 8. If he had changed his name to Dallas and called me Debbie, I wouldn’t have blamed him…I haven’t actually seen that film, but I’m pretty sure we wouldn’t have had to audition for the leads.

Fast forward ten years, three kids and 10 kilos (maybe 15, but shut up) and things are ever so slightly different. And when I say different, I mean DIFFERENT. The porn star Debbie has left the building – to the point that if we made an imaginary sequel I wonder if ‘the husband’ would want to call it ‘Dallas does Dallas because Debbie is too Knackered and the Kids Won’t Pee Off”

Don’t get me wrong, we still have very regular moments (sorry husband, I meant hours) of mind blowing, crazy good times in the bedroom, but the kitchen bench now stands proudly unscathed. We’ve tried a few times but our kids have a habit of knowing exactly when I’m offering a lovely dish and spatulas and undies go flying. Rest stops on trips are now sadly just a wee stop for the kids and marathons on a Sunday night is really Games of Thrones episodes 1 – 8.

The difference between men and women is very simple: If a husband tries to rouse his wife from sleep and there’s no fire, she’ll want to stab him in the eyeball. If a woman nudges her man with the promise of some lovin’ he’d be awake and smiling like a chubby kid on Easter morning.

I really don’t know the point of writing this… except to say that it’s ok if you’re not a major porn star after you have kids…as long as your inner Goddess makes a regular (ish) appearance, all will be fab in the world.

I’m pretty sure my husband thought he was marrying a porn star. I was 35 when we first met and pretty chuffed I’d met a 30 year-old fireman who was into me (and yes, I know there’s a pun there). He was – and still is – a bloke’s bloke who rowed surf boats, built stuff and was a sexy beast in general. I was working in radio, living in Sydney and had only just declared that singledom was going to be my lot in life…so happy days all round. I’m not going to divulge how long it took us to become bone crushingly intimate, but I still was learning that his surname started with a C and not a K. Lordy me, it was ridiculously passionate, random and lasted for hours on end. The kitchen bench used to shy away from us in fear, rest stops on long drives were not in fact rest stops and a marathon on a Sunday night was not Game of Thrones, episodes 1 – 8. If he had changed his name to Dallas and called me Debbie, I wouldn’t have blamed him…I haven’t actually seen that film, but I’m pretty sure we wouldn’t have had to audition for the leads. Fast forward ten years, three kids and 10 kilos (maybe 15, but shut up) and things are ever so slightly different. And when I say different, I mean DIFFERENT. The porn star Debbie has left the building – to the point that if we made an imaginary sequel I wonder if ‘the husband’ would want to call it ‘Dallas does Dallas because Debbie is too Knackered and the Kids Won’t Pee Off” Don’t get me wrong, we still have very regular moments (sorry husband, I meant hours) of mind blowing, crazy good times in the bedroom, but the kitchen bench now stands proudly unscathed. We’ve tried a few times but our kids have a habit of knowing exactly when I’m offering a lovely dish and spatulas and undies go flying. Rest stops on trips are now sadly just a wee stop for the kids and marathons on a Sunday night is really Games of Thrones episodes 1 - 8. The difference between men and women is very simple: If a husband tries to rouse his wife from sleep and there’s no fire, she’ll want to stab him in the eyeball. If a woman nudges her man with the promise of some lovin’ he’d be awake and smiling like a chubby kid on Easter morning. I really don’t know the point of writing this… except to say that it’s ok if you’re not a major porn star after you have kids…as long as your inner Goddess makes a regular (ish) appearance, all will be fab in the world.