I was asked to write for free for a funeral planning site.... and this is what happened....

Firstly, the email and my responses:

Hi Kerri,
I am researching online for possible opportunities for my client to share content with within her industry.

Her new website is (redacted).

She has been in the funeral industry for a very long time and wanted to start a truly independent resource for people going through a funeral or a tragic loss. As counselling is a huge part of that I thought your site would be a great fit.

As you are a very successful writer I wondered if you would be willing to maybe write a blog post for her site?

I understand you may get a lot of these requests from agencies looking for links but we really are after quality content sharing with or without links. We believe if we provide quality and genuine helpful advice, people will link to it when they need to.

Would love the opportunity to chat further if you are interested.

Regards,

(name redacted)

Me: What are you able to pay?

Him: Hugs and great content.

Me: Seriously, help me out here as I just don't get it. You're asking a professional writer to write for free for a funeral planning site? 

Him: Yes, I wanted to offer you a chance for more exposure to your site also.

So I turned to Twitter to vent my frustration:

And the reaction was awesome:

Yup.

CAFE DEATH STARE

I love eating out in cafes. I love the coffee, the food, the atmosphere, and the delight the wait staff take in attending to my every need.

Today, however, my lunch time experience was disappointing, to say the least. And, as I am not in the mood to say the least, I will say the most, which was that it was unpleasant, uncomfortable, and, frankly, a little terrifying.

I arrived at the cafe before my friend, Lana, who had asked me to pre-order her a coffee. Sadly, by the time she arrived the waiter had not taken my coffee order, so she joked goodnaturedly with him about the fact that I had let her down.

The waiter didn't get her humour at all, and wandered off in a state of confusion, which I cannot condemn, because Lana's humour can be hard to understand.

I snapped this pic of our waitress mid-stare

But then he took our order, which included a baguette (for me) and poched eggs for Lana. Yes, the menu said 'poched' eggs. Which is fine, really, because I can forgive a typo. A poched egg is an egg by any other name. Except that when Lana ordered her poached eggs, and I muttered 'poched' under my breath, the waiter looked monumentally unimpressed. Perhaps he simply believed the scrambled eggs were a better choice, but either way, it was a loveless moment.

Still, the worst was yet to come. Because when my baguette arrived it was the size of a newborn - like, a proper newborn human, not one of those minuscule newborn kangaroos that look like jelly beans for the first weeks of their lives. Lana's eggs, however, were teeny tiny. I mean, the eggs were regular size - not, like, newborn kangaroo size - but they were perched on one piece on toast, and it was a pretty fucking small piece of toast at that. Seriously. That toast could not have fit a newborn human's handprint, let alone filled an adult sized human's stomach.

So, having a horror for unfairness and adversity, I beckoned to the waiter.

"Can she have another piece of toast?" I asked. "That one is teeny tiny."

Well, he looked shocked. Truly. I might as well have asked him for newborn kangaroo on a plate of mashed yeast. There were some disapproving looks, some rustling in the kitchen, and then a waitress who we had never seen before flounced out, dropped the toast on the table, and issued Lana with a death stare capable of freezing full sized mammals of all description in their tracks and shattering them to pieces. It was like looking into the eyes of a psycho killer. There was just blackness there. Dark pools of anger and revenge.

Lana did not finish her toast. She was too frightened. I finished my baguette, because no mere confrontation with a murderous waitress can dampen my appetite. And, to be honest, it was a delicious baguette. Much, much better than the poched eggs.

All in all, it was an unsettling experience, and I am still recovering. As for Lana, well, the food poisoning hasn't kicked in yet, but we are monitoring her progress by the hour.

Have you ever had a bad restaurant experience? And would you eat poched kanga on rye?

THE TROLL EDITION

If there is one thing I don't want to be it's a hypocrite. I mean, there are lots of things I don't want to be. I don't want to be a leper, or a communist, or a parking officer, or a contestant on a reality show. But I also don't want to be a hypocrite. Not being a hypocrite is one of my Core Values.

And so, in giving with my Not Being A Hypocrit-ism, I must be prepared to be criticised. I make my living, in part, by writing opinion pieces, and if I am allowed to have my own opinions then other people must be allowed to have their opinions of me.

And here's the thing: not everyone will like what I write. Sometimes I write pieces that get floods of positive feedback, messages and emails and tweets and balloonagrams from the sky. (Okay, not balloonagrams, but we do like balloons here, so if you feel moved to send one, please contact me for my address.) But no matter how well received a piece is, there will always be someone who doesn't agree. No matter how much people love my writing, there will always be someone who thinks I'm shit. And no matter how many people love my work, there will always be someone who cannot stand the very sight of my name. (I must say, I'm included in that last one - I've always thought 'Kerri' was a pretty poor moniker.)

So if someone wants to express their dislike for my work, they should feel free to do so. Not that they need my permission, of course. But I'm giving it anyway (which will probably piss them right off). I genuinely, truly do not care if someone says I am a terrible writer, or that my opinions suck, or that my hair looks really bad now that it's been cut. (Oh GOD, I lie, I do care if you don't like my hair. Do you like my hair? Please tell me you like my hair!)

Obviously if someone is threatening, or brings up my family, or reveals intimate details of my life (it is MY decision when I tell you about my secret marriage to Simon Baker, NOT YOURS) I will come out fighting. But criticism, no matter how rudely expressed or laughably phrased, is absolutely fine.

So when Lana told me about some nasty comments about me on GOMI ("Get Off My Internets") recently, I was amused. We talk about it at length (well, five minutes is a length) in this video below. I also address those rumours about my divorce and my sex life with a female online personality. Exciting stuff indeed. Keep it going, GOMI!!!!!!

#MyFirst... Time Drunk

Each Monday I will be writing about a First. I will choose the First (first kiss? first drink? first fight? first phobia?)I will post the topic here and write my own little piece about it. And I will invite YOU to write about your own First on your blog anytime during the week. If you have never experienced that particular first, write about why not. And how you feel about that.Then add your blog post via the linky below, and/or tweet it under the hashtag #MyFirst.
Today's topic is My First... Time Drunk

Some firsts happen organically: first kiss, first heartbreak, first moment of fear, first time you taste a double dark chocolate Cherry Ripe and know you want to commit to it for life.

Some firsts need a bit of a push. You want to dive in, so you make it happen for yourself.

And so it was with my first time drunk. I was dying to experience the joys of intoxication, and my best friend Libby* was ready too. I was at her place for a sleepover, her parents were out, and we decided to hit the liquor cabinet and give it a go.

I was fifteen years old.

I was terribly excited.

I wasn't familiar with the Joy of Alcohol, and so started with something close to home. Libby and I poured ourselves shots of Sacramental Grape - the sweet, port-like wine that is drunk on the Sabbath. On the Sabbath it is drunk in thimble sized portions. We drank a tumbler-full each. And then moved straight ahead.



It is Holy, you know

What next? Well, Scotch seemed to be the obvious answer. Libby's father had several bottles of the stuff so we took a little bit from each and drank another full glass.

I don't know how people drink this stuff

The Scotch tasted horrible, and I was starting to feel a bit off. I needed something sweet again. The Tia Maria beckoned.

Not intended to be consumed by the tumbler

We drank a full glass of that each, too.

And well, that was it. I was out for the count. The room spun around me. Thick gauze descended on my brain and the world went hideously fuzzy. I felt dire. I thought maybe I'd die. Nausea clutched me in it's grip and swirled me around. I needed to get to bed. I needed to get to bed now.

"Ah needa gedda bed," I slurred to Libby.

"Me ooh," she muttered. She was a strange shade of puce.

I couldn't stand. Libby couldn't stand. I don't like this, I thought. I want this to be over.

Bed. I needed bed. We crawled to the stairs.

And just that minute, Libby's parents came home. I regarded them from my position on all fours on the stairs.

"Hugumph," I said.

"What's going on," Libby's dad asked in bewilderment. I think he genuinely didn't know. His daughter was a very good girl.

Or had been.

"Weh gogga bed," Libby said. And then she collapsed on the stairs. On top of me. I couldn't move, but I didn't care. Moving equalled death. I was better on the stairs.

I don't remember how I got to Libby's bed. I believe her dad carried me. I do remember waking up in the middle of the night needing to go to the toilet. This was problematic, as the bedroom door was next door to a cupboard, and I kept getting out of bed, walking into the cupboard, and falling back onto the bed again. Three times. By the end I was really quite desperate to wee.

The next day I experienced some of the worst pain in my life. Happily, my parents did not contribute to said pain with punishments or lectures. They knew that the Worst Hangover of All Time was punishment enough.

I didn't get drunk again for years and years. (Okay, the very next year. And the year after that.) But in general, I am not keen on getting drunk. And I have never been able to stomach Scotch or Tia Maria since.

Funnily enough, I do still love my Sacramental Grape. I guess the spirit of the Sabbath shines through the darkest hangover day.

*not her real name.

#MyFirst Blogging Challenge will be on holidays till the end of January. But it WILL BE BACK.

Ridiculous Situation 79032

So this morning I woke up with an infected eye. I have no idea how it got infected, although I suspect it may have to do with the fact that:

1. I am useless at applying mascara, and spend more time jabbing myself in the eyeball with the wand than applying it to my actual lashes; or
2. I haven't washed my makeup brushes in about three years; or
3. The cat tends to eat my eyelashes when I am sleeping; or
4. I am just generally disgusting.

Either way, I had to cancel today's modelling job* and tonight's hot date** because I look so hideously unsightly.

I did, however, venture out to the chemist at my local Westfield, where of course I bumped into 75 people I knew, all of whom looked at me strangely, but none of whom worked up the courage to ask me what the hell was wrong with my face.

I went to the pharmacy and asked for help and they advised me to bathe my eye with saline. And then they sold me a packet of ten saline solutions, and ten little sterile eye-baths.

And because I couldn't wait to commence the process of becoming less hideous (and, also, to be able to see) I went straight to the public toilets to perform the procedure***.

I took out one of the eye-baths and a tube of saline, broke the top of the saline and filled the bath. It is a small, oval shaped container that fits over your eye. You bend down, place your eye over it, tip your head back and the water sloshes around in your eye-ball.

Or so the theory goes.

I didn't hold the bath firmly enough against my eye, and so the solution ran down my cheeks and on to my top. It was a little embarrassing, as I came up gasping for air with water dripping down my nose and into my mouth. But the other toilet patrons studiously ignored me, and I patted my face dry with a paper towel and pretended that it had all gone to plan.

There was still half a tube of saline left, so I tipped the rest into the cup and decided to try again. This time, I pressed my eye more firmly against the bath, until I felt the pull of suction against my skin. I tipped my head back and the water rolled beautifully around my sore eye. I felt triumphant and delighted. I knew that the infection would soon be gone.

And then I tipped my head back down and realised there was a problem.

The eye-bath was still suctioned to my face.

I tugged and I tugged but I couldn't break the hold. Women came, looked at me curiously, and hurried out again. I smiled and shrugged my hands in helpless despair and wondered if I could make it home with a cup on my eye. In the end, I decided I couldn't, as my sunglasses wouldn't fit over the cup, and so, with one final, determined tug, I yanked the fucker free.

My eye is now even sorer than ever, but I have decided to leave the healing to time. It is a week till my next modelling job and hot date**** and I can't risk having to go to either with a cup on my face.

*Disclaimer 1: I don't have any modelling jobs

**Disclaimer 2: I don't have any hot dates

***I mean the eye-bath. No other 'procedure' requiring a bathroom. Just to clarify....

****Disclaimer 3: I have neither

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

Social Media Super Psycho Fail

I cannot remember laughing so hard.

Except that it really wasn't funny at all.

I was in Lana's car; we had just completed a spot of shopping. And as she was dropping me back home, she pulled out her phone and showed me an Instagram photo that was concerning her.

"Look at this," she said. "Tell me what you think."

It was a picture posted by a child we both know. And it was really inappropriate. Doesn't matter why, it just was. Very adult. Not the kind of picture a child should be posting. I was horrified.

"God, that's worrying," I said.

"I know," Lana agreed.

"Should we tell the mother?"

"We should tell someone," Lana said.

I thought for a moment. Maybe we were making too much of it? "Let me look properly," I told Lana, and she held out the phone.

Oh my god. What was that the kid was wearing? I absentmindedly tapped on the image to enlarge it.

Oh. My. God.

"I liked the picture!" I cried.

"Oh no!" Lana yelled.

Artist's Impression of Lana at this point

"Oh god oh god I'm sorry!" I looked at the phone in my hand in horror and threw it back to Lana like it was on fire. "Oh god! I didn't mean to!"

Lana was aghast. "Oh no!" she cried. "Oh no oh no oh no!!!!! I can't like the picture! People will think I'm a paedophile! Oh no! Unlike! UNLIKE!"

She tapped the picture again. The little 'Like' heart reappeared cheerily on the screen.

"OH NO!!!" Lana was practically hyperventilating. "I'VE LIKED IT TWICE!!! OH MY GOD!!! I'M A DOUBLE PAEDOPHILE! MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP!!"

I tried to make it stop. I really did. But I started to laugh. Like, really laugh. Seriously, uncontrollably laugh. With my head thrown back and tears in my eyes and my feet stomping on the floor of the car because it was so damn funny. Visions of horrified mothers talking about Sicko Lana floated through my mind. I clutched my sides and gasped for breath.

Next to me, poor Lana was waving the phone around frantically. "I've liked the disturbing picture!!!" And then she started laughing too. "NOOOOO! NOOOOOO!!!!"

We both sat there, in the car, quite literally falling over laughing. It was the best feeling in the world. Of course, it wouldn't be the best feeling when Lana was banned from having children over for play dates and her son was ostracised from his friends, but for now it was pretty damn funny.

 And then, suddenly, Lana worked it out. "I unliked it! I just hit the Like button again and I unliked it! Oh thank god. THANK GOD!!!!"

And then we both laughed for another ten minutes. And now I'm laughing again just thinking about it. Lana is probably still traumatised. But that makes it all the more funny.

Ever had a social media FAIL???

The Game

Last night I went out to dinner with two of my male friends. We ate steak and chips (apparently this is what men do) and we played my favourite game (which was only fair, because the men got their steak and chips).

My favourite game does not involve dice or a board, because board games are excruciatingly boring (and besides, I always lose). In my favourite game, absolutely everyone wins, because that is the point of the game, and what makes it so thrilling.

It is The Lottery Game.

You’ve all played The Lottery Game. I’ve played it dozens of times. And yet each time, the game is a little more exciting, and each time, my imagination runs a little more wild.

Last night’s version of The Lottery Game began as it always does. With a question.

 “Do you ever just wonder what life would be like if you won ten million dollars?”

“YES!” I yelled, practically jumping off my chair, and choking on a chip in my zeal.

“Um… okay,” said my friend Rich*, recoiling slightly in his chair. I realised that the question had been posed rhetorically, and I tried to regain my composure.

Naked Woman Depicted Not Actual Blogger

“I have too,” said my friend Buck** happily, and shovelled in another bite of cow.

“What would you do?” I asked.

“I’d play guitar all day.”

Hmmm. I figured I’d just hire someone to play guitar for me with all my money, but perhaps I was missing the point.

“And what about you?” I asked Rich, who was gazing wistfully into the distance.

“I’d get a butler!” he pronounced, and it sounded eminently sensible.

“Which would give me time to spend up to three hours a day in the gym,” he continued, and I decided that my friend was seriously unhinged.

“And I would travel!” he added, which was redeemed him a little. “I would travel through Europe, and backpack through India, and…”

No no no no.

“Why would you backpack through India?” I demanded. “You’d be a multi-millionaire! You could stay at the best hotels! You could hire people to carry your luggage!”

“But I like backpacking,” he said shamefully, and the table fell silent.

“What about you?” Buck asked me finally, and I was very glad he did.

“Well firstly,” I announced, “I would get staff for absolutely EVERYTHING.” My eyes began to glaze over as I warmed to my topic. “I would get a maid, and a chef, and a chauffeur, and a nanny. I don’t want to do ANYTHING that looks like work, EVER again.”

My fantasy began to overwhelm me, and adrenalin surged through my body. “I want to play with my kids, but not have to lift a finger! I want to sleep until noon and then read in the bath! And I want to get a massage every day of my life. A two hour massage. No. A three hour massage! And then another bath!”

I stopped. I realised that I was bouncing in my chair, and clapping my hands with glee. And Buck and Rich were staring at me as if I was totally deranged.

Sometimes, it seems, even The Lottery Game can produce losers.

*not his real name, but this is what he would be if the game was real

**also not his real name, but I assume you knew that

WTF Is Going On With My Hands?

The other day, rummaging in Places I Probably Shouldn't Rummage, I came across this photo.

I am 16 and wearing pearls.

This picture was taken in 1985, on my school Muck-Up night. I was 16 years old and dreadfully excited. I was also, I now appreciate, dreadfully dressed. Whereas some other 16 might go for a 'Good Girl Goes Bad' look to celebrate their high school graduation, I was geared more towards the 'Medical Receptionist meets Flower Child'. Perhaps it was deeply fashionable in some very niche circles, but I suspect the niche was made up solely of me.

I was terribly fond of my salmon pink shirt and its matching, calf-length white skirt. Sadly, the photograph does not do justice to the brocade-like print, or the high polyester count of the fabric. Happily, though, you can appreciate the string of pearls, so effortlessly (read: carefully) slung around my neck.

As for the smudge on my cheek, no, it was not a hideous birthmark that I have since had removed in a painful but ultimately rewarding surgical procedure. It was a flower, that I had begged my mother to paint on my face. Despite my profoundly conservative attire (and the fact that it was the 80's, and I was a decade too late), I fancied myself as a bit of a hippie. My lovely mother acquiesced, so it is she who is responsible for my completely idiotic appearance.

But all of that pales into significance next to my hands. Because... what the fuck is going on with my hands?

This is not the kind of gesture nice medical receptionists make

I got such a shock looking at this picture. I am making an obscene gesture with my hands! Presumably I wasn't aware of it, but still! I can't believe it! It is like listening to a Taylor Swift album backwards and hearing Satanic messages, or finding your sweet five year child old planning monstrous acts of evil (except that I do find my five year old planning monstrous acts of evil, but you get the idea).

So honestly, people, I have no idea who I am in this picture. A flower child? A medical receptionist? A naughty, naughty girl? Or just a confused 16 year old who paired a salmon shirt with a rude gesture and still passed it off as sweet?

Whoever I am, though, I am glad those days are over. For one thing, I don't wear polyester anymore.

And for another thing, if I'm going to make a rude gesture, I'm going to make damn sure I know I'm doing it.

Bosoms. Heaving & Not.

Today I was in an elevator and I heard a woman use the word 'bosoms'. I was awed. It is rare to hear a woman use the word 'bosoms' these days. Actually, I think it was probably always rare to hear the word 'bosoms'. It's theoretically possible that people would occasionally mention their own (or somebody else's) 'bosom', but I suspect no-one has ever mentioned the plural. After all, I am pretty sure that 'bosoms' has only ever been linked to the word 'heaving', and I suspect 'heaving bosoms' has only ever appeared in print. And quite frankly I can't imagine a person of any generation verbally referring to 'heaving bosoms'. How would it happen? In what context?

Bosom not Blogger's Own.
Groin not shown.

"Oh, I saw Jillian today. My god but she has heaving bosoms."

or, "Every time Max walks into the room, the women's bosoms begin heaving."

or perhaps, "He has such raw sexual power. He gives me the heaving bosoms."

The woman in the elevator did not put her 'bosoms' together with the word 'heaving'. It's possible, of course, that they are inextricably linked in her mind - that bosoms heave just like cats purr or flowers bloom. But she didn't say it. She did, however, put her 'bosoms' together with a 'groin', which to me was even more startling.

"Watch out for your bosoms and your groin," she told the young woman next to her, who nodded politely and kept holding the cardboard box.

And I was fascinated. FASCINATED. What was going in the box? Why did the woman have to watch her bosoms and groin? What was the thing that was going in the box potentially going to do to her bosoms and groin? How was she supposed to protect said bosoms and groin from the fearsome attack of the thing-in-the-box? And why on earth was she calling them 'bosoms' and 'groin' instead of the far more colloquial 'breasts' and 'thighs', 'boobies' and 'front bottom', or even 'bazoongas' and 'vajayjay'. I mean, no-one says 'bosoms' and 'groin', unless they're some kind of weirdo 1950's doctor who is talking earnestly to a woman in a girdle and underwired bra who has strained something private.

Unfortunately for you (and me), there is no satisfactory conclusion to this story. The woman (who, for the record, was approximately 50 years old and dressed conservatively in a white shirt and tailored black pants) stepped out of the lift with the young woman (who was dressed more jauntily in a floral skirt and pale blue blouse) and disappeared on the second floor. I have no idea what happened to them, the box, or their bosoms (heaving or not) and I suspect I never will.

But if you have any clue, I'd be grateful to know. This mystery is going to give me heaving bosoms all bloody night.

The Accidental Drunk

So last night I accidentally got drunk. And when I say that, I don't mean that I accidentally drank too much and ended up inebriated (though of course that's exactly what happened, because there's really no other way one can get drunk, but it was far more complicated than that, and it really wasn't my fault, and... and...  perhaps I should just stop the preamble and get into the story).

As many of you will know, I do tend to have a little drinkie most nights on occasion. Come 5pm 7pm, I am tired from my long, hard day as a Busy Working Mum, and am ready to unwind with a glass of something mood altering. A gin and tonic, a vodka and tonic or a glass of cab sav is enough just to take the edge off my brittle corners and relax me for the evening. I don't get drunk. I don't lose control. I just feel..... ahhhhhhhh.

Of course, there are occasions when I decide to drink a little bit more, but these are few and far between*, and never, never in front of my kids. Trust me - I am unstable enough without alcohol; I don't like to impose my intoxicated self on my offspring.

Sangria. Who knew?

But last night was an accident. You see, last night as usual The Architect and I had no plans, so we decided to take the kids to dinner at a local restaurant. The kids ordered burgers, The Architect ordered something soupy with seafood, and I ordered a healthy chicken salad and a half litre of sangria.

Now, normally I can drink sangria till it's coming out of my ears. A half a litre will barely give me a buzz; it's like pink lemonade, only vaguely ethnic. So I poured myself a huge glass and drank it down on an empty stomach, pronounced it delicious, and then poured another.

And then suddenly the room started to spin. Oh god, I thought. Salt. I needed salt.

"CHIPPIES!" I cried, and fell on my daughter's plate, cramming them into my mouth handfuls at a time.

"Oh dear," said The Architect wearily. He could see the signs.

I leaned in to him earnestly and took his face in my hands. "I don't think I can drive," I told him conspiratorially. "THEY'VE. SPIKED. MY. DRINK."

"It's called 'alcohol'," he said. "Come on kids. Finish your dinner. Mummy's drunk."

"What's the matter?" I asked him, poking him repeatedly in the ribs. "Don't you love me anymore? That makes me so sad. You have to love me! TELL ME YOU LOVE ME!"

"Yes, yes," said the poor man. "Try to calm down."

"I AM CALM!" I cried. "I'M JUST A BIT DRUNK!"

"What's wrong?" asked my son.

"DRUNKETYY DRUNKETYY DRUNK!" I told him, and giggled. My son shrugged.

"Can I have a milkshake Mum?" asked my daughter.

"After a burger and chips?" I exclaimed. "SURE!!!"

The kids beamed. It made me happy. And when I'm happy I want ice cream.

"I WANT ICE CREAM!" I cried. "WHO WANTS ICE CREAM?"

"We want ice cream!" yelled the kids.

"HOORAY!" I cheered.

We finished our meal and The Architect bundled us out of the restaurant. I left my bag inside but quickly remembered when the waitress reminded me. And then The Architect drove us home and I giggled again as I walked inside.

"That was FUN!" I declared. "Now I just need a QUICK LIE DOWN and then I'll PUT THE KIDS TO BED!"

I collapsed on our bed and fell immediately asleep. It was 8.15pm. I woke up this morning at 8.30am, feeling  vibrantly refreshed and craving Vegemite toast.

The Architect, however, looked exhausted. Funny. I thought it was a really relaxing night.

*truly, Al and Val - I hadn't had to ask anyone to take my pants off for me in years

I'm Sure I Can Blame My Parents For This

When I go to my parents' house I fall asleep on the couch. Every. Single. Time. I can't help it. It's a reflex reaction, a Pavlovian response honed over years of walking in the door and handing over my children to their grandparents. I feel unencumbered and unburdened, youthful and vibrant  (or at least, the kind of youthful and vibrant that likes nothing more than a quick cup of tea and a nice lie down).

The system has worked well for me over the years. There is just one tiny flaw. On occasion, I end up at my parents' place with my children when my parents aren't there, and on these occasions, I find it almost impossible not to fall asleep. Which is a problem considering that my children are very much awake, and are quite capable of causing considerable havoc even with the briefest window of opportunity.

Cake Shown Not Blogger's Own
(it doesn't come out of the oven fully iced)

Take yesterday, for example. I had workmen at my house so went to hang out at my parents' house with two of the kids. My parents were out, so I took out some toys for the kids and sat on the living room floor to play.

But the soporific effect of my childhood home was too much for me. Within moments, my eyes got heavy and I could feel myself drifting off.

"Mum!" I woke up with my 11 year old was poking me in the ribs. "Can you turn on the oven for me? I'm baking a cake for Nana and Papa!"

"Sure," I mumbled, and stumbled half conscious to the kitchen. I turned on the oven, stumbled to the couch, and was immediately fast asleep.

About half an hour later, I woke to the sound of alarms and the smell of smoke.

"MUM!" my daughter was shouting. "THE CAKE IS ON FIRE!"

I jolted alert and ran to the kitchen. And yes, the cake was, in fact, on fire. It was fascinating. I mean, I knew cakes could burn, but I didn't realise they could actually burst into flames like a sweet,  flour-based bonfire.

I turned off the oven and tried not to panic. How, I thought, does one extinguish a cake-based fire? More importantly, I wondered, would said cake still be edible?

"THROW WATER ON IT MUM!" my daughter screamed. But the cake smelled delicious so I decided just to blow the flames out, much as you would with candles. And it proved effective, though did take considerably more energy than blowing out candles on an actual birthday cake. And about fifteen minutes longer.

So then we sliced the top off the cake and sampled it, and it was, in fact, delicious. My parents came home and didn't notice anything at all, apart from the acrid smell of smoke throughout the whole house, and little piles of charcoal all over the kitchen floor.

And later when we returned home, my daughter offered slices of her cake to the workmen.

"It caught on fire," she told them, "but it still tastes good."

I do love my parents' couch.

A Sign

A friend of mine has had a serious accident. His wife is one of my dearest friends, he too is a very close friend, and my heart is breaking for them and their children.

I wanted to write a blog post but nothing funny would come. And it felt wrong to be writing funny stories when my friends are in such terrible crisis.

I talked to my friend L. about it. L. is part of our close group of friends, and equally as affected by the situation.

"I can't write," I told her. "I can't be funny."

"You have to write," she said. "A. would tell you to keep writing. He would tell you to get on with your normal life."

And then it occurred to me exactly what A. would say. "No, you're wrong," I told her. "A. would tell me that I must stop writing for at least a year, if not two, and then demand that I put a massive sign on my blog telling him to get well soon."

There was a pause, and then L. laughed. "Yep," she said. "That's exactly what he'd say."

My thoughts are with my amazing friends J. and A. And here is a sign. It's not massive, but it is heartfelt.

Sackville - Moth Hunter. A Video.

In Bed With Mablogga

There is a great line in the 1991 documentary "In Bed With Madonna" (also titled "Truth or Dare") in which Madonna's soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend Warren Beatty comments on her refusal to speak off camera.

"She doesn't want to live off-camera, much less talk," he says. "There's nothing to say off-camera. Why would you say something if it's off-camera? What point is there existing?"

I've always remembered that line, even though it had nothing to do with my life whatsoever, as the only person interested in taking my picture at the time was my mum. But somehow it stuck with me, and now, twenty-one years later, it resonates more than ever.

Because yesterday I was at a writer's festival, and two hilariously funny things happened. One took place at a session in which I was in the audience; another took place at a session in which I was on the panel. You would love these anecdotes, I can guarantee it. But I can't tell you anything about thenm because the other people involved in these incidents might read this blog and be embarrassed, and I wouldn't want that at all.

It is killing me that I can't tell you. It's eating away at me as I write. I've told several people - my husband, my mum, five friends, and a teacher at pre-school who didn't seem at all interested - but I can't tell you. I can't blog about it. And that makes me feel deeply frustrated.

So I realise, to my horror, that I am just like Madonna. In fact, to paraphrase the ever-cool Wazza:

I don't want to live off-blog, much less talk. There's nothing to say off-blog. Why would you say something if it's off-blog? What point is there existing?

Can you relate?

An Open Letter To Klout

Dear Klout,

I'm not exactly sure what you do, but I know it's important. I understand you measure the influence of people in social media, and being a social media whore, I take you very seriously. I want to have influence, so that I can use it for evil instead of good. Or perhaps good instead of evil. Either way, if it makes people buy my books, I'm happy.

Last time I checked my social media influence was fairly significant. I got a score of 62, which is not the highest possible score, but is considerably higher than that of, say, my 94 year old grandmother who does not use the internet.

I was delighted for a moment, until I looked at the areas in which you considered me to be influential. Blogging, for one, which makes perfect sense as I am a blogger. Nutella, for another, which makes perfect sense as my body is approximately 47% pure choc-hazelnut spread. Coffee, because, well, I drink the stuff.

And then the list got weird.

You see, apparently, Klout, one of my primary areas of influence is in Klingon. Yes, you heard me right. Klingon. The strange race of beings featured in Star Trek. I can't elaborate on what they're actually like as I don't watch Star Trek, but clearly that doesn't stop me from exerting a huge influence on them as a species. Okay then.

My Field Of Expertise

And it gets odder still, because yet another of my areas of influence is in... wait for it... Homosexuality. Now, this wouldn't be odd if I was a homosexual, or if I was the Minister for Homosexual Affairs (and though we don't have such a minister, we probably should), or even if I was a Catholic. But I'm not. I'm a Jewish straight girl and I haven't even kissed a girl, though I did see the Katie Perry film the other day and thought it was really cool.

I tweeted about these discrepancies the other day and got some very interesting feedback. Turns out my delightful friend Jayne was once considered influential by you in human trafficking, which is a little scary. Lisa is influential in stem cell, which is rather baffling, as she is not a scientist. Linda is influential in pumpkin, which is a bit tragic. And Kim is influential in Eek, Zombies and bacon, which is just plain freaky.

So Klout, I don't mean to express scepticism as to how you get your data - and I'm very happy with my score of 62 - but some clarification of where I get my influence would be very much appreciated.

Because unless there's a team of gay Klingons clinging onto my every word, something in the interweb is a little bit odd.

Yours sincerely,

Kerri

The Day I Drugged Myself

Yesterday, I had a lot to do. My house was an utter pigsty after the excesses (of children) of the weekend. I had an article to write, invoices to send, and several phonecalls to make. Oh, and I had to shop for food, as we'd used up all the sausages on the weekend, and I didn't think I could feed the family apples for dinner. Again.

I woke up fired with energy and ready to take on the day. That is, until I tried to get out of bed, at which point I realised that I had a problem.

My back had gone. I have a back injury which plays up now and again, and this time, it was playing a game of dodge ball with my spinal chord. I hobbled to the mirror and looked at myself and gasped, because I was, quite literally, bent sideways at approximately a 45 degree angle. Imagine a gingerbread man, broken at the waist, and rearranged on a plate with the head now positioned at 2pm on a clock face.

That was me.

I was in agony. I managed to get downstairs and fumbled my way to the medicine chest (which is actually an old box painted by my daughter, but 'chest' sounds far more OH&S approved) and swallowed two Voltaren and two Panadol. Then I remembered the pills my doctor had given me to help coat my stomach when I took Voltaren, so I took one of them too. Then I got all the kids to help each other get dressed (my husband was helpfully showering himself so at least I didn't have to worry about helping him), and somehow got out the door and to the car.

I'd dropped the kids off at school and was driving back home, waiting for the sweet relief to kick in so that I could get on with the day's chores. And it did kick in.

Only it wasn't that sweet.

About two streets away from my house, I suddenly felt strange. Very strange, indeed. Like, jetlagged strange. Like, I-haven't-slept-in-a-week strange. I got home and inside and started to take off my coat when I realised that I needed to lie down. Immediately. I crawled to my bedroom, lay on my bed (still in my coat, seemed too challenging to take it off) and glanced at the clock. 8.45am. I'd just shut my eyes for a moment and then get to work.

A minute later I opened my eyes. It was 11.15. I'd slept for two and a half hours.

It took me a while (and two cups of coffee) to figure out what had happened. Apparently the pill to coat my stomach wasn't actually the pill to coat my stomach at all, but was the pill to take in event of a migraine (and one which clearly works by making the migraine sufferer unconscious until the migraine passes). Small mistake. Big nap.

My back was much better when I woke up, though I did need another little sleep later in the day until the medication was fully out of my system.

Then, whilst putting Dencorub on my back in a shopping centre toilet cubicle, I managed to get a bit of the searing hot gel on my vajayjay.

Still, that, my friends, is another story.

Stab Me: A Jab With A Twist

My four year old was jumping around like the Energizer Bunny.

“Next week I’m going to get my im-moon-eye-zisha!” she told her sister gleefully. “It’s going to be so excited!”

“Excited?” my eleven year old asked, and turned to me in concern. “Um... Mum? Does Boo actually know what an immunisation is?”

I nodded. “Oh totally. I told her she was getting medicine put in her arm. She knows. She’s fine with it.”

My daughter looked doubtful. “Um... Boo?” she asked her little sister. “Do you know how the medicine gets into your arm?”

Boo danced towards her. “They rub it in?”

“MUM!” The eleven year old looked at me accusingly. I winced in shame and slunk sheepishly away.

I couldn’t tell my baby the truth about her session of pain immunisation. Boo considers Going To The Doctor to be one of life’s most agreeable activities and I couldn’t burst her naive little bubble. As she’s been beautifully healthy for most of her life, her experience with medicos has been limited to all of the fun stuff – things like eye tests and ear tests and playing with stethoscopes. She sits in the chair, grins from ear to ear as she is pronounced the most well child in history, and then gobbles down the jelly snakes offered for ‘being so brave’. She thinks doctors are her playmates, only tall.

And now one of these playmates was going to jab her in the arm. Both arms, to be precise. The trauma would be immense.

Still, perhaps my daughter was right. Perhaps the trauma of being betrayed by her mother would be worse than the pain inflicted by the needle itself.

I had to fess up.

The night before the surgery immunisation, I sat Boo down on a chair.

“You know how you’re going for your immunisation tomorrow?” I asked her gently.

“Yes!” she cried, then bounced up and down and clapped her hands. “I can’t wait! I LOVE im-moon-eye-zisha!”

I felt sick. “Darling,” I said. “I have to tell you – the immunisation is going to hurt a little bit.”

Her eyes widened.

“Not a lot!” I added quickly. “Just a bit. A tiny bit! And then you can have a treat. A BIG treat!”

“Okay Mummy,” she said in a tiny voice. My big, brave, scared girl.

The next morning, I felt sick with dread as I led my baby into the doctor’s surgery. Boo, however, didn’t seem to share my concerns. She grinned as we chatted to the doctor, grinned as she climbed on my lap, and grinned as the torture device injection was prepared.

Okay, so this wasn't the exact needle used....

And then it was time for the moment of truth.

“Here you go, quick sting,” said the doctor, and in plunged the needle. I tensed and shut my eyes. Boo opened her mouth and screamed.

And then I relaxed and opened my eyes. Because Boo hadn’t actually screamed. She’d definitely made a sound, but it wasn’t at all the sound I’d expected. As the needle left her arm Boo giggled. The child GIGGLED. And she giggled through the next needle too.

It was unbelievable. My daughter had proven herself to be the Bravest Girl in the World. She munched happily on her snake and that was the end.

I, however, am still shaking. Thank goodness she is my youngest, because I couldn’t go through that trauma again.

Just When I Think I Haven't Mortified Myself Enough

So. I have a treat for you.

Just when I think I can't possibly expose anymore of myself.

Just when I think I can't share more of the intimate and mortifying details of my life.

Just when I think there is nothing left to laugh at.....

This turns up.

Remember that TV mini-series I did when I was 16? Well, none of the footage remains, and sadly my only VHS copy of the show disintegrated long before the invention of the DVD.

However, an intrepid reader, Suzie, dug this up from the archives of the Australian Film and Sound Archives. A very short clip from my series, Butterfly Island, showing me, as Sally, with Grandma hair, Harry Highpants shorts, no bra, and a man wearing long white socks.

I figured I could either show it to you myself, or wait until someone else outed me.

And so, without further ado, here it is.

My shame.

An Australian Girl In London - Part 3

Yesterday in a London taxi the driver said to me:
"Here you go, Miss."
I giggleed, because a) it was so ridiculously British, and b) I am about 15 years past being a 'Miss'. So then I had to give the taxi driver a big tip, because people don't giggle at each other here. That is considered to be very rude.

Yesterday in London I wore inch thick tights under shorts. All the women do it. I guess they get sick of not being able to wear shorts because it is so cold, so they just bung a pair of tights under them and pretend they're on the beach in Bondi. I felt fantastic. Tights under shorts gives you all the benefits of shorts (flattering to the thighs, the perfect note of casual insouciance) but with none of the disadvantages (i.e. you can't see the varicose veins).

Yesterday in London I bought a brownie from an bakery.
"Be careful," warned the Italian cashier. "It has about a billion calories."
"Thank you," I said. And I began to eat. It was delicious. And what he didn't know is that calories don't count when you're traveling, because no-one there is no one there to see your your thighs get bigger. And besides, even if there was it wouldn't mmatter, because you're wearing inch thick tights under shorts.

Yesterday in a London I walked past a small, solar powered waving Queen for the umpteenth time, and for the umpteenth time, I thought about buying it. I do not need a solar powered waving Queen. I will never use a solar powered waving Queen. My husband The Architect will no doubt threaten divorce if I bring a solar powered waving Queen into our big white house. Hell, I'm a REPUBLICAN!!! I don't even believe in the solar powered Queen! But it was so cute and so delightfully waving that I just know I'm going to cave at some stage andd bring it home.

Tally ho, my good men and ladies. Tally ho!