Drop Roaches - A Tale of Extraordinary Courage

We were running late, of course. I was taking my 16 year old son and his friend D to the Opera House to see the Pokemon Symphonic and we needed to leave ten minutes ago. I unlocked the car and the boys got in.

"NOOOOO! There are cockroaches!" screamed my son.

"AAGGGH" screamed his friend.

And they were right. Three huge cockroaches were scampering across the floor of my car.

"Oh GOD," I cried. We fled the car. "I'll fix it!"  I bolted inside and emptied every cupboard of my house in a frantic search for bug spray. There was none. Oh, GOD. So I grabbed the next best thing.
Hair spray.

I was dashing out to the car with the hair spray held optimistically aloft when my neighbour appeared at her door, smells of a delicious chicken dinner wafting behind her.

"I NEED YOUR BUG SPRAY!" I yelled. She looked a little surprised. She is a lovely woman, and grandmother of several, and probably isn't accustomed to being screamed at on her own doorstep.

But she handed it over.

"I'll give it back later!" I called over my shoulder, and ran back out to the car.

There I found the teenage boys, being... well.... not as brave as one might hope.

"I'm not getting back in there!" my son announced. "Ever."

"YES YOU ARE!" I yelled. We were even more late, and I had spent a fortune on the tickets. "Here. We'll spray them and they'll die."

So I sprayed. I pretty much emptied my neighbour's spray within the confines of my not-so-big car. The fumes were toxic. Which was good, really, as that probably meant the cockroaches were dead.
Or we would pass out, and be immune from their fearsome powers.

The roaches disappeared, and so we felt strong enough to proceed. I put the keys in the ignition, the boys put their feet up on the seats, and off we went.

I was on a main road, heading towards the city, when my son began screaming.

"Mum! It's on the ceiling! It's right above you!"

"NOOOOO!" I cried. "OH MY GOD NO!!!"

"It's FALLING!" he yelled. "IT'S A DROP ROACH! OH GOD IT'S ON YOUR BACK!!!"

"HELP!!!" I screamed frantically (all the while keeping my foot on the pedals and guiding the car vaguely in the right direction). "OH MY GOD!"

And then my son's friend D came to the rescue. "STAY STILL!" He pointed the bug spray at my back and fired. "Got it!"

The roach fell down. Somewhere. I don't know where. I pulled over and collapsed, shaking, by the side of the road.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"No worries," he said cheerfully. "I'm in the Rifle Shooting team at school,"

We went to the concert and had a wonderful time. And today, obviously, I buy a new car.

#MyFirst... Car Accident

I got my license when I was 17 years old. That sounds simple, right? "I got my license when I was 17 years old." Except that it wasn't simple. For a start, I needed twenty-six lessons. This was partly the fault of my father, who a) insisted that I learn to drive on a manual (which is really, really hard), and b) refused to take me driving.

For another thing, I didn't get my license right away. Oh, my driving test went well. I worked all the gears, did my reverse park, and was going along swimmingly. Sadly, however, right at the end, as we were heading back to the depot, I missed a red light and went sailing through an intersection, forcing the quick witted instructor to employ the emergency brakes.

Apparently nearly causing a fatality means NO LICENSE FOR YOU. It was bitterly disappointing.

Still, I took the test a month later and passed with flying colours. Apparently not risking lives almost guarantees success. Who knew it was so easy? I was thrilled.

Two days later, my then-boyfriend visited my house with his best friend Andy, whom I'd never met before. Andy was super-cute - much cuter than my boyfriend - and I was very much wanted to impress him.

Oh. My. God. My dad was right.

My dad was home, and he asked me to move my (okay, his) car out of the driveway and park it across the street. My mum would be home soon and he wanted her to have the spot. I left the boys inside and ran out to the car. I put my keys in the ignition, looked in the rear-view mirror, and reversed out of the driveway and straight into Andy's car across the road.

Oh GOD.

"I'm sorry Andy!" I cried, as I ran into the house. "I smashed your car!"

My father came running out of his study in horror. "No!" he yelled. "Never admit liability!" (My dad, it may be gleaned, was a lawyer. Sadly, he was also a couple of seconds too late.)

"But... but..."

"Be quiet!"

Poor A looked a bit stunned as he regarded the wreckage of his fine automobile (which was probably just a Nissan or something, but still, he was 18 years old).

I don't remember what happened next. No doubt details were exchanged and arrangements made. I do remember that I never saw A again, and that my boyfriend and I only lasted another week.

But since then I've always been super careful backing out of driveways. Still knocked a couple more cars, though. Blame it on the gears.

Next week's topic: #MyFirst... Revelation (suggestions for #MyFirst topics welcome!)

The Absolute Stupidest Thing I Have Ever Done

Here is a small piece of statistical fascination for you: This will be the 51st entry on my blog with the label 'embarrassing moments'. Clearly, I do stupid things all the time.

But in my life's history, which has been long and varied, this, my friends, goes down as the all-time stupidest. Twenty-seven years down the track, I am still amazed at what happened.

And, to be frank, kind of awed.

I was eighteen years old and I was living with my parents. At the time, I was driving my dad's old Toyota. It was 'champagne' colour, or so he had told me. In fact, it was more like 'vomity brown', but it drove, and I was grateful for that.

One morning, I got up and dressed, ready for uni. I ate my toast and drank my coffee and brushed my teeth and grabbed my bag and said goodbye to my parents and sister and headed out the door. I walked to my car and...

Hang on. The car wasn't there.

I had parked the car where I always parked it, directly outside of our house. There was absolutely no question that I had left it there; I had never parked it anywhere else.

But it wasn't there now.


Artist's Impression of Me Looking For My Car (In a Field, In a Long Blue Dress, About 150 Years Ago)

My brain simply did not compute the anomaly. I had left the car there, but it wasn't there now. So what on earth could that mean?

Well, clearly, I simply couldn't see the car. Obviously, my eyes had suffered some sort of malfunction, and were unable to process my vomity brown Toyota. So the only solution was to find the car by feel, which I proceeded to do in the middle of the street.

Yes, people, I stood in the road, waving my hands around in the empty spot, trying to feel my car. I kid you not. I actually did that. Imagine a woman on slightly bended legs, outstretched arms waving in front of her, like a blind person navigating their way through a room full of furniture.

And that was me.

Needless to say, I did not find my car. I did not find my car because it had been stolen (as my family explained once I walked back inside and reported that my car had become invisible). Eventually the Toyota was found in another suburb, still vomity brown and not at all translucent.

And my brain was found too, some time after. Most of it, anyway. But as I have 51 posts under the label 'Embarrassing Moments', clearly it never returned entirely.

Yes. I Really Did This.

This morning I had coffee with a lovely young woman of my acquaintance. B wanted my advice about Looking Fabulous All the Time and Keeping a Spotless Household* and I was delighted to help her out. Quite frankly, any excuse to get out of the house is exciting for me. And besides, she paid for my coffee and offered me a lift into the city to attend a meeting so I totally came out ahead.

After we finished our coffee, I stepped into her car and spotted a Tiffany & Co gift bag on the floor.

"Oh, you shouldn't have!" I joked. Clearly B had bought a stunningly tasteful necklace for her best friend's birthday, or perhaps one of those delightful silver spoons you hand out at christenings and baby showers.

"Yes, it's for you," she said, and gestured to me to take the bag.

I was horrified. "For me? Oh my god I was only joking!"

I felt terrible. Absolutely terrible. Now B would feel compelled to give me the stunningly tasteful necklace, or, even more awkwardly, the silver spoon. I suppose I could wear the necklace, even if it had been intended for her best friend. But what would I do if it turned out to be a spoon? Use it in my sugar bowl?

I realised I was shaking my head.

"No, it's really for you," B said. "To thank you for your time. Don't worry - it's only small!"

I was touched. "I'm touched!" I said. (Which is logical, given that I was touched.) "Can I open it?"

"Of course!"

So, excitedly, I opened the box.

It was a pen. A beautiful, aqua, Tiffany & Co pen. I love pens. I love pens sooooo much. I loved it.

"I love it!" I cried, and the pen jumped out of my hand and disappeared down the side of the car seat.

Oh yes it did. It was gone.

We tried everything to get it out. I tried, she tried, I tried again... It was hopeless. My beautiful pen, held lovingly in my palm for 3.5 seconds, was gone.

B and I drove mournfully into the city, both of us trying desperately to forget the fact that I had a) ruined the moment of gift-giving, and b) lost the actual gift.

We arrived and she parked the car.

"Perhaps I'll take the car to the mechanic and he can have a go at getting it out?" B asked. Visions of the car being completely dismantled floated before my eyes. No. That was ridiculous. (But as a last resort...)

"I'll try again!" I announced courageously. I grabbed my tweezers from my bag (because I never, ever leave home without tweezers), practically lay horizontal on the road, stretched my tweezer-gripping hand out under the seat...... struggled blindly for a few minutes.... and PRESTO! I extracted the pen with the precision of a surgeon and the dexterity of a really good pole dancer.

It was the most triumphant moment of my life. Well, one of them.

So I have my pen and the relationship has been salvaged. And now I'm off to do some fancy pants doodling.

So so so so SO much better than a lame old spoon.....

*this may not have been the real reasons she sought my advice

Top Eight Times I Feel Eight Years Old

Yesterday I had the pleasure of being chastised by the nice dude at Bob Jane T-Mart. I came in to get my tyre repaired, and he examined it and shook his head.

"You drove on that when it was flat, didn't you?"

Yes, I did, it's true, but in my defence I didn't realise it was flat. I just heard a funny grinding sound, and felt my car pull to the left. And a grinding sound and a pulling sensation could have been anything at all (which is what I kept telling myself as I drove home on a flat tyre).

So the man told me off, and I felt like I was about eight years old. And it made me think of all the other times I feel about eight years old (as distinct from the times I feel about 88, which is a different list altogether).

Top Eight Times I Feel Eight Years Old

1. When buying a car, getting my car serviced, dealing with the NRMA, getting car insurance, or indeed having any discussion that involves the words 'car', 'tyre', 'engine', 'brake pads' or 'alignment'. Hell, even the word 'petrol' makes me anxious.
2. Being at the hairdressers. Something about the absolute powerlessness of sitting in a chair whilst someone wields a pair of scissors reduces me to virtually a fetal state. Particularly after they take the first snip.
3.  Being at the dentist. Except substitute 'whirring machinery pointed at your mouth' for 'scissors', and multiply the fetal state by about a thousand.
4. Going to the doctor and presenting with symptoms and being told there is absolutely nothing wrong with you. There is nothing quite so infantalising as discovering you are a hypochondriac. Except for...
5. Going to the doctor and presenting with symptoms and being told there is something wrong with you. And then it doesn't matter how old you are; you become eight years old again and want your Mummy!
6. Being pulled over by the police for any kind of traffic violation. (I say this purely hypothetically, of course.)
7. Anytime anyone talks to me about the sharemarket, particularly futures trading. It is stupid and doesn't make sense and I will stick my fingers in my ears if you bring it up again.
8. When my parents are cross at me. That is the WORST.

When do you feel eight years old?

Fire in the Belly (okay, TOE)

I always look forward to visiting my parents on the Central Coast. For one thing, it is a beautiful part of the world. For another, it is wonderfully liberating to hand over my three kids to their Nana and Papa. I am able to kick back, relax, and pretend that I am, once again, a childless young woman (albeit a childless young woman who lives with her parents and their three young children).

Sadly, this particular trip did not start off auspiciously. Oh, it wasn't as bad as a recent trip to the Central Coast, in which I packed up the car and the kids, put (the wrong) petrol in the fuel tank, and had to abort the whole expedition when my engine nearly blew up.

Still, it wasn't great.

I spent the morning packing, which is not easy with two kids determined to make mess, and a third determined not to let go of my leg. I then packed up the car, packed up the kids, and drove to the petrol station, where I spent an anxious ten minutes checking obsessively that I was putting the right fuel in the tank.

After another brief stop to buy essential supplies for the journey (including chips, Coke Zero, and a four-pronged Push Pop), we embarked on the long, treacherous drive to the Coast (long because it's 90 minutes, and treacherous because... well... I was at the wheel). By the time we pulled up in my parents' driveway I was exhausted and starving, and very much looking forward to a tuna sandwich and a nice lie down.

The kids ran ahead to the front door, but I stayed behind to lug the bags inside. This is because a) I am responsible and considerate, and b) my father hadn't come out to help me, despite c) me calling me plaintively.

So I climbed out of the car, grabbed a bag, and stepped onto a nest of Fire Ants.

The pain was excruciating. I ran into the house screaming, much to the befuddlement of my parents, who are used to me being very calm and composed*. I rocked on the couch in agony, my toe blazing with (ant) fire, bullets of pain shooting up my foot. And there I remained, pitifully, for the first two hours of my stay in heaven, an ice cube clutched to my toe, and several dozen painkillers sloshing around my belly.

Happily, the rest of the day was quite uneventful. But it's only been 24 hours and in this family, really, anything can happen....

*that may be a lie

The Reprieve

It was a dark day for us all. The Architect had been sneezing for weeks, and had decided that Hot Cross Bun Bun had to go. One of two rabbits who had replaced dear departed Spunky, Bun Bun is a lop-eared rabbit, who, apparently, is more allergenic than her normal-eared friend Pretzel.

Bun Bun was going back to the store.

My elder daughter wept. My son railed. My youngest daughter danced (she always dances, good or bad news). I seriously considered the prospect of getting rid of The Architect and keeping the bunny. But the bunny has limited earning potential, and so, with heavy heart, I said goodbye.

Bun Bun nervously awaits her fate

I took the girls out as it was too distressing for them to bid farewell to their beloved pet. The Architect and my son took out a box, lined it with straw, and left it out for Bun Bun to jump into.

In a touching moment of selflessness, Pretzel jumped in instead.

He was removed. Bun Bun was placed in the box and hauled off to the pet store.

According to my son, about halfway through the car journey my husband frowned. Apparently, he noticed that he was not sneezing, which was odd, as he was in a confined space with the highly allergenic Bun Bun. In the middle of a main road, he grabbed the bunny and sniffed deeply*.

He did not sneeze.

Clearly, my husband realised, it was the other bunny - the normal-eared bunny - who was the problem.

He turned the car around.

They returned home, swapped Bun Bun for Pretzel, and began driving again to the store.

Again, The Architect did not sneeze. Odd. Very odd.

Again, he grabbed the bunny and sniffed him in the middle of a road. He pulled out bits of fluff and sniffed them. Then, in desperation, he grabbed chunks of bunny straw and sniffed that.

Nothing.

So they drove home again. At this point, my son gave up in disgust and went inside to play computer. Occasionally, he would look out the window to see his father, with a puzzled expression, picking up each bunny in turn and sniffing deeply.

Eventually, The Architect conceded that he is not allergic to either bunny** and that he just has hay fever. So Bun Bun was saved, and Pretzel has her friend back.

And I did a happy dance of I Told You So. Yes, it was a good day indeed.

*Please note that there is currently no law prohibiting a driver of a motor vehicle holding a bunny

**As I have been suggesting for weeks

Worst. Pic. Ever. Now with ACTUAL PHOTO.

YUP.

So today I took the worst photograph of myself in five years. Yes, it was time for my license renewal, that most hideous of chores for anyone who doesn't like seeing themselves portrayed on a small oblong card as a demented, ice-addicted criminal.

My old license expired yesterday, and I was happy to see it go. Even though it was taken five years ago, when I was still in my thirties, the picture makes me look like a fifty four year old - a fifty four year old with a bad case of scurvy who hasn't slept in about a year.

I knew that license photos are never attractive, but I felt that with a bit of preparation and a lot of makeup, I could beat the odds and produce one that, at the very least, wouldn't make my daughter cry when she stumbled upon it in my purse.

So this morning I carefully applied some eyeshadow and lipstick, and used about three litres of concealer on the bags under my eyes. I washed my hair and put in lots of 'product' to make it bouncy and curly, and made sure that it was draped artfully over my sticky-out ear (and the other ear too, just to be symmetrical).

And off I went to the RTA.



I filled out my forms and paid the bill, and then the lovely young man behind the counter told me not to smile.

Well, let me tell you this. I don't respond well to being told not to smile.

I began to giggle. Then I began to laugh. Then I tried to smother my laughter by biting my tongue. Then I took a deep breath and pursed my lips to calm myself down....

And that's when the photo was taken.

It is terrible. Just awful. I look like a middle aged virgin schoolteacher who lost her fiance in the war, and has never recovered from the pain. Even worse, my hair is flat on the top and the bags under my eyes are dark grey.

So the moral of the story is, don't even bother trying. License photos are there to hurt you and amuse everyone else.

And if you can't hack that bitter truth, go buy yourself a pushbike and leave the car at home. Which is what I am thinking of doing in another five years time.

Women In Cars? THAT IS NOT NEWS.

So yesterday the front page of the Sydney Morning Herald screamed some alarming new information.

Commuting Puts Women's Heath At Risk!!!

Apparently a) the more hours you spend in your car the more your health suffers, and b) women are now more at risk because their increasing representation in the work force means that they too are commuting to work. The main result of their long hours in the car is, apparently, obesity, because they are more likely to eat fast food that cook a healthy meal (not surprisingly, since it is impractical to whip out a wok in a vehicle).

Now, I totally concur with point a). Spending long hours in the car (as opposed to, you know, 'short hours') does have a significant, negative impact on your health. But obesity is not the only issue to be concerned about.

Commuting is DANGEROUS for women

Spending long hours in the car puts women at risk of:

• Snot-on-sleeve syndrome (because you can NEVER find tissues in the car when you need them); 
• Light bladder leakage (if you are listening to something funny on the radio, or just have a spat of demented laughter for no reason at all);
• Heavy bladder leakage (if you drink too much coffee before leaving the house and can't find a toilet on the F3 (which you won't, because there is none);
• Extreme thirst (because you will have forgotten a bottle of water); 
• Extreme hunger (because you will have forgotten a snack);
• Extreme nausea (because you will be overcome by hunger and thirst and stop at Maccas for a meal - and they are everywhere, even on the F3);
• Extreme nasal itching (because inevitably if you are in bumper to bumper traffic, and people are looking down at you in your car, your nostril will become itchy out of fear that you will have to scratch your nostril and people will think you are picking your nose); 
• Extreme boredom (because driving is boring); 
• Extreme road-rage (because people are idiots);
• Extreme poverty (because petrol is ferociously expensive);
• Even more extreme poverty (because you will eventually pick up a fine for speeding / driving in a bus lane / driving in a T2 lane without passengers / running a red light (EVEN THOUGH IT WAS ORANGE) / talking on your mobile while driving (BECAUSE YOUR STUPID BLUE TOOTH FAILED TO WORK THE ONE TIME THE POLICE WERE WATCHING) / just being on the roads when clearly you are not fit to have a license. 

But seriously, SMH, this has nothing to do with women joining the workforce. We women have always been on the roads for (long) hours and (long) hours a day. Because we spend half our bloody lives schlepping around our children from school to sport to dance class to music class to therapy (oh hang on, that's just me?) to play dates to swimming to chess tournaments (chess is a sport, OKAY?) and back again. We are in the car ALL DAY LONG. This is NOT NEWS.

What would be news, on the other hand, is a child who sits happily in the car for long hours, without asking for a snack, needing to do a wee, or hitting his younger sister on the head. That, SMH, would be worthy of a headline.

But until the laws of everything change, that, sadly, is never, ever going to happen.

IN HOT PURSUIT OF JOY

Life is hard. We all know that. Hell, I've spent most of my career letting people know that it's okay to find life hard.

Relationships are hard. Parenthood is hard. Loss is hard. Just being alive is hard.

But life is absolutely full of joy, too, and we have to remember to seek out and grab those joyful moments whenever we can.

Today, my kids and I chased an ice cream truck. Oh yes we did. We were driving home after a morning outing, and none of us were in particularly good moods. My son had homework to do, I had a pile of laundry to deal with, and my girls were tired after a late night.

And then, as we took the winding road down the hill to our street, we saw it.

"An ice cream truck!" shouted my daughter.

"Ice cream! Ice cream!" shouted the four year old.

"Let's follow it!" shouted my son.

My instinctive response was to say no. We had to get home. We had work to do. And besides, it's dangerous to chase another vehicle - even if it is dispensing iced confection.

But the kids were so excited, and I suddenly thought, why the hell not? This is one of those moments. Grab it, enjoy, and be joyful.

And so I followed that truck. It wasn't easy, because I wasn't prepared to break the speed limit*, and we almost lost the truck, twice. But I hung in there, the kids screaming with delight as we changed lanes, turned corners, and kept it in our sights.

In hot pursuit of a cold  iced treat

The truck took a highly circuitous route, keeping us all on our toes, and ended up at the beach. As it came to a halt we all cheered, triumphant, the actual ice cream less important than the thrill of the chase.

The kids jumped out of the car and ran to the van, returning with giant sprinkle cones with Flake. It wasn't even lunchtime and the cones were bigger than their heads, but I didn't bat an eyelash.

This morning was joy. Pure joy. I didn't care about the inappropriateness of eating ice cream before lunch. I didn't care about the melted ice cream dripping in my car. I didn't care about the Flakes smearing all over three tee shirts. And I didn't care about the exorbitant cost of soft serve cones. It was joy. Pure joy. And we will all remember it.

It was the day we chased the ice cream truck.

TRIUMPH

Seek some joy for yourself. TODAY.

*because I have no points left on my license am a very safe driver

Another Near Disaster (For A Change)

Recently I had to give a talk at a library, because that is the kind of thing I do these days. I very much enjoy giving talks at libraries, especially at libraries that give me large boxes of chocolates as a thank you, which I then tend to eat in the car on the way home so as not to have to share them with my family.

But I digress.

This particular library was in a suburb that my late grandmother would have referred to as Yahoopitz, which I assume is Yiddish for ‘far away’, but may actually have been a real suburb of Russia.

The point is, the library was a long way away from home. To make matters worse, my car’s built in Sat Nav system had broken, after a mysterious episode involving a professional car wash and what was, presumably, a very wet sponge. The matter is currently in the hands of my insurers, but yet again, I digress.

This woman is not me, but conveys a certain Essence of Me
 

I stopped at my mum’s place (I do know how to get to my mum’s, as long as I don’t try to take a fancy route), borrowed her Tom Tom, and began driving. After a few anguished moments during which I couldn’t get the stupid thing connected to the power cord, I managed to turn it on and program it successfully.

The Tom Tom was loud and rather less polite than my Sat Nav, doing away with ‘Please’ altogether, but using some endearing colloquialisms like ‘at the end of the road’, which my Sat Nav would not have understood at all. Things were going along swimmingly, until we came to a very long freeway, and suddenly, Tom Tom stopped talking to me altogether.

I was lost, and frightened. What could I do? I was in the middle of Woop Woop (the Aussie equivalent of Yahoopitz) and was due at the library in thirty minutes, where dozens of adoring fans (or a couple of dozen of library patrons with nothing else to do) waited. And I had no idea where I was.

So I did the only logical thing. I called my mum.

“The Tom Tom has stopped talking!” I cried over the phone.

“Oh dear,” she said. “That’s no good.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?”

My mum paused for a moment. “Um... what am I supposed to do?” she asked. “I’m at home watching TV!”

“TELL ME HOW TO FIX IT!” I shouted.

I could have sworn I heard her laughing. “I don’t know how to fix it,” she said, with a glint in her voice (I know glints are generally for the eyes, but I really could hear it).

“THANKS,” I said.

“Well, don’t you have a street dir..” she said, but I was throwing the phone across the car.

I cried. I hit the Tom Tom. I cursed. I slapped the steering wheel. And then suddenly, out of nowhere, a voice boomed out in my car (okay, it wasn’t out of nowhere, it was actually out of the Tom Tom).

“In 800 metres, turn right.”

The Tom Tom was speaking! It had never stopped! Apparently, it just hadn’t had anything to say in a while. We’d been on a straight road.

So I made the talk, and only ten minutes (or so) late, with great thanks to the Tom Tom.

But no thanks at all to my mum.

The Tragic Trifecta

As many of you will know, I returned from my trip to Malaysia on Sunday night.

As many of you will suspect, I wasn't quite ready to come home.

As many of you will have guessed from my social media updates, I returned to absolute chaos.

The house wasn't in too bad a shape, apart from the colony of ants that had set up headquarters in my kitchen, and the piles of dirty clothes breeding on my kids' bedroom floors. The kids weren't in too bad a shape, apart from the youngest having an ear infection, and the eldest having a bad case of I Hate Homework.

Sadly, though, there were some other issues.

For one, there was the small detail of there being NO INTERNET, for reasons no-one at Telstra could quite explain. For another, there was the even more minor detail of there being NO FOXTEL, because of an outage in the area which Telstra assured me had nothing to do with my internet failure*.

There was also the very small issue of me having no car. Having taken my car in for a small repair before I left, the car was, apparently, still siting in the service centre's garage, as no-one had bothered to get authority from the insurer. Helpful.

So I had reached the Tragic Trifecta. No car, no internet and no TV. Oh, and no electricity, because although it is connected, the staggering cost of the energy bill that was waiting for me precludes me from ever using electricity again. Which at least means I don't have to worry about getting the internet and Foxtel reconnected.

Still, it's lovely coming home. I can't think of any reasons why right now, but I know they're there. And at least I've got my health, right? Except that I did my back in on the long flight home, and I can't get out to the physio...

*It has since been confirmed to have everything to do with it

Travelling With Chipmunks. Do NOT Try This At Home.

It is fun to travel long distances with children. Also, there is a pig flying past my window. You should see it. It’s purple.

I have recently returned from a two week trip to the United States with my husband and three children. The trip was hours of fun and exhilaration, interspersed with moments of torture, and two days of chipmunk music.

For the first week of the holiday we were accompanied by my parents, in an arrangement that pleased me enormously. Partly, of course, I was happy to spend time with my Mum and Dad. Mainly, however, I was glad they flew with us to Los Angeles, so I could sent four year old Boo to sit with them on the plane when she began flinging herself around in psychotic exhaustion, and throwing her airline meal on the floor*.

After an adventure-filled week in California, my husband and I parted ways with my parents** and journeyed on with the kids to Las Vegas.

On my husband’s suggestion, we hired a car and took the trip by car. It is around a five hour drive from Los Angeles to Las Vegas, or much, much quicker by air, but who the hell would want to take the quick, easy option when you can drive five hours through the desert on the wrong side of the road with three kids in tow? I mean, that would just be silly, right?

Needless to say, I was apprehensive before the drive, until the miraculous discovery of a DVD player and two pull-down screens in our car. Fantastic, I thought. Problem solved!

I borrowed some DVDs from our American friends and popped them into the glove box ready to entertain the kids. It was a flawless plan, but for one tiny flaw. Twenty minutes onto the freeway, we discovered that most of the DVDs were Blue Ray*** and didn’t work in the standard-issue DVD player. In fact, only one DVDs worked: the ear-melting classic ‘Alvin And The Chipmunks 2 - The Squeaquel’.

So, for the entire five hour drive there, and then the entire five hour drive back, I was subjected to the excruciating sound of the Chipmunks singing Beyonce songs in falsetto, as I reminded my husband to stay on the right side of the six lane highway and not veer into oncoming traffic. Until three or four hours into the Chipmunks, at which point veering into oncoming traffic seemed highly desirable.

Still, we survived the journey, and I am sure that I will be able to get the sound of the Chipmunks out of my head eventually. After all, it’s only been a week, and, you know, if you like it then you should have put a ring on it, oh oh oh.... Ooops. Sorry. Just lapsed into song again.

Anyhow, the moral of this story is threefold. Firstly, don’t travel anywhere without grandparents. Secondly, don’t travel anywhere with children. Thirdly, Blue Ray technology is a crime. And fourthly, I know I can’t count, but I’m still traumatised from our journey.

And if you like it then you should have put a ring on it, oh oh oh.

*an act of tremendous selflessness, as I am aware that every hour with my child is a precious gift to my parents.

**which, incidentally, was planned, and not a response to them being burdened with a psychotically exhausted four year old.

***which sounds exciting and modern, but is clearly useless and stupid

Why I F*ked Up. Monumentally.

So the other day I made the mother of all mistakes, a fuck up that officially catapulted me into the 'totally losing her mind' category.

It was Tuesday afternoon, and I was leaving with the kids to visit my parents at their holiday house on the Central Coast. That morning I'd been out shopping, packed our bags, made sure there was enough food in the house for my husband, paid some bills, answered some emails, and ran some errands. Then I loaded the kids, the bikes, and our bags into the car, drove down the road to the petrol station, and put petrol in the car.

And then I nearly fainted. Because I'd put the wrong petrol in the tank.

I own a diesel car. If you put unleaded petrol into a diesel car and start the engine, it dies. Literally. The engine blows up. It is a seriously bad thing to do. The fuel tank and the engine need to be taken out and flushed.

I stood there for about ten minutes, stock still, with the kids and the bags and the bikes in the car. I had no idea what to do. I knew I couldn't start the car, but I couldn't just sit there all day, and I couldn't exactly walk away.

Eventually, I realised there was a garage around the corner. I left the car where it was, with the kids and the bags and the bikes, and ran to the garage.

"Help me!" I begged the mechanic. "I've fucked up. I've put the wrong petrol in the car and we're meant to be going to the coast and I don't know what to do."

The mechanic shook his head. "Love, it's five days from Christmas, I'm booked up, I can't help you. You'll have to get the car towed somewhere else."

I couldn't get the car towed. You need to stay with the car when it's towed. I had three kids with me. And bags. And bikes. And where would I get it towed, anyway?

I started to sob. "I don't know what to do!" I cried. "I just don't know what to do!"

The mechanic shrugged. "Sorry." And I walked back to the car.

"What are we going to do, Mum?" asked my son.

"I'll fix it," I said. "I'll fix it." I tried to gather my thoughts.

Just then, the mechanic appeared at the window.

"Okay," he said. "I'll do it. It was the tears that got to me."

I jumped out of the car. "Oh my god I LOVE you," I yelled, and I really did.

Three of the mechanics pushed my car to the garage. I called a taxi, piled the kids and the bags in the boot, drove to my parents' house, took my dad's car, and drove to the Central Coast.

The next day, when the car was fixed, I drove back to Sydney, left the car at my parents', picked up my car, and drove back to the Central Coast, a round trip of about four hours. With the cost of the engine flush, chocolates for the mechanics, the wasted unleaded petrol, and the petrol for the journey, it cost well in excess of $550.

It was a monumental fuck up indeed.

But here's the thing - this is not my only fuck up this year. I've forgotten meetings. I've forgotten to pay bills. I've left money in an ATM. I've left groceries at the checkout. I've lost my iPhone. I've lost my chequebook. And the list goes on and on.

Life is too complicated. I have too much to remember. The kids, work, the house, my relationships, bills, the garden, the car, shopping, cooking, laundry, appointments, school.... There is never a second of down time, never a moment where my mind isn't racing, never a day without a To Do list a mile long.

It's modern life and I get that, I do. But I need to switch off. I need to shut down. I need to clear my mind of the clutter every now and then, or I'm going to keep putting the wrong petrol in my tank and forgetting important meetings and leaving my iPhone in the park.

Today, though, I am trying to calm down. And I don't want to see a petrol bowser for a long, long time.

Bashed, But Floating

Have you heard of 'cognitive dissonance'? That's when your brain is struggling to reconcile two opposing thoughts. (Or at least I hope that's what it means. I'll feel really stupid if it turns out to mean something quite different. Like... you know... 'cheese platter'.)

Well, I'm suffering from cognitive dissonance at the moment. (My version of cognitive dissonance. Not cheese platter.)You see, on the one hand, I'm living this really exciting post-book launch life of doing interviews and signing books and appearing on Oprah (okay, so that last one was a lie, but it could happen); but on the other hand I'm still a mother of three and a wife of one and have laundry and cooking and cleaning and washing and schlepping and homework and all the monotonous mundanities of every day life to do. And it's not fair. Don't my family know I'm a PUBLISHED AUTHOR???

What's more, the normal irritations of life keep getting in the way of my temporary foray into glamour and fabulous. Just this morning, for example, I was driving the kids to school when another car slammed into us from the right hand side. We were all fine, which is the important thing, except that the car was not, which is kind of important too.

I jumped out of my car to confront the person who had wreaked such senseless damage, prepared to be cross. Didn't they know I'm a PUBLISHED AUTHOR?

A handsome young man approached me. Too handsome. I can't yell at a nice handsome man! (Er... not that I'm that good at yelling at mean ugly men, but it's much easier.)

"I'm sorry!" he said sincerely. "I didn't see you!" Well, duh. I mean, I didn't expect he would have bashed into me if he did see me. Unless he was really mean. And even then he'd need a good reason.

"Well that's very bad," I said. "I'm a published author and this is not acceptable." (Okay, so I didn't say that, because it would have been really idiotic and embarrassing. But I thought it.)

"I'm so sorry," he said. "Are the kids okay?" Oh yeah... the kids. I checked again. They were still fine.

"I feel so bad, I'm so sorry. But at least no-one was hurt!" Bugger. Now he was really being nice. How dare he be nice when he just banged into my car?

So in the end, we shook hands, I smiled warmly (I was cross, but he was handsome!), said goodbye, exchanged cards, and went our own separate ways. And as I drove away, I looked back at my beautiful children, and felt immensely lucky just to have them safe and sound, and knew a piece of metal on wheels didn't matter.

Except that's not really what I felt at all. I was still annoyed about the car. But then I went to do a radio interview to promote my book (Yes! I'm a PUBLISHED AUTHOR!), and though I may have been driving in a battered car, I was walking on air again.

This is not my car. Nor does it look like my car. Nor was the damage to my car as extensive as the damage to this car. But it's someone's car. And that's all that matters.