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Warning: POOP ALERT!

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 yadda yadda 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 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 jubbly.

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 rumbling.

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. Bikini-clad running pregnant women with clenched butt cheeks would never make a 200-meter 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 rumors 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 a 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 minut..

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?


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Medical Idiocy

There’s a whole lot about me that screams conservative.

Sure, at times I’ve been known to liberally sprinkle the word ‘fuck’ throughout my adult conversations, I sometimes do 67 in a 60 zone, I’ve sometimes even popped off in public and blamed an elderly pensioner…but am I the kind of gal that could have maybe done a role in a porn movie in my 20’s????

Ummmmm, no…


Don’t get me wrong, I’ve shagged my fair share in my single days, I’ve smoked approximately 7 joints (and fell asleep after giggling for 10 minutes) had my fanny steamed, my bits waxed/tweezered/lasered, I enjoy alcohol tremendously and live the life…but ultimately I’m a bit of a nerd-burger.

How much of a nerd-burger do you ask?

My husband can ask the kids a question to test their general knowledge and I’ll quickly jump in before them with the answer. Life’s a competition kids and your mother’s a winning Family Feud, Sale of the Century, Who Wants to be a Millionaire and Funk ‘N Wagnalls freaking Guru.

So I have no fucking idea what was going through my mind when I had an MRI this afternoon.. Obviously it’s all magneticy type radiation boohoohaa burn your boobies off scary stuff, so they have to ask you questions for safety precautions yada yada yada.

The problem I have is that I get nervous in front of medical people. I’ve seen enough episodes of Grey’s Anatomy and House to be a classically trained Radiologist/Brain Surgeon/GP and understand that bad shit can happen. For this very reason, I question everything I’ve ever done in my life – just in case I’ve forgotten something and they’ll have to accidentally kill me because I forgot a minor detail.

Who wants to guest star in that episode?

So they asked me things like:

“Have you removed all of your piercings?”

I felt stressed. What fucking piercings would I have aside from a conservative gold pair of studs in my ears? And yet, my brain started going “oooooh…have I forgotten that I may have accidentally had a clitoral piercing when I was 21? Did I forget that there was a shiny drop diamond and ruby belly ring that I might have inadvertently both forgotten AND left in? Did I even ever attach any nipple clamps?

Jesus, I’d hate to be In this machine and have my entire clitoris ripped off because I forgot my Virgin Mary skull piercing was still in.


“What about any shrapnel in your body?”


“Ummmm, thanks for asking, there was a little bit of leftover shrapnel that Hawkeye and BJ Hunnicut forgot to remove while I was recuperating at the 4077… but I’m pretty sure i’m all good now.

What about any other implants etc…?

Omg, there was once a vibrator that was really small that resembled a bullet, but surely that can’t stay in there for that long? I actually looked down to visualize…. I mean, I’ve had three kids since then and surely someone would have noticed? I’ve also had a penis firmly implanted in there, but again – pretty sure the husband would have noticed leaving something like that behind.

I also thought about getting some new boobs once but I didn’t so there really shouldn’t be any reason to mention them…

So…ummm no to the implants.

I jokingly asked the red-headed MRI operator if everyone panics and thinks about this sort of stuff before they go inside. He did that odd sort off “you’re an idiot” smile and said, “ah, sure…sometimes I guess”

Meredith Grey would have humored me you bloody ranga..just sayin’

Does anyone else’s mind get a little weird about things like this?

NB: surprisingly no painkillers were taken prior to writing this 🖕😂😜


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Kids & Screen Time

Kids & Screen Time What do you think?

My son asked me when he’d be getting a mobile phone.

I didn’t think I’d heard correctly so responded with a raised eyebrow “sorry honey, what did you say?”
“When will I be getting a mobile phone?”
And I replied with
“When you’re old enough to get a job and pay for it yourself”
“Ok” he said and went outside to practice his cricket bowling agaInst the garage wall.

Ummmmmm…my son is my oldest kid and is only 9 (ok, nearly 10) years of age.

Nearly 10.

What the fuck does he need a mobile phone for? Just in case he needs to call an Uber or swipe left or right for a suitable 9 year old girlfriend who’s into sport and loves puppies? To find out what some nasty little dickburger has written about him just to be a mean little shit?

I don’t fucking think so.

To be honest, I think he just felt obliged to ask as he’s hearing other people are buying their kids mobiles. I just read that 20% of 10 year old kids in Australia have mobile phones and this number skyrockets to 75% of 12 year olds.

75%. WTAF?

Am I missing something here? Am I being a tightwad hippy, fun hating, nerd reducing, dick-twaddle of a parent by thinking it’s completely un-fucking-necessary for kids to have a mobile? Am I in fact turning into one of those judgie mcjudgies that I can’t stand? It’s a definite possibility I guess.

A few years ago my husband (and read the whole statement before you freak out) said:
“You have to treat our kids like you would a farm dog, keep ’em busy, feed them, run them all day and put them to bed” To be honest, I was mortified at him for saying this until he went on to explain “kids are supposed to be busy…they wake up every day looking for things to do – if we don’t exhaust them by getting them outside, taking them fishing, kicking balls, swimming, camping, throwing rocks etc…what will they do? Sit open-mouthed in front of the tv? It’s no life for a kid sitting inside. It’s our job to get ’em out there and get them amongst it. They’ll keep out of trouble that way and be way too exhausted to be little shits”

Idle hands and all that stuff.

Please don’t get me wrong, we, of course, let our kids watch tv and we’ve been guilty of letting it keep them busy so we can have some parent time. My parents did the same (Mr Squiggle was my creepy idol) so we could all have the luxury of uninterrupted conversations, a minute to think or just some time for ourselves.

Jesus, I can still sing pretty much every The Wiggles song ( the original members only, I’m a purist) and don’t even get me started on my love of Thomas the Tank Engine. Nowadays my favourites are those twin slightly sexy nerdy Doctors Dr Chris & Dr Xand on Operation Ouch (it’s amazing how much snot we generate in our lifetime – who knew!) and Deadly 60 with the fabulous Steve with his excitement about all things that could kill you. So yeah… I’m guilty as hell too of screen time for my kids and for this middle aged Mumma

I worry sometimes that it’s a losing battle, especially when we have to buy Master 9 an IPad for school this year. We’ll try incredibly hard to be super strict and make it for school use only…all the while trying to continue the whole treat them like farm dogs philosophy.

So, for now, we’ll just make them wait a while longer before we start giving them access to their own screen time – like when they get out of the frigging monastery/convent when they turn 45.

I think I prefer a kid covered in dirt than one with a slack jaw and glazed eyes.

Just remember, before he died, Apple co-founder Steve Jobs wonderfully answered a question from a reporter who asked him ‘What do your children think about the new iPad?’

His answer?

“they wouldn’t know” because they’re banned in his house

Makes you think huh?

What are your thoughts?

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Hot Wax In Bali

I’ve done some incredibly dopey-arsed things in my life.

One of the most ridiculous was in Bali four years ago on my first ever ‘leave the kids and hubby at home’ girls trip.

I had been looking for a present for the hubby for days to no avail. Sure, I’d found a “your wife is awesome” shirt, a Bintang singlet and a wooden penis bottle opener, but that doesn’t really say ‘thanks for telling me to go on holidays, love your work, you’re a great dad/lover/husband blah blah blah…’

Then it hit me!

I would get him the gift of a smooth, hair-free vagina. Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I was a hairy goonie goo goo or anything, but I’d never been completely hair free.

‘Oooooh,….Now there’s something he won’t be expecting’ I thought happily to myself. Sure, he’ll expect some loving upon my return, but not from a sexy mumma who had replaced her badger with a sphinx.

So off my friend and I trotted in sunny Sanur to find a place to make my vag look…ummm sphinxy. The first day-spa was booked out, the second two didn’t do waxing down there (I know, WTF right!) and the fourth one had curtains separating the massage tables and tentatively agreed to do it.

Looking back, I probably should have taken that as a sign that I definitely should leave my curls on my girl.

Narrator: but just like all of the stupid shit Fiona has done over the years, she ignored her instincts.

Off we went – me to get my foofa waxed and my friend Rosi to get a hot stone massage – right beside me – with a threadbare sheet dividing us.

I stripped my undies off, lay down on the overly worn table and waited for the beautician (I use that term very loosely) to start making me sphinxy.

Then she applied the wax….Oh. My. Fucking. God. it was so hot it was like someone had poured hot lava onto my bits.


I was in so much pain, I’m pretty sure my left labia majora wanted to retreat in on itself while flipping a little flap bird to her.

You see she was using wax that was far too hot and then she put down a strip of cloth so she could rip it off.

189 beads of sweat had formed into a lap pool on my top lip (on my face that is). Yup. That’s what she was using on my poor little damaged Dolores – and no, Dolores is not her real name – I’m just trying to maintain her anonymity.

I had to hold my breath the second time she ripped and just kept whimpering pathetically throughout. Each time she ripped the wax off I’d yell something resembling “MOTHER FUCKER” or at least that’s what Rosi told me she thought it sounded like during my pathetic screaming

Half way through I asked for a break so that I could have a beer. Now if you’d have ever told me I’d; a) Drink a Bintang or b) drink it while having my flaps torn apart, I would have given you my contemptuous death stare of disapproval

I kept ripping back the curtain saying “WHAT THE FAAARK” to my neighbour Rosi and having a chuckle. I figured if I was hurting, there was no way in hell I was going to let her relax in peace and enjoy her massage.

Halfway through my lady asked me if i’d had kids and I whimpered “yes…(sniff sniff whimper) three” To which she told me how amazing my little Dolores looked. So much so, she then called Rosi’s masseuse over to have a gander.

So here I was; drinking a beer, whimpering, cussing like a two bit hooker gypped out of $20 while Dolores was being stared at by two Balinese ladies. I pulled back the curtain to tell Rosi that her masseuse was now using her massage hands to help remove dangling bits of wax. EEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!

My lady eventually went back to work alone on my stunt bits. At one stage I actually had to help by pulling apart my flaps (ermagherd) and watch her apply hot wax. Now I do understand that there are people in the world that would be turned on by having hot wax flaps, but I my friends, am definitely not one of them.


Once done, we went back to the villa and I had a shower. When I finished I stood there naked and looked in the mirror.

Was I a sexy sphinx? Ummmmmm, no. Not unless the sexy sphinx had been in a fight with Garfield on a crystal meth rage. This sphinx had burns everywhere and she looked incredibly sad.

Dolores was not really in any shape to be given as a gift. I hoped that soothing cream and the flight home would help her recuperate, but sadly, I’m afraid sitting in a 3cm wide plane chair does not do any favours for a badly burned and damaged foofa.


I got home to the spunky eager beaver hubby and thought to myself ‘oh well, it’s the thought that counts.’ I pulled down my pants and said “surprise! Here’s your God damned present”

His response?

“Eeeewwwww…What the hell did you do?” before rolling around in laughter.

What an ungrateful bastard

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When The Husband Said ‘I Love You’

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 make ‘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 any more freaking romantic? “So” he continued, “do you think it would be alright if we started trying to get pregnant?” “Ummm, 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 hemorrhoid. You must have strained too much while you were doing a poo – do you want me to push it back in for you?”


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.