Stupid, stupid night

So you're in Bali and you've had a wonderful time, and you feel really blessed that you're able to take an overseas holiday with the kids. But you have to come home, and the only way to come home is a night flight on Garuda, leaving at 10.30pm.

You are not excited.

The bus picks you all up at 7.30pm. You are already tired and anticipating the hideous night ahead, but you try to be brave. You arrive at the airport at 8pm and check-in. Your seats are in the back of the plane near the toilets and you try to be more brave. Toilets are good. You often use toilets.

You kill an hour at the airport looking at shops and buying water, then head to the gate. There is nowhere to sit, so you and the kids sit on the floor. The floor is hard. Your kids start whimpering. You laugh internally as they ain't got nothin' to whimper about yet. Just you wait, kids. Just you wait.

It's all fun and games until the passengers arrive

The plane is half an hour late to board and you feel yourself getting more and more tense and more and more agitated. You don't want to get on the plane. You are tired and you want to go to bed, not sit bolt upright for seven hours in a capsule near the toilets. But you have to get on the plane. You have no choice. Oh shut up kids, stop whimpering, I'm more cranky than you.

You board, hauling your kids along with you. You find your seats fairly easily. (They are near the toilets.) You all sit down. It is cramped and stupid. Your head is hurting. The 7 year old is white with exhaustion. The 13 year old's eyes are hideously bloodshot. The 15 year old takes out his Nintendo.

You put on your seatbelt and turn to buckle the 7 year old's seat belt. She is fast asleep in the chair.

You breathe a sigh of relief. That's one less to worry about. You wait impatiently as the stupid pilot takes hours and hours (okay 30 minutes) to get the stupid idiotic plane in the stupid air. You finally take off. You don't crash, which is good. Everything else is bad.

You get out your neck rest to try to sleep. The 13 year old is almost crying with tiredness. She is uncomfortable and can't find a good position to sit in. But at least the 7 year old is sleeping.

You stroke the 13 year old's leg and put your seat back in the reclining position, which is about 3 centimetre's more 'reclined' than the upright position. It is about as 'reclined' as a ladder. A stupid, stupid ladder. You try to be brave. It is hard, because everything is just so stupid.

You shift in your seat, this way, that way, the other way. You put your legs on your tray table and your legs under your bum. You wish you could cut your bloody legs off so you can fit in that stupid seat. You get delirious with exhaustion, and pray for release.

And finally, finally, it comes. You fall asleep.

And then there is a tiny little jab in your side. A finger. "Mummy, mummy, I'm awake! I'm going to watch movies now!" It is the 7 year old. You have been asleep for 8 minutes.

The rest of the flight passes in a blur, a stupid, horrible, sick, headachy, cramped, backbreaking blur. You drift in and out of consciousness, waking up with a dry mouth and the smell of airplane oozing from every pore. You hate this aeroplane and everything in it more than you've hated anything in your life. And when the flight attendant turns on the lights to give you breakfast... at 3am Bali time... and who eats breakfast at 3am anytime?... you hate her more than everything else put together. Stupid, stupid flight attendant.

You finally arrive at 5am Bali time, which is 8am Sydney time, which is just as bad. You head out, revolting, fetid and blinking in the light. You collect your bags, go through customs, declare that giant wooden python you bought for $5 at the markets. It passes. You're so pleased. Now you can go back and smack the stupid flight attendant over the head with it.

But you don't. You herd the revolting, fetid, blinking kids outside, and wait about a day for a taxi. And then you get in the taxi, and arrive home, and you all collapse on your beds and sleep for about a year.

And then you wake up and do laundry. The holiday is over. Real life, in all its stupid glory, begins anew.

Fear On Hissing Street

Midnight. Last night. An inky black eve on the Central Coast. The house was silent. I was asleep in my bed with the cat curled up comfortably on my head*.

And then, suddenly, a noise.

"HISSSSSSSSSSS"

But I was dreaming. A beautiful dream about something or the other lovely**. I stirred briefly, then allowed myself to slip back into unconsciousness.

And then, once more:

"HISSSSSSSSSSS"

I startled awake. What the fuck? The sound was next to my head.

I switched on the lamp. Penny the cat was in full alert mode - tail bushy, hairs prickling, a look of fevered concentration on her delicate feline face.

Something was in my room. Worse. Something was in my bed.

Penny was sniffing crazily, burrowing under doonas and pillows, bounding to the floor to search under the bed, then leaping up to the sheets again.

"What is it Penny?" I cried. "WHAT'S THERE?"***

Penny didn't answer. But then I heard it. A scamper.

Mouse. MOUSE. It was a mouse. It had to be a mouse.

Oh my god. A mouse. A rodent type mouse. A mouse. A mouse. Did I say mouse?

Artist's Impression of Pathetic Scared-Of-Rodential Woman

I am terrified of mice. Terrified. In a primitive, visceral way. I am not scared of spiders, or cockroaches, or dogs. I am not scared of sharks, or lions, or bears****. But I am absolutely jump-on-the-bed, scream-like-a-girl, burn-down-the-house scared of mice.

But I was alone in the room. The nominative man of the house (my father) had returned to Sydney. The real man of the house (my mother) was fast asleep in her bedroom, and whilst I did contemplate waking her, I knew my chances of getting babysitting help for the next couple of weeks would be severely compromised as a result. 

I summoned up every ounce of strength I had.... and peered under the bed.

Nothing. At least, nothing that I could see. But the cat was still bristling and searching, and the scamper had definitely scampered, and my adrenaline was pumping, and there was clearly nothing to do but leave my kids and mum to their own fate and hop in the car and drive back home to Sydney.

But by then it was 12.14pm, and I was fairly tired. And then there was the not-minor issue of my clothes being in the suitcase, which theoretically could also be inhabited by said murderous mouse.

And so I slammed the bedroom door on all living creatures, and went out to the living room, where I slept fitfully on the couch for the next few hours.

This morning, of course, Penny was sleeping peacefully on my bed. I choose to believe she has chased out the rodents, frightened them so comprehensively that they will never return.

But in case I am wrong, I'm going back home today. It was either that or burn down my parents' house, and that babysitting help you see......


*comfortably for her, that is. Not for me.

**the trauma of subsequent events has wiped the loveliness from my mind.

***and yes, this is not literary embellishment. I really did speak to the cat. I'm not sure whether I was expecting an answer, but I was frightened, and alone

****admittedly this is a theory only, as my lack of fear of sharks, lions and bears has not been tested, but I'm sure I'd be totally fine.

The Tribe Has Spoken

On Saturday I returned from a twelve day trip to Club Med, Phuket, with my parents and children. We had a wonderful time. And twelve days is a long time. Long enough to have six $10 massages by the beach. Long enough to have two dresses made by a tailor down the road. Long enough to sample everything at the buffet at least once. Long enough to buy three pairs of shoes for $12 each, and a real, authentic, 100% genuine Jimmy Choo bag for, er, $20.

And long enough for my mother and I to decide that we ruled Club Med, and that we ought to decide who stayed, and who left.

Yes, by the end of our stay, we were getting a little... shall we say... intolerant. We liked our Club Med Village and we wanted to control who visited. Various guests, we decided, were not up to par. They irritated us, or they were loud, or obnoxious, and we wanted to vote them Off The Village.

It's Time For You To Go

We voted various Club Med guests Off The Village during our stay:

• The woman who wore an adult-sized version of her toddler daughter's polkadot dress. (No matchy matchy in our village!);
• The Caucasian-yet-dark-dark-chocolate-brown-skinned Donatella Versace lookalike who wore her blonde hair scraped back so tightly it made my own face hurt;
• The man who spent three entire days taking pictures of his wife in various poses around the pool, buffet table, bar, beach and - I kid you not - gift shop;
• The man who insisted upon facing the wrong way during the water-aerobics. WHY DID HE HAVE TO FACE THE WRONG WAY???
• The woman sitting by the pool squeezing her husband's back pimples;
• The woman picking her young son's nose at the breakfast table and inspecting her findings. (Seriously: a Frenchman at a neighbouring table turned around and told her sternly to arreter);
• The group of Aussie men wearing matching novelty team shirts. (Just don't);
• The couple who stripped off their matching pants and shirts to reveal male/female matching bathers. (We said no matchy matchy!);
• The little girl who ran on stage in every single performance every single night (First time was cute. So was second. Third, fourth, fifth and subsequent not so much);
• The group of 23 students who went everywhere together and giggled preposterously at the slightest provocation. (Groups of six or more are far too cheerily rambunctious and make the rest of us feel awkward and left out);
• Any people who hog the middle of the pathways so that I cannot pass at the brisk, walking-off-the-buffet-pace I prefer.

They may not have left. Hell, they may not have even known that they were voted off. But The Tribe Had Spoken, and that was all the satisfaction we needed.

Do complete strangers ever irritate you for no good reason?

Bye Bye

So let me tell you about my ideal holiday.

I am picked up by a chauffeured limousine and driven to the airport in air-conditioned comfort. I board my flight and am shown to my first class seat where I enjoy a gourmet cheeseburger and chips whilst watching brand new episodes of The Big Bang Theory and some new movie starring absolutely everyone.

And then I land in a stunning resort, where I sit by the pool reading magazines improving books whilst sipping strawberry daiquiris and having my feet massaged.

Well, tomorrow I am setting off on holidays, and whilst it's not quite the ideal, it will come pretty damn close. There will be no chauffeur driven limousine, but hopefully a taxi driver will arrive on time and get us to the airport before the gates close. There will be no first class tickets, but rather a very, very basic Jetstar flight, which means no food at all, and possibly no TV screen either.

But there will be a resort. A Thai resort. With a kids' club, and a pool, and an endless buffet, and a big bed in an air conditioned room. And I shall sit by the pool reading my magazines improving books, and I shall graze at the buffet, and sleep till noon in the bed, and offer my children a dollar an hour to massage my feet.

It will be heaven.

So for now, this blog is going on holidays. I full expect to be back on board in a couple of weeks, but if I'm not, rest assured that I am safe and happy, having moved permanently to Thailand, where I shall earn my keep by writing blog posts for the locals, entertaining tourists with my famous interpretive dances, and hiring out my children for a dollar per hour to massage people's feet.

Or, of course, I could have expired from hunger, boredom and fear on the very, very basic Jetstar flight. In which case I bequeath this blog to Lana Hirschowitz and I bid you all farewell.

WHO IS BILLYGOAT LOLGANS? (Meeces 2 Pieces)

En route to my parents' house on the central coast, we take a steep road uphill, where the road curves sharply to the right. A telegraph pole stands right to the left of the bend, and different messages are inevitably posted on the pole every time we visit.

Happy 18th Birthday Jimmy! it might read, or

Congrats on your wedding, Tammy Sue & Frederico! (okay, so perhaps not those exact names), or

50 days without Crack Cocaine! WAY TO GO Norm! (No. I have not actually seen that particular sign, but you get the idea.)

Usually the signs are fairly simply. Jimmy is 18. Tammy Sue and Fred are getting married. Norm is sober. Nothing mysterious.

But this time, the sign really caught our imagination.

WELCOME HOME

BILLYGOAT LOLGANS

MEECES 2 PIECES

 

 

 

For some reason, the kids and I were absolutely fascinated. Who was Billygoat Lolgans? we wondered. Where had he been? And why were his loved ones misspelling 'misses'?

 

Every time we drove up or down that road (which was several times, because it leads to practically everywhere), we passed the sign. And every time, we read it out. By the end of our two week stay on the coast, we were chanting it together, with a Peter Sellers-type accent.

 

"Welcome Home BEEELIE GOAT LOLGANS!" we sang. "Meeeeeeeces to peeeeeeeces!"

 

We speculated endlessly on the source of the name. Surely no-one was actually called 'Billygoat', so presumably the 'goat' was a nickname for a dude called Billy. And was Billy originally Bill or was it William? As for his surname... well... Logans made sense, but Lolgans was far less common. Was Billy really William Lolgans, or was he William Logans, a bloke so funny that his mates had inserted an LOL into his name?

 

We became obsessed. We needed to know who Billygoat was. We needed to know where he had been and where he was going. We needed to know about his goat and his friends.

 

A search of the White Pages proved fruitless. No Logans. No Lolgans. And no billygoats.

 

So I turn to you, my internet friends.

 

Can you help me solve the mystery?

 

Does anyone know who Billygoat is? Do you know who meeced him to pieces??? Was it you? Was it someone you know? Do you have a goat? Is his name Frederico?

 

WHO IS BILLYGOAT LOLGANS?





Rehab - Part 2

continued from Part 1...

I climbed into my bed at Lilianfels and had a little nap. The bed was so comfortable and the pillows so soft and the lack of children so indisputably evident that I almost wept (again). And when I woke up I made myself a nice cup of tea then got back into bed and read about 17,000 books.

Okay, I read only one book, but it had a lot of pages.

The soup and crumble from lunch was still making its presence felt, so I decided I needed some exercise, and went out for a little walk. Five invigorating minutes later, I was suitably spent, and headed back to the hotel, and got back into my bed.

There was a knock at the door. It was a man. He was bearing a tray of chocolates. THIS tray.

ALL THE CHOCOLATES

"Would you like to choose a chocolate?" he asked.

JOKING! "These are all for you!" he said.

Seriously?

"Yes! All of them!" He put them down on the table. "Enjoy!"

Moments later there was a second knock. It was the lovely Sue from reception.

"So, did you find a man to give that second key to?" she asked with a bawdy wink.

JOKING! "We'd like to offer you this complimentary bottle of wine," she said.

I *may* be drinking in bed

OH! How divine. Really?

"Yes! Enjoy!"

My god but I was having a good day. It was clear what I had to do next. I took off all my clothes, did a little happy dance of Oh-My-God-I'm-Alone-With-Wine-And-Chocolates, and hopped into the bath. And there I sat, reading my book and scoffing chocolate strawberries and drinking cab sav and feeling a bit like Paris Hilton.

If, you know, she ate. Which she probably doesn't.

It was heaven.

I was in there. For a long time. Sigh...

After about six hours, when I was pretty much percolated, I was ready to do something energetic. So I got out of the bath and got into my pyjamas. That exhausted me, so I got into bed again. Eventually I found the strength to reach for the room service menu, and after a few more hours, I managed to crawl over to the phone. I ordered my dinner, then collapsed, panting, on the bed. It had really taken a lot out of me.

There was a knock on the door and my meal appeared on a tray. It was tiny and very disappointing.

JOKING! Look at it!

Now THIS is a burger

I ate it in bed watching some rubbish on TV and making little snuffling piggie noises as I delicately crammed my burger and chippies into my face. Awesome.

And then I went to bed. Except that I already was in bed, so I moved into a somewhat more horizontal position, and closed my eyes. With blobs of tomato sauce still on my chin, and the odd chip in my hair. And I fell asleep. I slept for a long time. A looooong time.

When I woke up, it was morning. And Day 2 of rehab began....

TO BE CONTINUED...

In Rehab - Part 1

So I had a bit of a failure-to-cope. It's been a pretty rough year, what with the kitten falling off the balcony, and becoming a single mum (er, me, that is. Not the kitten). I was exhausted and overwhelmed and needing to go somewhere to rest and recuperate.

I have previously been to Lilianfels in the Blue Mountains and loved it so much I decided to contact the manager and offer my firstborn in exchange for accommodation. He politely declined my offer, but he did very kindly cut me a deal in return for some Instagrams of my kitten and a promise of eternal gratitude.

REHAB Lilianfels

I decided to go away by myself, as I needed the solitude. Besides, I planned to spend the entire time in the bath, which would make conversation with a friend difficult, or at least rather more intimate than I desired.

I got packed, said a cheery goodbye to the kids and a tearful goodbye to the kitten, and hit the road. Sadly, it did not take long for the trip to take a bad turn. I was sailing down the Great Western Highway singing along to the radio, when I heard a noise, and realised with a terrible shock that a police car with sirens blaring was tailing me.

YES! It was BEHIND ME!!!!

"Oh god, I'm done," I thought. "It's over. They've got me." But then I realised with an even greater shock that I hadn't actually done anything wrong. I pulled over to the left and the police car raced around me.

Clearly, my nerves were a little on edge.

I arrived in the Blue Mountains somewhat frazzled, and decided to have lunch at Leura Gourmet before checking into Lilianfels. I sat in a sunny corner of the restaurant and ate a bowl of pumpkin soup with a crusty bread roll, both of which were absolutely delicious. Still, despite the bowl being as large as my head, I decided I wasn't quite full enough, and so I ordered a rhubarb and apple crumble the size of my torso (although, obviously, a slightly different shape).

I wobbled towards the counter to pay and the friendly cashier took my money. "I'm busting!" I told her dramatically, and she looked at me oddly. It wasn't until I was back in my car that I realised I'd given her the impression that I'd needed to wee, when I'd actually been trying to tell her that I was full.

Clearly, my nerves were still not quite settled.

I continued driving, and soon pulled into the the beautiful grounds of Lilianfels Resort and Spa. I was so excited to be away and on my own that I nearly wept as I checked in.

"I made you two keys," said the lovely Sue at reception. "I know you're staying alone, but I thought... you know... just in case..."

I figured that the chances of me picking up a man were somewhat remote, given that I didn't plan to leave the bath, let alone the resort. Still, it was greatly appreciated .

And then I went up to my room, which looked very much like this. Actually, it looked exactly like this, because it was my room.

LOOK! Someone else made the bed!!!!!!

Also, it had this:

...which I totally would have used if I did any work which I TOTALLY DIDN'T!!!

So I climbed into bed, and the rehab began. But more, much more, was in store.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Note: This is not a sponsored post. I stayed as a guest of Lilianfels at my own request.

No Title Will Do This Justice

This morning I woke up in my own bed in Sydney and wept with relief. I may also have been weeping a little from tiredness, as even my delicious ten hour sleep did not compensate for the full-body exhaustion of our trip to Surfers Paradise.

And then I got out of bed and stepped on my bathroom scales and wept for real, because I realised that the energy value of hot chips and ice cream every day for eight days is, weirdly, not offset by the energy burned by the terror induced from freakishly sicko rollercoasters.

Who could have predicted that.

Of course, I knew what I was getting into when I signed up for a trip to Surfers Paradise with three children in the Christmas holidays. But then, I 'knew what I was getting into' when I had a baby, right? NO! WRONG! DON'T BE RIDICULOUS! One never knows what one is getting into!!! It was all a horrible, HORRIBLE mistake! (The trip to Surfers, that is. Not having children. Mostly, anyway.)

A Water World Ride.
 (Family shown not blogger's own (because much better looking than blogger's family (and considerably older too))).

We decided to go to Surfers this year for three important reasons.

1. We thought the kids would really enjoy the theme parks

2. We found really cheap flights on the internet

3. We got to stay in my grandparents' apartment which was FREE.

4. Did I mention the accommodation was FREE?

5. There is a lot of ice cream in Surfers Paradise.

6. I like ice cream.

There is so much to say about our week in Surfers Paradise that I couldn't possibly reduce it to one blog post. And besides, I've been awake for an hour already, and I need to go back to bed. It's going to take me DAYS to get my strength back. As for the kids, they are lying around the house, weak and listless and pale as ghosts (except that they're actually really tanned, because... you know... we've been in the sun for a week).

But to keep you going until my next blog post (which will come when I can write about the holiday without my chest constricting as I have hideous flashbacks to my monstrous ride on Arkham Asylum), here are some choice highlights:

1. Surfers Paradise is Tattoo Central. I mean, really. If you don't have a giant tattoo of an Eternal-Life symbol embodied in an 'arty' theme all over your shoulder, then you have a tattoo of a massive angel / butterfly / cross / something-that-looks-exactly-like-the-one-your-mate-has all over your back, and if you don't have them, then you have your kids' / lover's / mother's / Brotherhood's names in humungous giant font all over your arms. It's like a uniform. My husband amused himself in the lines for the theme park rides by playing 'I can't take a breath until I see a tattoo' and he never once died.
THAT's how many there were.

2. The theme parks are insanely expensive. Oh, it doesn't cost that much to get in, but once you're through the gates the food / fast passes / drinks / souvenir fans / basically everything you don't wish to shlep with you in your backpack getting hot and heavy for eight hours as you walk around a fun park is LAUGHABLY dear. I mean, $6.00 for a single scoop of ice cream? That melts before you can eat it? I SCOFF IN YOUR FACE, SEA WORLD (after, you know, buying the ice cream and all).

3. The theme parks during the Christmas holidays are feral. FERAL I SAY. Packed to the brim with feral families pushing their feral kids into lines, yelling 'GO Shareen! Run to the front!' and 'Jethro, if you kick me one more time I'm gonna fucking smash ya!', and  ramming into people with their feral strollers full of feral babies drinking Fanta. It was about as relaxing as spending a week in hell. Which it actually was.

4. Arkham Asylum is a sick fuck of a ride and should never have been built. But that's for another blog post.

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 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

They Tried To Make Me Go To Rehab

.... and I said YO YO YO.

I didn't realize at all that this is where I was going. I thought I was headed to a resort in Malaysia with my husband, because he needed to destress after a hugely difficult year (actually, I thought I was going to a resort in Indonesia - I tend to be a bit sketchy on geographic details).

I truly didn't understand how much I needed this trip too. I didn't realize until we'd been here for a couple of days, and I found myself shedding layers and layers of tension and anxiety and anger and other detritus that had built up in my psyche over the past few months.

The first couple of days I just slept. I would wake up after a ten or eleven hour sleep still feeling tired, just waiting for another chance to sleep again later in the day. I thought the exhaustion would never pass, that I would sleep twelve or thirteen hours out of each twenty-four and arrive home still shattered.

But it did pass, and that's a lesson. You sleep and sleep and eventually just don't feel tired anymore. Exhaustion is like anything, like pain, grief, fear, happiness... if you immerse yourselves in it and allow it to take its natural course, it passes and makes way for something else. Some other aspect of life.

In between sleeping, I read. I read and sleep and eat and drink and then I read some more. And in breaks I do nothing. I sit and I think. Sometimes my mind has been like a crazy, LSD-induced kaleidoscope of images and memories and sensory replays; at other times, it's been almost empty. This is the closest I've ever come to meditation. I feet like a sponge that was heavy and filled with grime and grit that's been rinsed and gently squeezed clean. I feel new.

I know not everybody can get away to a resort, and I wish everyone could. But if you can't, try to get away somewhere, sometime, for some downtime and sleep. Or find someone to take the kids or the pets and do it at home. Switch off the phones and the internet and take time out for you, to regroup and renew and become clean again. In three days, you can recharge. And it's the greatest gift you can give yourself.

I hope you get to go to rehab, very soon.

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!

An Australian Girl In London, Part 2

I am still in London, and I am still having adventures. I have not yet met Prince Harry, or even a less interesting royal figure like Prince Charles, but I have been touched by the hand of a wizard.

But we must start with breakfast.

I found a lovely restaurant called Muriel's kitchen where my mum and I took our morning meal. (I think that sounds very British, don't you?) There were platters of toast with little crock pots of butter and big glass jars of jam. There were steaming mugs of coffee and eggs any way and muffins and beans and spinach.

And then there was some disgusting black pudding made with the blood of a pig that British people seem to call 'food'. I will eat London eggs and I will munch London bread, but if they think I'm dining on some slab of bloody intestines that looks like a slice of car tyre... well, all I can say is, GIVE ME MY VEGEMITE.

Later that day I felt a tug inside, and was compelled to return to my spiritual home. No, not Australia! My real spiritual home. WESTFIELD. Sigh. Do you not know me at all?

My mother and I descended on Westfield London with tremendous enthusiasm. The shops! The food court! The even more shops! I bought about 20 billion items, at least three of which were for my kids. And I felt calm again, and at peace, for the first time since I left Australia.

The next day I began my publicity schedule. But I was having a bad hair day, and I couldn't possibly do publicity for my book with bad hair. So I found a nice salon and I enquired at the counter if there was anyone who could cut my long, curly hair.

"Oh, congratulations, you've won the hair lottery!" beamed Steven (as, I later learned, was his name).

"Really?" I asked. I was skeptical.

"Oh yes," he assured me. "I can fit you in with Julian. They call him the hair wizard, you know. He will transport you to new hair heights." (And no, I am not even kidding.)

I was keen to be transported to new hair heights, so off I went into Julian's arms. Well. Julian turned out to be a devastatingly handsome, 24 year old, straight Portugese hairdresser with the arms of a Greek god and the hands of a celebrity stylist. He did transport me to new heights, and not just of hair. It was a very good morning, and a very good cut.

After that, I did my interivews. I was dazzling. Well, at least my hair was. Given that the interviews were both on radio, that may or may not have been relevant.

But I felt really, really happy with my day. And I'm loving Juli... I mean London, to bits.

An Australian Girl In London, Part 1

So I have arrived in London to promote my book, whose UK cover appears below. The book is being published here under its original title, which means that either the British are not afraid of sex, or they're going to get a hell of a surprise.

It took a long, long time to get to London. In 28 hours of travel I watched two movies, read two magazines, watched two episodes of Modern Family, ate two meals, two snacks and several packets of trail mix, took two sleeping pills and slept for around eight hours, read about fifty pages of a book, stared into space vacantly for 90 minutes, and went to the toilet approximately 750 times.

I also talked a great deal to my mother, which might sound weird or spiritual, until you know that she is actually accompanying me on my trip to London and was sitting next to me the whole time.

We then took the express train into London. It was very clean and had nice big seats and TV screens showing Sky news, and it spoke to us in a ridiculously posh voice.

We got to our hotel, deposited our bags, then went for a walk around the area. Now, on the first afternoon of my trip, I can tell you that

a) Very few people sound British in London. Nearly all of them so far have sounded French, Indian, Pakistani, or some other unidentified, non-British accent. I'm disappointed. I want posh.

b) The taxis are super cute. They look like little Lego cars.

c) The place down the road made a nice egg sandwich.

d) Gap and Zara look much like they do in LA, except no-one jumps on you and excitedly asks 'Hey, how ARE you?'

e) Harrods is crazy expensive. I won't be stacking up on undies there.

f) I admired the beauty of the Victoria and Albert Museum and the Natural History Museum. But... er... I didn't actually go in.

g) 36 hours since leaving Sydney I still haven't had a shower. I think I'm going to go now.

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

Wish Me Luck As You Wave Me Goodbye....

Tomorrow I am leaving on a fearsome adventure. I am travelling to a place filled with peril, a place fraught with danger, a place known to strike fear into the heart of even the most stalwart of human beings.

Disneyland.

I am not taking this journey alone. I am traveling with my husband The Architect and our three children (mainly because they insisted on going; I think it would be way easier to travel to Disneyland without them, though possibly there wouldn't be as much point).

What's worse, we are traveling by air. I am terrified of flying with kids. It's not that I'm scared of flying - I quite like an airplane trip when I'm by myself (particularly those cute little meals served in the plastic trays with all the compartments) - but put me on a plane with my kids and I fall apart. I agonize about it for weeks before we leave. How am I going to entertain them? What if their ears hurt? What if they vomit? What if they don't sleep? What if I don't sleep? What if I sleep and they wake me up? What if they sleep on me and I lose circulation and my legs fall off when I stand up? And, worst of all, how hideously awful am I going to feel when we get there, and I have to look after three exhausted children whilst wanting to curl into a ball and die quietly alone in a hotel room???

I know the trip is only a few (dozen) hours and it will be worth it when I get there. But the flight will be repulsive in the extreme, and whilst I could try not think about it until we board the plane, that would be a total waste of angst. So I am torturing myself thoroughly with visions of the horror, and will continue to do so until we have completed are holiday and are safely back home again. Because that's just what I do.

In the meantime, I have been making preparations - packing, buying every possible pharmaceutical item we could need on our trip (because obviously they don't have pharmacies in the United States), organizing a house/Spunky sitter, and giving copies of my passport and life insurance policies to friends in case of accident or misadventure overseas (you know, like getting trampled by Mickey Mouse or hit by a flying roller coaster or being bored to death in a four hour queue).

So if you don't hear from me for a couple of weeks, do not fear. I am having the time of my life with my kids in the Scariest Happiest Place On Earth.

Either that or I am trapped under Donald Duck, flailing helplessly, a chilli dog wedged in my mouth, and cotton candy clenched in each fist.

Either way, I'll have a lot to tell you upon my return.

Happy New Year everyone, and lots of love to you all.

Flying And Punishment

Those of you who read my blog regularly will know that I have recently returned from the United States. Those of you who don’t read my blog regularly really should. It’s very funny and it will make your hair lush and your skin glow (which isn’t true, but I can promise you that it definitely won’t hurt).

I had a wonderful time overseas but have been paying the price since I returned home. For one thing, I got my Visa bill, which gave me an immediate panic attack, and caused me to reach, shaking, for the Valium. Unfortunately, though, I had already taken my last Valium, when I had woken in a claustrophobic panic in our terrifyingly miniscule hotel room in New York, and had to either calm myself down pharmaceutically, or run to Central Park in my pyjamas.

(I did consider going to Central park, but a) according to Simon and Garfunkel you should not wander there after dark, and b) despite the streets being numbered, I wasn’t at all sure I could find it without my map. And I couldn’t find my map because it was night time.)

I truly hadn’t realised how much money we were spending in America because it was all so very cheap. I mean, how can you resist buying a top for US$60 which has been marked down from US$400, and works out to be more like AUS$55 after the conversion?

What I failed to grasp, of course, is that the US$60 is before tax, so that the final price is closer to US$70, which is over AUS$60. And what I also failed to grasp is that $60 is still $60, and works out to be more like $6000 when you spend it a hundred times. Still, I certainly grasp that now.

Since arriving back in Australia, I have also been paying an emotional price. Now, I’m not talking about jetlag, although it is most inconvenient to have to drop everything at lunchtime each day and sleep for a couple of hours (not to mention unpleasant for my kids, who are picked up by a mummy whose skin is pale and grey and who is drooling from the side of her mouth).

I’m talking about guilt.


Not my child. But a good likeness.



We went to the States without our three children, because – although we were desperate to take them with us – our work commitments precluded it. (And if you believe that, you’ll believe that my blog makes your hair lush, because we really just wanted to go alone.)

My kids were well looked after by their grandparents and babysitter, and behaved beautifully the whole time we were away. And the two older kids have been wonderful since we’ve been back, no doubt because they missed us terribly, although it may also have had something to do with their numerous gifts, also known as ‘Any excuse to visit the M&M store’.

Three year old Boo, on the other hand, has been rather less wonderful. Though she insists that she is ‘very happy’ to have us home, she has expressed this joy rather oddly, by crying when I don’t give her six chocolate wafers, crying when I pay attention to her siblings, and crying when asked to do a wee. Apparently, this is known as ‘punishing us for going away’.

As if the Visa bill wasn’t punishment enough.

An Australian Girl In America: Flying High

So we fly to Los Angeles on Sunday night and head straight to our friend Jack's 30th* birthday party. By the time we got to bed it was a conservative 12pm Los Angeles time, but 4am New York time, and I was delirious with exhaustion (and, er, alcohol).

The next day our flight was scheduled to leave at 10.15pm, by which time I was already about four hours past my need to crash*.

We arrived at LAX nice and early for our flight, and attempted to check in with V Australia at Terminal 1. The man behind the counter (labelled with 'Warning: This area contains carcinogenic chemicals' - you know, as it does...) cheerily told us the flight had been cancelled and that we must proceed to Air New Zealand in Terminal 2.

Well, Terminal 1 and Terminal 2 may only be adjacent, but they are bloody big terminals, and it was the equivalent of shlepping two ginormous suitcases from Sydney to Newcastle***.

We waited in line at Air New Zealand and were finally served by another man behind another counter which apparently also contained carcinogenic chemicals. He didn't seem fussed by the cancer risk, but he also didn't seem to have any idea where we could sit on the replacement flight or indeed if we were sitting at all.

And then it became a flat bed.....

After protracted exchanges, a clever-looking man in a dapper beard and a 'Team Leader' badge approached and I clung to him like a woman on a trek from Sydney to Newcastle clings to her water bottle.

'Please help to sort this out,' I begged him. 'I'm tired and I need to go home to my kids.'

And then I wept, just a little.

Within five minutes we were all sorted, we were seated on the 11.30pm flight to Sydney, and we were in Business Class, and I hugged my Team Leader like he was Simon Baker. He seemed unfussed.

We started boarding the plane at 10.30pm, except it wasn't a plane, it was a bus driving us to the plane, and I swear it took so long to get there I thought we were actually driving to Australia (though perhaps a ferry would take us over the troublesome water bit).

We finally boarded the actual plane at about 11.15pm, and then sat there for quite a while, during which time I delightedly (and deliriously) examined my Business Class box of goodies, which included cosmetics, toothbrush, eye mask, and some rather fashion-forward candy striped socks.

At 12.15pm we finally took off. I tossed back my complimentary champagne, donned my candy striped socks, converted my enormous seat into a flat bed, slipped on my eye mask, and cuddled under my doona like the Business Class princess I was.

I slept soundly for a bit, then stumbled out in a confused haze to go to the toilet (which was spacious and smelled like roses).

'Can you sell me the dime?' I slurred to the nearest flight attendant.

He looked at his watch. 'It's 2.20am,' he told me.

'Oh, tho we've been in de air for doo hours?' I asked.

'No,' he said carefully, clearly making a mental note not to serve me more alcohol. 'We've been in the air for nine hours.'

And suddenly, I was wide awake and happy as Larry****.

I spent the rest of the flight watching movies (Morning Glory, which was hilarious, and Black Swan, which most definitely was not), eating every course of the magnificent breakfast, and generally feeling delighted.

And we landed in Sydney, where we caught a cab back home to a beautiful Welcome Home sign from my kids, and real life began once more.

And it isn't Business Class. But it's mine.

*using '30th' in the sense of '50th'.
**'crash' as in 'sleep'; not crash as in 'plane crash', I would never have a need for that.
***okay, so perhaps not that bad, but I was exhausted and hungover and really cranky, and it felt very long.
****or at least, happy as my husband, who looked pretty damn comfortable in his flat bed.

An Australian Girl In America: The Safe Word

So today was a real downer. My husband used the Safe word. You know the Safe word? When you're having kinky sex you agree on a Safe word, which when used by either party will bring an immediate halt to the proceedings.

Thing is, though, our Safe word wasn't related to sex. It was related to shopping. My husband used it, and now I have to stop.*

Other than my husband spoiling all my fun (I mean, I've only bought three pairs of pants, three dresses, six tops, a jacket, four pairs of shoes, five rings and a ton of cosmetics - really, I'm just getting started) it's been a wild couple of days.

For a start, I saw squirrels. I like squirrels. They have cute bushy tails and run up trees and are almost as special as koalas. But not quite, obviously. You can't cuddle a squirrel. (And I know that technically you shouldn't cuddle a koala either as they scratch and bite, but Americans don't know that.)

I ate at a gorgeous restaurant, which served little 'tasters' before each course. The one before entree (which is a 'starter' here) was this gorgeous cheesy puffy thing. The one before dessert, however, was granola with yoghurt. Not some 'interpretation' of granola and yoghurt; just granola and yoghurt. This is a seriously weird town.

I ate breakfast at a diner and was served fried potatos with my omelette. I love potatos. I could eat potatos with every meal. I reckon I could even eat potatos before dessert. It would be a damn sight more appropriate than granola, anyway.

I walked for hours and hours around Manhatten, without a scrap of make-up, without ever bumping into anyone I have ever known. I can be anonymous here in NY, unlike in Sydney, where I am constantly bumping into people I know. Like my kids. And my mum.

I visited the Lego shop, which was amazing. There were individual nooks for every colour and shape piece of Lego every invented (which may be a slight exaggeration, but only slight). My husband and I custom made Lego mini-figures for each of our kids, and it was one of the most fun things I'd ever done. Which is probably a pretty sad reflection of my life, but the truth nonetheless.

I shopped, an insane amount. Of course, I only bought things I really needed; I just didn't know that I needed them until I bought them. But travelling is all about discovery, right?

Oh, and I bought bandaids for the blisters on my feet, which was kind of hard to do, due to the cultural differences.

"I need bandaids," I told my husband. "What are they called here?"

"Um... plasters? Sticking plasters?" he told me.

"I need sticking plasters," I told the cashier at the pharmacy.

"Pasta?" the pharmacist asked. "You want pasta?"

"Plasters!" I told him. "For my feet!"

He looked blank.

"Blisters!" I said. "Look! I have blisters! I need to cover them up!"

"You don't want Bandaids?" he asked. And I paid and slunk out in shame.

Tomorrow we head back to LA, and then it's time for home. But I'll miss New York. I heart NY. Which is a really lame thing to say, but I'm anonymous here, so I can be as lame as I want.

*and for those who were wondering, the Safe word was 'MortgageDefault'. But seriously, mortgage shmortgage. We're in New York!!!

An Australian Girl In America: NEW YORK

Some of you may have noticed that I ceased blogging about my American holiday at Day 3, and have not updated it since we arrived in New York. This is not because I am lazy or do not have access to the internet or have lost my mojo or have had my fingers amputated in a horrific subway accident. It simply means that I have been too busy shopping and eating cheesecake brownie icecream to write.

For this, I apologise. And I shall attempt to make amends with this comprehensive guide to All I Have Done In New York (which is actually only Some Of What I Have Done In New York, but I have shopping to do and cheesecake brownie icecream to eat, so it will have to do):


The room. The WHOLE room.



1. I have stayed in a hotel room the size of my bathroom at home. And it's not an especially big bathroom. Seriously. I have to climb over the bed to access the toilet. And when I do sit on the toilet, my knees bump up against the wall. Luckily, however, the room comes with an enormous balcony, so we don't get too claustrophobic. Oh, except it doesn't.

2. I have visited pretty much every Bloomingdales, H&M, Gap, Macy's, and *insert name of every American chain store and unique shop in NYC* in NYC. I have walked into each one, laughed out loud at the delightfully low prices, and walked out with a bag of something unreal. And then I've carried it back to the teeny weeny hotel, laid it out on the bed, and sighed with happiness.

3. I have nearly got run over about 25 times as I keep looking for traffic on the right side of the road, which here, unfortunately, is wrong. If you know what I mean.

4. I have tried to drink diet Cherry Coke. I failed.

5. I have perfected my Starbucks order, as drinking Starbucks is a necessity in this town that never sleeps, but has never, in all the years it has been awake, learned to make great coffee. For the record, my order is Full Fat Double Shot Grande Coffee Frappucino. It gets me through the day.

6. I have seen a beggar chatting animatedly on a mobile phone, and another with an iPod.


Yum Yum



7. I have seen Whole Pig Butt on a menu. I declined to order it.



8. I have sat at a table with a New York woman who spent 15 minutes instructing the waiter on how to prepare her meal without dairy or wheat as she is severely wheat and lactose intolerant. After eating her fish, she ate a slice of her friend's double-cheese pizza. I am not kidding.


Someone's idea of heaven. Not mine.



9. I have watched my husband buy chocolate-covered bacon. My response to it was much the same as my response to the Whole Pig Butt. I suspect the taste was too.

10. I have sat down at a window in a diner alone for 5 minutes and been approached by some crazy dude in a silk shirt and giant silver ring who announced that he and his 'special lady' have an arrangement and that he would like to make love to me. See responses to Pig Butt and choc-covered bacon.

11. I have felt dirtier than I have ever felt in my life. It's like a film of grot settles on me  from the moment I leave the hotel until the moment I get back in the shower. New York in summer is steamy and smelly and grimy. But there is soap and there is water and there is H&M and cheesecake brownie icrecream so who the hell cares?

12. I have said 'Ya' several times a day, every day. It is the American version of 'Yeah', and it is catchy and contagious and I love it and am going to take it back home. You don't think I'm serious? Well YA. I am

13. I have missed my kids. Crazily. And however fabulous NY is, I cannot wait to get back home and see them again.