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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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Please don’t offer me parenting advice

I love it when people offer me parenting advice.

And if you didn’t understand the level of sarcasm in that statement, please… I implore you, stop reading my page as we can no longer be friends.

Truth be told, I didn’t mind advice when I was pregnant from well-intentioned folk;
“You must get pain relief” (I did – I had gas)
“You can’t get pain relief” (screw you and your dopey advice)
“Don’t eat cheese” (didn’t with my first, a little with my second and smashed every soft cheese around with my third)
“Don’t drink wine” (didn’t with my first… can’t comment publicly without being mum shamed during preg 2 and 3)
“You must breastfeed” (I did)
“You should Bottle feed” (I did)

Blah blah blah…

I didn’t even mind the advice from people when all of the babies had finally vacated the vag;

“Feed them at 6 months”
“Feed them at 4
“Don’t co sleep”
“Co Sleep”

It goes on…

rash cream, sleeping patterns, reading, foods, preservatives, behaviour training (seriously – WTF!) and even how to dress my kids.

I’d even go so far as to say, you should actually listen to everyone when you’re pregnant or a new mum.

I’m not saying act upon it – more like throw it into a blender (not that bloody Thermomix $2000 one though as it turns everything into risotto) blend, lay it all out on the table and then choose whatever works for you.

BUT…now that my kids are fully functioning (at school and can wipe their own freaking bums) PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD – DO NOT offer me parenting advice.

I figure if the Husband and I have survived being parents to this point, we’re ok without your opinion 😘

I’m certainly not saying my kids are perfect angels. Truth be told, they can be absolute little a-holes at times. But you should know that we’re the only ones allowed to make that comment or indeed tell them how to behave.

So if you ever feel the need to give me parenting advice or even criticise my kids… please – and I say this with respect – check yo’self

“Check yo’self” says the gangsta mid forties suburban housewife 😂🖕


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Keep your sanity – leave them all at home!

Want to keep your sanity as a Mum? I highly recommend some time away from your husband and kids.

I’ve just had 8 days in Bali and it was blissfully incredible for my addled mum brain.

I’ve had a few parents say to me:

“oh I could never leave my wife/husband/kids for a week as I’d miss them too much”

while others have have been

“OMFG, you lucky Bitch. I’m coming next time”

Can you guess which group are my friends and which group are the ones I want to give a little forehead slap to while yelling “BULLSHIT” at the top of my lungs?

Seriously, how on earth couldn’t you love having some time to yourself?

Let me tell you the reasons why it was amazeballs and therapeutic for both my sanity and well-being:

😍 it was freaking sensational remembering that I was an adult and a strong-assed woman who wasn’t ‘just’ a mother.
😍I had a room to myself, a spa bath on the balcony and a full sized bath inside.
😍Not a GOD DAMNED washing machine or kitchen in my vision
😍I could say “FUCK” whenever I wanted
😍My BFF and I spoke about everything and anything UNINTERFUCKINGRUPTED!
😍Nobody asked me where their clothes, sock or shoes were.
😍I wasn’t woken up by the husband poking me in the back.
😍I could watch whatever crap tv show I felt like
😍I read books (glorious books!) without stopping during every sentence to answer questions.
😍There wasn’t a single piece of snot on anything I had with me.
😍My teeny tiny hangover was something I could enjoy all by myself.
😍Laying by the pool was relaxing – not one child doing fucking handstands yelling “Mum WATCH ME I’M AMAZING”
😍No ironing.
😍No fighting
😍No unflushed poop in the toilet!
😍I was Fiona or Miss Fiona and not a single person yelled out “MUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUM”

It was farking awesome and I loved it.

I was so pumped I was randomly singing songs like “I am woman” by Helen Reddy “Run the World (Girls) by Beyoncé and “Roar” by Katy Perry. My voice sounded like shit but I was all over the whole female empowerment song thing.

By day 4 I was singing alcohol enhanced songs like the holiday favourite “Kokomo” by the Beach Boys, “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” by the fabulous Cyndi Lauper, some really strange boy band songs that I haven’t sung since the 90’s and humming along to Tequila by the Champs.

It’s not that I didn’t miss the kids or indeed the husband, I missed them terribly

By my last day I was just really looking forward to getting home to my family. I felt relaxed, stress free and completely ready to be loved up. I arrived home while the kids were at school to find some “Missed you/love you Mummy” drawings and I thought my little selfish holiday loving heart would burst.

The husband had done an amazing job with the fambam and I was as chuffed with him as he was with himself. He’s still waiting for his 212 blow jobs that I apparently now owe him, but he’s happy enough just knowing they’re in the bank.

It was a bit of a love fest last night and again this morning with the kidlets. M2 told me I was a better mum than dad was – which I felt happy about until I realised she was simply referring to my ability to make dinner and school lunches 🖕😘

It’s been 30 odd hours now since I arrived home and I’m back into the swing of things. The only small change? I remembered how freaking lucky I am – I have a husband that I actually genuinely love and three kids who are pretty bloody awesome. On the flip side, it also helped them remember how frigging awesome I am at being a Mum 😜

So…if you want to join the Relaxed Mum Family Appreciation Society; might I suggest going away with one of your BFF’s, have some cocktails, feel the sun on your face and enjoy the sand between your toes?

It worked for me and I’m pretty bloody sure it’ll work for you.

So go on… go and sprinkle some freaking holiday magic fairy dust onto your life


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

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.


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.


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.


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 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 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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Spring cleaning is a fire breathing whore from hell

Spring cleaning is a fire breathing whore from hell.

We’re moving house early next year so I thought it would be smart to clean out a few cupboards. Three hours into it and all I’ve managed to do is discover that i’m a borderline hoarder. I know that hoarding is a serious condition and by no means am I climbing over newspapers to get to the front door, but JHC… where did all this crap come from?

My wardrobes (and yes, I did use a plural there) are throughout the house. Always one to share, I have utilised everyone else’s wardrobes as a back up. Since having kids my weight has fluctuated – and when I say fluctuated i’m actually lying as my weight doesn’t move in both directions – but optimistically I keep all of my pre baby/when I was still skinny/hot single chick clothes just in case I ever fit back into them.

Some of these clothes are ummmm…probably wildly inappropriate now. My boobs would no longer sit in that perky way they used to in the brown halter ‘boobs out’ top I used to swan around in. This, my friends is a fact. But there it still sits forlornly in the girls wardrobe just in case my boobs start defying gravity and climb back up the mountain

I have jeans that I paid over $200 for 12 years ago that I am not getting rid of. Nope. Not happening. Either my bum decreases in size or i’ll be rocking those suckers when I’m eighty nine as you shrink when you get older. Admittedly I may have to get rid of the little crystals on the right bum pocket, but i’ll be the coolest granny in the world.

As for Winter coats? I’m covered should we ever decide to move to the Arctic Circle. Bali dresses that I haggled like a mad woman for? Nope, keeping them too. Undies that I paid a fortune for when I was pregnant with the stupid aspiration of being a pole dancer for my husband? Nope, not chucking that dental floss apparel out either. These undies may now only cover my left bum cheek and only some of my vajayjay, but aint that the point of sexy underwear anyway?

75 pieces of clothing staying and 3 pieces going the op-shop. Winning so far.

I stopped mid-way through and decided to sign myself up to one of those weight loss thingys you see online. I signed up to an Australian site that is run by a couple who look like Ken and Barbie with abs. Barbie used to be 30 kilos lighter and even has a photo of herself at that weight to prove it. Barbie also has fifty children and now markets this plan all around the world to insecure hoarding mums like me. F$ck Barbie – I bet she doesn’t keep her fat clothes in her closet like I keep my skinny ones. I bet she’s one of those organised Spring cleaning wizards that throws out one garbage bag full of clothes every six years. Faaarkkkk you Barbie Jean… there’s $70 i’ll never get back.

In my mind I know that all I need to do to lose this weight is stop eating like a bloke, stop drinking so much wine, stop attending parties/functions/watching bands, drink more water and exercise more. If you know me you’ll know it’s completely impossible at this time of year. It’s virtually Christmas and there is no way I can Grinch it out by knocking back food and beverages at parties. I’m just not the person that can go to a party and not have a glass (or 10) of bubbles. If i’m the designated driver I tend to get jealous and be a little bit bitchy/boring for the whole night. That’s not enjoyable for anyone yet alone me

So….moral of the story is for me to keep hoarding but learn to close more doors, eat cake, exercise some more, drink through Christmas, don’t be suckered in to any facebook videos from Barbie and try not to make false promises on New Years Eve to myself.

And no, i’m not being a pessimist or even lazy – I just know the type of person I am and I’m actually pretty freaking happy with life

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I’d really like to poop by myself

There are times that I’d really just like to do a poop by myself.

I’ve been told this won’t change until my youngest is somewhere between 8 and 9. I’m actually at that point now that I suffer separation anxiety if a face doesn’t appear mid-strain. I know this reads a little bit like too much information (or TMI if you’re 21) but honestly, kids give you no space whatsoever.

I’m not really sure this is a popular opinion, but I believe that it’s ok to want space sometimes from your kids… after all it’s not like they didn’t take up every relevant cavity you had prior to being born.

Our kids were away at their Grandparents house for the first week of the school holidays and I loved it. Sure I missed the kids on occasion, but I thought it was really healthy for the husband and I to be by ourselves for a week. We had a romantic and debaucherous time at a hotel in Sydney for a few days and did things that adults should be able to do – without 6 eyes trying to have a gander.

After about five days of doing anything the hell I wanted, I had the strangest sensation; I actually started feeling guilty about not feeling guilty about missing the kids. I’m sure there’s a psychologist reading this going “mmmmmm, and ooooohhhhhh” but parental guilt and in particular mother’s guilt is a strange phenomenon.

I had this guilt wear me down over a few days. It could have just been my perpetual hangover, but I’m pretty sure it was just plain old fashioned ‘pack your bags, we’re going on a guilt trip’. Whenever people asked me

“are you missing the kids?”

I felt like I couldn’t really respond (margarita in hand) with a

“Naaah….not even a little bit”

without feeling like a tremendous a-hole. And that really made me feel bad. Maybe I’m just that crap mum that has no ‘missing your kids gene’ or just a crap mum.

Another few days went by and I was incredibly relieved to start feeling the little maternal pangs of missing my kids. These feelings apparently happen to me between days 7 and day 8.35. So, when people asked me that question – even with a margarita in hand – I could genuinely respond with an

“abso-freaking-lutely Darl”

and not feel bad for lying as it was now completely true.

The kids arrived home on day 10 and all was fab in the world.

I’ll love them to death for the next 11 months and three weeks, then I’ll not miss when they go away again…because I’m normal (ish!)

I’m already mixing new cocktails for that week in my mind now.

How long does it take you to miss your kids?

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I really want to be a ‘Rock Star Mum’

I really want to be a rock star parent/fit mummy but I just can’t get it together. There are times like today where I can get one right, but it’ll never be both.

I started off like a total freaking over achiever this morning. I swore inside my head only 31 times which is a personal record. I actually started picturing myself wearing make-up and Lorna Jayne clothing while hanging out with the braiding mums doing kid drop off. My car wouldn’t smell like month old apple cores and I’d no longer find little snotty boogers on my walls or couch. Yup, that was the crap inside my head this morning.

I honestly smashed it…I bound (read, got) out of bed without hitting the snooze button, the kids turned off the television as soon as I made an appearance, hugs and kisses all round, breakfast eaten by 7:15, clothes on by 7:30, Maclean unpacked the dishwasher without whinging, Molly had time to read a book out loud, Memphis did her word box, no one asked me to help them get dressed while I was doing a poop, teeth were brushed (only two arguments) by 7:50, I remembered where a school hat was hidden so I didn’t have to walk back inside searching, kids were at school before assembly started and they all had hats and undies on. KILLED IT.

Now it was my turn… I’m trying to make myself be one of those MILF type mums and get their body back into shape. It would probably help if I gave up bad food, coffee and alcohol but they’re the things that make me semi reasonable to be around. I went straight from school drop off to a Leisure Centre with a girlfriend for a spin class followed by a swim. Don’t be too impressed by this as it’s for an event on the 30th of October we’re in and I don’t want to embarrass myself by stroking out at the start of the race.

Got on the bike feeling awesome and then realised I was wearing an ill-fitting pair of undies. I have never had this experience before but apparently it’s not uncommon. They kept inching themselves in whenever the instructor yelled “and UP we go” so up I’d go and down would go my hand to try and help my bits out – now If you’re wearing Lorna freaking Jane lycra/stretchy/’lift your arse up’ pants you have no chance in hell of helping anything out.

Holy shizenhausen, It was bringing back memories of my first sexual experience – a whole lot of rubbing for very little satisfaction. My friend Chris was on the bike behind me and I think she was starting to get concerned that I may have had an std or something.
We finished the class and I then realised I’d FORGOTTEN BY DAMNED SWIMMERS. It’s too far to drive home for them and 2 other friends had also arrived for a swim. I pulled out my trusty credit card and bought a new pair of swimmers that were on sale (loved it) I don’t think I’m the only person that gets that little sphincter tightening feeling when you hand over your credit card. I know in my head there’s available money on it, but I get nervous I might have forgotten I’ve made a large transaction and my card will get declined. Which is dumb as it’s never happened, but that’s my money spending female guilt rising to the surface.

I changed into my swimmers, discovered they’d left the freaking security tag on them – much to the amusement of my a-hole friends and then went swimming.

One of these days my morning will run perfectly…

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Spiders are not my friend

I have a ridiculous fear of spiders.

This fear is not something I’m proud of as it reduces my once confident frame to a quivering almost piddling pile of mess. I get the heebeejeebees and desperately need the help of someone preferably taller, hairier and of the testicle swinging variety.

Several years ago Adam was on nightshift at the fire station. I arrived home a little after 7:00pm and put the kids straight to bed. Walking upstairs I had that icky feeling you get when you think someone is waiting around the corner to scare you; true to my feeling I looked up and there was the biggest crankiest mofo spider I had ever seen. I stood there for maybe five minutes before deciding waking up the kids and fleeing to the UK wasn’t really an option.

I tried to be brave and walk into the kitchen. When I moved, he moved as if he was going to pounce. I ended up grabbing my phone and taking a photo to prove the size of this intruder. As you can see in the photo, the monster was so big he actually needed red eye reduction. I sent the photo to the husband for justification and phoned to see if he could leave work temporarily to come and kill the spider.

When I told him – even after the lousy bugger had seen the photo – to come home he just laughed at me. Yep…pretty frigging hilarious you big dopey a-hole. YOUR wife is trapped on the stairs with YOUR kids in bed and is being terrorised by something out of the worst horror movie in history. Even his boss had some sympathy for me and kindly offered to bring around the fire truck with lights blazing to kill the monster. Admittedly, he may (or may not) have been joking but I started screaming “yes yes yes” like a crazy orgasmic woman and just heard peels of laughter interspersed with gasps of “no no no” by the a-hole husband. In my mind I actually started workshopping a shared custody agreement of the kids and new living arrangements.

I then phoned two of my nearest and dearest girlfriends…both of their husbands weren’t home and their reactions were varied. Chris was all “oooooh….I’ve had one of those bastards crawl over my face and another in my pants, there’s no chance I’m coming to your house haahaaaaaaaa” My other friend Ness had necked a few drinks and offered to ride her pushbike over to help. The offer was tempting but I couldn’t let a tipsy friend explain to the police that she was only drunk peddling to prevent death by spider trauma

I hung up on my giggling friends, eyed the 12 foot spider monster some more and may or may not have done a little wee in my pants. I then decided to be more hard core and kill it myself. That thought lasted two seconds as the spider literally flipped me the 8 legged salute. The only option left for me to take was to phone my neighbour and see if I could get a true hero to come and help.

My neighbour Bev was a spritely 70 years old at the time and had been at a lawn bowls function. A few wines to the wind and Bev came in, looked at me with a mix of sympathy and pity with her lovely wine glassed eyes, took off a shoe and killed that massive SOB. Once on the ground Bev picked it up with a tissue, gave me a hug and took it home to her bin. If it was in my bin, Bev knew I believed the spider would rise from the dead, crawl out of my bin, tap dance on my face and lay eggs in my mouth. Nightmares for years.

No matter how old or how tough you think you are, we all need awesome 70 year old neighbours. Neighbours of the Bev variety make the best spider killers, give the best hugs and can actually be more heroic than any freaking husband.

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Bali is a wonderful place to go for a family…

Bali is a wonderful place to go for a family holiday. The sun, surf, culture, massages, heat, pools, cocktails, kids club, no housework or cooking and the incredibly lovely Balinese. That is what I looked forward to, pure relaxation for us and loads of entertainment for the kids.

I put my back out at the same time Jetstar cancelled our flight just before we were due to leave. Of course Jetstar didn’t have anything to do with the injury but I have to blame someone and the husband wouldn’t cop to it. And when I say “put my back out” I mean out…not just a little bit out, I’m talking out as in gone for the day and not coming back till 3am drunk out.

For the first 7 days or so I was bent over with the God forsaken bulging disc. I went to a Chemist and asked the Pharmacist for something to relieve the pain as Nurofen just wasn’t cutting it. On the advice that the drug given “was what we give to people with broken legs so it’ll be ok” I decided to go with it.

So…I took 2 tablets the next morning and went to the breakfast buffet with the husband and kids. Half way through my toast I remember staring off into the distance between bites and slowly realising I was completely off my chops. I know I smiled a lot and had some pretty ridiculous thoughts while carrying on a conversation with the lady at the next table. I spent the entire day in bed watching a movie and rewinding it every twenty minutes or so as I kept forgetting what I’d seen. I guess there’s a reason for prescriptions in Australia.

On day 4 I got covered in hives and day 6 saw a lovely heat rash crawl its way across my torso. I looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame with the pox. Day 7 and my back started to come good. YAY!!!! On Day 7 night I was lucky enough to enjoy Bali Belly for the first time.

Yup…that painful crampy poo thing attacked me with a vengeance. It enabled me to break into a cold sweat in 28 degree temperatures while chewing on Imodium and Buscopan. It made my children giggle hearing my belly sounds and when mummy sang on the loo. Sentences were interrupted with sphincter tightening facial expressions and I knew where every toilet was within a 2-mile radius.

Believe it or not, the last day of Bali I came good. Which is a bit of a mother chucker, but one has to look on the bright side; there were staff on hand to do the cleaning and cooking, drinks were cold, kids had fun, husband is tanned and relaxed and the Bali Belly probably helped with only a nominal holiday weight gain.

Happy days all round I say.