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Gwyneth and the Vag Spa

We go to Bali on Sunday and I can’t freaking wait.

It’s not only that the kids have been counting down EACH AND EVERY DAY for the last 100 days…

I’m looking forward to someone else doing my housework, drinking copious amounts of cocktails, kids club, Waterbom park, massages and thanks to my hairdresser, the discovery of a V Spa.

Yup…there is such a thing. If you don’t believe me, google the bastard.

Oh yes, the lovely Casey at D’luxe Hair told me about it while running her fingers through my (straight) hair. Nothing awkward, but the conversation took a steep decline into all things V’Spa. She was even nice enough to send me some information on the topic for my upcoming adventure

Since then I have discussed V Spa’s with about 10 women and each and every one of them would get it done. Apparently Gwyneth Paltrow calls it ‘steaming her vagina’ and swears by it. Mind you, this is coming from the woman who said she was ‘consciously uncoupling’ from her Husband, the great Chris Martin from Coldplay.

Seriously…consciously uncoupling? WTAF does that even mean?
Couldn’t she have just said “we’ve split up, and now I’m off to get my vagina steam cleaned?”

So…in about 6 days, I’m going to find one of these places and GET. IT. DONE.

Apparently the ‘Vaginal fogging’ at a V Spa can have many benefits…and I’m sure one of them will be a husband standing at the door wagging his tail like a curious puppy dog.

If you had the opportunity, would you get it done?

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Legwarmers, alcohol and dancing

So I’m just going to own up to it right now…alcohol, music and I shouldn’t really hang out.

At 1am on Saturday morning the thought occurred to me that I should keep legwarmers in my handbag for emergencies.

Legwarmers you ask?

Was it cold?

Was I trying to reintroduce a new fashion trend?

The truth is, some inebriated girfriends and I were listening (and singing rather loudly) to music from our younger days.


We started talking soundtracks and songs from Fame, Dirty Dancing, Greatest American Hero (looooooved that song) Footloose and then the song Maniac from Flashdance came on.

Naturally after five vodkas, 2 champagnes, 2 cocktails, a glass of wine and a bucket of Baileys, I figured I should re-enact the whole scene.

And re-enact I did…

My legs were pumping up and down and my imaginary black long curly hair was held in place by my imaginary fabulous head band. My legs were magically clean shaven for the close up and my belly was in an imaginary six pack state, while I was moving completely and utterly in rhythm to Michael Sembello’s voice and awesome beats.

Ok, so the rhythm and the awesome beats are maybe a stretch, but in my mind I danced my arse off like it was 1983.

The song finished and I went back to being a mid forties out of shape, non Jennifer Beals dancing, blonde, drunk, uncoordinated, and incredibly happy woman.

Contrary to popular belief the fun police don’t visit you in the maternity ward to give you a life ban when you have a kid.

So whenever you’re feeling a little too mumsy, grab some girlfriends, some cocktails, some naff 80’s tunes and start shaking your booty.

Just like me, you too can go back to being an honest to God Pop Star who can dance her arse off

Bring back the leggings I say.

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The Jane Fonda exercise strategy

I’ve been exercising quite a lot lately in a bid to stop my children asking if I’m pregnant.

I mean look,’s pretty cute when you’re pregnant and your kids rub your belly. Loved it, wanted it and might have even thought it was great WHEN I WAS ACTUALLY FREAKING PREGNANT!

But get your 5 year old rubbing your pud now asking about babies? That shit makes me want to go all Jane Fonda leotard crazy and start doing burpees all over the place

So….i’m swimming, going to the gym, cycling and eating cardboard for breakfast lunch and dinner. And when I say cardboard, I mean really healthy bok choy, fish proteiny salady thingy things that I should have been eating FOREVER

I’ve been having so many green vegies that the Incredible Hulk is asking for a colour change, my bum makes these new trumpeting sounds on odd occasions and my scales are no longer flipping me the bird whenever I approach.

All this and I’m two weeks in.

I start with a personal trainer tomorrow and he seems really nice. I’ll have to control my horrendous case of ‘tourettes during exercise’ and try and only manage a few “F$%^ YOU!” grunts. I know life will get better in a few months when my body isn’t so shocked but in the interim, please only address me now as “Grunting Tourettes Woman”

Mr Fitness Trainer better not tell me to give up alcohol.

Nope, not gonna happen.

If he tells me to, I’ll start crying and then I’ll be the red faced, slightly overweight emotional wreck of a client he’ll forever be nervous around.

To be honest, if I don’t get a couple of wines or vodkas into me each week I’m just not a nice person. So I actually see alcohol as a community service in my life.

My Trainer with the massive arms is also going to take my measurements tomorrow. Ohhhhhhhhhh shizen!!! That’ll make me uncomfortable and nervous…so I’m pooping myself as I have a tendancy to say stupid things when I’m feeling that way.

I imagine I’ll giggle and say something ridiculous like

“oooooh, is that a really large tape measure or are you just happy to see me?”

Not funny and incredibly awkward. In fact it will only me make me inwardly groan and then i’ll be scared i’ll do a nervous bok choy /green vegetable pop off.

It’s like when I had a rectal exam in Hawaii I asked the Doctor if he could at least buy me a drink first. See…slightly funny, but again really just awkward when others don’t share your nervous humour about bums and gloves.

So….i’ll just go along tomorrow morning with an open mind and hopefully a closed mouth. I’ll try really hard to not offend the man trying to help me work my medium sized arse off.

And then i’ll go home and maybe have a voddie

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The Super Crap Craft Mum and School

I’m just not a crafty-type mum.

In fact I am a completely remedial, back of the bus, forever on the friendship chair type parent when it comes to craft.

I envy those mums who can do crafty things like paint masterpieces with their kids, make little hair bow-things, decorate their kids’ rooms with lovely handcrafted thingys and do DIY design projects with a freaking toilet roll.

Smug Bastards.

Over the last 9 years I’ve mangled menial craft jobs with my kids. Even things like;

Colouring in

Randomly cutting out images and stick them to bits of blank paper

Colouring in people’s eyes in photos (apparently I’m bringing up sociopaths)

Stuck leaves, sand, bugs and twigs on cardboard (don’t ask why)

Tissue paper stuffy stuff

Basic Mr Maker craft

It’s not that I don’t try and do it – I do – and the M’s even love me for my ineptitude. The sad truth is that I’m just Super Crap Craft Mum.

Top of the long list in the “Fiona’s Super Crap Craft Mum Club” is CONTACT. That horrible stuff is my own personal enemy of the state. It’s insanely annoying that 6.5 weeks after the nightmare of Christmas wrapping that my kids are bringing home freaking exercise books to be ‘contacted’.

Ho freaking Ho Ho Ho for the 2017 school year.

If I was Malcolm Turnbull, I’d ban that crap from ever entering the country. I’d get all those secret squirrel Ninja Border Patrol people scanning containers and burning every single roll of contact they come into ummmm, ‘contact’ with.

This morning’s effort was worse than last year and not just because I made the Husband do it last year. I had the first 6 books with a combination of clear and ‘free choice’ contact to do. Coffee was done, scissors in hand and that sticky flycatching evil paper was everywhere.

My five year old M3 had to come and help me separate the contact from the paper, M2 just wanted to play with the off cuts, and M1 just sat there giving helpful hints.

I offered to leave the contact until the husband came home tonight but all three piped up, “No mum, you’re doing a great job”. I now know what it’s like to be a child – you know you’ve done a crap job but your parents look at you with complete adoration and lie with an “Oh my goodness, that’s amazing!” Bless ’em.

I’ve even wrapped presents for kids’ birthday parties and then said my youngest had wrapped it just to save myself embarrassment. I’m far too old to be publicly designated to the back of the craft bus.

So…I managed 5 out of the 6 books, and each of them was a spectacular train wreck. There’s so many wrinkles and bubbles they look like a Shar Pei dog got it’s face caught on the back.

The M’s gave me an adoring ‘well done’ kiss and packed their books for school.

They’ll make phenomenal parents one day – at least when they eventually leave the convent/monastery and find suitable mother-approved partners

I have many amazing gifts, but clearly crafting is just not one of them….and that’s okay.


Super Crap Craft Mum x

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Christmas and the bloody Target shopping Trolley

Can I just say, Mary and her son have a whole frigging bunch to answer for.

Shopping trolleys would potentially be the first thing I’d have a stern chat to Mary about. Honestly, I bet during her pregnancy she didn’t think, “Ooooh, I wonder how many women will be driven bat-shit crazy looking for Target shopping trolleys five days prior to my son’s birthday?”.

Nope. Not even a thought was it?

Mary, I hate to say it, but Jesus Paul Mary and Joseph, you should have seen the kerfuffle over freaking shopping trolley’s today.

I went a little schizoid at Target when they offered me one of those baskets that have wheels on it. Yeah… no trolleys so a glorified miniature wheelbarrow will do.


Do you think the $49 freaking 40kg dart board and all the other useless crap I’ll buy – on my way to said dart board – will fit into that two-wheeled ankle death trap?

I don’t think so.

I want one of those shiny red lightweight Target (slightly smaller than Kmart) super-easy to manage trolleys.

And I’m sorry, but the whole “if you just wait for 15 minutes or so, our 80 year old trolley boys are getting the trolley’s right now” just doesn’t cut it with me.

A possessed Christmas-shopping mother does not wait at the front of Target, randomly picking up nicely wrapped chocolate boxes waiting for the trolley dude.

Mmmm… what to do? I eye the trolley-pushing shoppers and instantly feel red mist clouding my eyes. There’s a mother with a 10 year-old kid in their trolley.


Jesus F’ing Christ – sorry Mary, I’m sure F’ing wasn’t really his middle name…


Here’s a free tip….if you’re child is out of nappies, off the boob and talking in sentences, get them the hell out of that Target trolley.

I see a lady with a watermelon in a TROLLEY.


Red mist and a feeling of wanting to go all Yum Cha on her engulfs me.

Get the watermelon the hell out and put some Target crap in there. Don’t be walking around with a pretend baby that’s a fucking watermelon, woman! Go all Jennifer Grey/Dirty Dancing and carry that puppy around with you like a normal person.

Next on my list. Old People.

I’m really sorry, but a trolley is not a walking frame. I know it’s much easier than a zimmer, but seriously, it’s five days before Christmas, my kids are on a play date and I have literally three hours to do all my Santa stuff. Give a woman a break and use the f’ing zimmer as God intended and give your damn trolley to me.

I now decide to take a leap of faith and go out to the car park in search of a trolley.

Red mist again attacks my vision when I see the trolley bloke out there in a cloud of ciggy smoke.

I then start to hyperventilate when I see the 412 Target trolleys sitting neatly like bored Port Kembla hookers on a Monday night waiting for their next John.

I wonder if they still even call them John’s, or should I stop watching old Law and Order SVU episodes?

For some irrational reason I race a 90 year old to the first one, stick my handbag in the front and go back in to start my pressie shopping.

That trolley came to the car to unload with me three times, the toilet twice (I’ve had three kids press on my bladder) and I even caressed her a few times for being so loyal.

Ho Ho Ho indeed.

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The Case of the awkward G-String


The case of the awkward g-string

The night before my birthday I had a few drinks with The Husband and one of my cracking girlfriends. Just prior to my second wine I had to take a tablet for an irritant I had. No probs, I take a tablet and down the wine in great anticipation of my 35th birthday the next morning.

And yes, I’m fully aware that I just lied about my age, but please just take yourself off to hell for noticing…

The allergic reaction started on my lips. I remember my left eye started getting a little testy with me but at the time I just assumed the change from wine to vodka was making it’s mark. It was only before bed that I realised the itchy feeling was in fact rapidly spreading hives over my legs and body.

The next morning my gorgeous little family walked in with a cake ablaze with 28 (again…hell and off you go) candles at 6am. I noticed them step back ever so slightly when they saw my face. I look in the mirror and have the same reaction as my husband – except I didn’t give myself an insulting air kiss to avoid my puffy face like he did to me.

To be fair to him though, I did look like a very well fed crystal meth addict in those warning posters you sometimes see. My eyes were puffy, my nose looked like Alcoholic Rudolph’s (if he’d slammed the sleigh into a truck), my lips were just Hollywood Kardashian ridiculous and the hives over my body and legs completed this sexy picture.

What was I going to do? I needed some strong antihistamines and needed them quickly. I was off to a Keith Urban concert in Sydney that night and it was my last chance to convince him to leave Nicole. My swollen face and eyes did make me look like I’d just had plastic surgery, botox, fillers and cupping, so maybe I was in with half a chance.

I took very strong antihistamines and passed out on arrival in Sydney. My bestie Jules woke me up and told me to shower and get ready. Still groggy, I put undies and a bra on after my shower and called Jules in to show her my hives. She made the correct “oooooh” and “ahhhhhhh” noises but didn’t notice anything else was wrong with that picture.

Ten minutes later, while applying make-up I was getting annoyed at the coitus interruptus of my undies. Had I really put on that much weight since I last wore a pair of G-Bungers?

Mmmmmmmmmmmm..hang on a minute, how could I have put on weight just with my labia majora to make them hang out either side of my undies? I looked in the mirror confused and realised that I’d put a fucking pair of g-strings on backwards.

A Victoria’s Secret model I will never be.

Fortunately for you I don’t have any photos featuring that part of my anatomy looking forlorn waving from a pair of back to front g-strings.

Go and put on a pair of g-strings backwards and then try and work how stoned I must have been on Phenergan.

What an idiot.

I put the undies around the right way, had a quick voddie and went off for pre concert drinks with friends. Keithy Baby didn’t drag me up on stage for a pash – probably out of fear that my engorged mouth would engulf him and make him sound muffled for the rest of his days.

Thank God birthdays only happen once a year… I couldn’t handle that much excitement every day!

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