My Secret Life as Candid Admission

Yesterday on Channel 7 I was outed as a high class escort named Candid Admission. It was a busy day for me. I had waved my kids off to the bus stop in my flannel PJ's and singlet top before dashing out to the supermarket to stock up on groceries and sex toys, and then changing into my leather crop top with metal zip detail and gold hotpants for a few hours work at the brothel. You can imagine how exhausted I was by the time I got to the studio for my Big Reveal. My cab ride took longer than expected because we did a contra deal, so I didn't even have time to change my clothes. Luckily, I was only filmed from the mid torso up so you can't see my hotpants and thigh high fishnets under the table.

The response to my disclosure was incredibly positive. My mother was very proud, telling me she just wished that my dear grandmother Pussy Yum Yum was still alive to watch my triumph. The kids' school asked me to come in and talk to the Year 12's at Careers Day. And my LinkedIn account was flooded with requests to connect on a professional level.

And it was a true relief to get it off my chest and to finally live my truth. Kerri is a lie. Candid Admission has no lies. I am ready to go out into the world and be Candid. One chapter of my life has closed, but a new chapter is beginning. 

As for the escort work making me a better mum, that was just a line to sell my story. Naps and earplugs and a nightly gin and tonic make me a better mum. But you already knew that.

Disclaimer: I am not really an escort. I was discussing the escort Samantha X on The Daily Edition when this caption came up. Still, it's nice to know I have career options.....

Even Spokesmodels Wear Khakis (Sorry, What?)

It was inevitable that my #5minute video series with Lana would become an internet sensation. My years weeks of experience as a child actor combined with Lana's mesmerizing instability charisma makes for compulsive viewing - or at least, pleasant background noise whilst you're doing the ironing.

Of course, our popularity can be a little wearing. I am frequently stopped in the street by people waxing lyrical about the wit, humour and seamless wonder that is our online chats. That previous sentence is a lie, but that doesn't in the slightest detract from the veracity of the sentiment. Someone did stop me once, and though it was to ask me if my name was Rhonda, that is but a few short semantic steps from 'wit, humour and seamless wonder'.

Or big semantic steps. But still. Every big semantic journey begins with being asked if your name is Rhonda.

artist's rendition of you watching this video (unless you're a male, in which case sorry about the boobs)

It has often once been said that Lana and I make our videos look effortless, and this is part of our very special gift. Not everyone could get in front of a camera and speak non-stop for five minutes without any script or even the faintest guidelines, narrative structure or thematic crescendo.

And I know it seems discordant and wrong that we don't yet have our own cable television series, but I am quietly confident that it will happen. And a few years from now Lana and I will be stranded on an island somewhere, wearing khakis and dining on ground tusk in 'I'm An Internet Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here!'

Which is why this video will come as such a surprise. When you are watching in dazed disbelief, try to remember that even the most talented of spokesmodels stuff up sometimes. And though we are not spokesmodels - and so that statement doesn't apply to us - we make a few mistakes too.

Enjoy.

Real Single Mothers of Sydney

From the makes of The Biggest Bully and Embarrassing Doctors comes a brand new reality TV series: The Real Single Mothers of Sydney.

Follow single mothers Kerri Duckbill, Nicki McDonkadonk, Sassy Bonercrusher and Lucy 'One Date' Levi as they navigate parenthood, dating, sex, careers and the 5/2 diet whilst warding off existential angst and the advances of that sleazy old guy down at the cafe.

Watch as they struggle with weight, go on bad dates, drink too much coffee, drink too much wine, drink too little water, and tend to their ailing parents. See them argue with their ex spouses, fight for child support, attend family court, and have sex with emotionally unavailable men who are excellent in bed.

Cry as their self esteem plummets and they question their ability to ever connect with anyone on an intimate level ever again. Laugh as they swipe left on Tinder and notice married men who are fathers at their children's school. Cheer them on as they squeeze into a mini and push up bra to go see a man they met on the internet. Nod as the man they met on the internet turns out to have the personality of a lightly seared chicken fillet, which, incidentally, is their son's favourite meal though their daughter won't eat anything 'juicy'.

Synopsis: Episode One

Nicki McDonkadonk is told by her doctor to lose five kilos and consoles herself with high calorie hi-jinx, and a surprising method of self-pleasure. Sassy Bonercrusher rejects an intriguing proposal from a younger man, and argues with her son about vegetables. Lucy 'One Date' Levi flirts with her family lawyer, who has a shocking revelation about Nicki McDonkadonk's sexual performance. Kerri Duckbill spends hours wandering around Westfield, goes to therapy, and sobs in a variety of locations around Sydney.

To interview the stars of Real Single Mothers of Sydney, leave a comment below, or go to the school gates this afternoon where they will all be congregating after 3.30pm.

10 (New) Plagues

Here's a rare Biblical reference for you:

In Exodus, Pharoah refused to let the Israelites out of Egypt. So God came down on him really hard, with a series of 10 plagues intended to change his mind.

They were pretty awful. Blood, frogs, lice, flies, diseased livestock, boils, hail, locusts, darkness... and then, when all that failed, death of the firstborn.

Of course it's a parable. It has to be. I mean, if God was omnipotent, he'd just let the Israelites out of Egypt himself. Or, you know, kill Pharoah.

But it's a good story. However, it's one that needs updating. Frogs, lice and boils? Come on. These are hardly disasters in this day and age.

No, I think we need new plagues, ones that would devastate Pharoahs of the modern era.

The Sixth Plague - EARWORM

And I have some suggestions:

1. Bad hair day EVERYDAY. What Pharoah could cope with having crap hair every single day of his life? It would destroy his confidence and hence his leadership.
2. Paper cut. Small but devastating.
3. Itchy bum. More maddening than lice, itchy bum also causes embarrassing public displays of bottom touching, which would completely undermine Pharoah's authority.
4. No coffee. All God would have to do is destroy coffee supplies around the world and Pharoah would collapse in a pathetic heap of despair.
5. Insomnia. The absolute worst. No elaboration required.
6. Earworm. Just get Gangnum Style stuck in Pharoah's head for days at a time. He'll cave. No question about it.
7. No Mobile Reception. A Pharoah can't lead if he can't communicate. He's going DOWN.
8. Advertorials. No TV programs, just endless loops of AbToneFit promos and offers of saucepan sets with free steak knives!
9. No Wifi. Pharoah will die of despair on the spot.
10. Zombie invasion. Just because.

#MyFirst... Moment of Terror

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... Moment of Terror

I don't remember the party at all, but I remember the events afterwards with crystal clarity.

I had just turned sixteen years old, and I was coming home from the wrap party of the TV mini-series I had starred in. I can't recall what I was wearing, but it was probably similar to the 'Relax' t-shirt and leggings I wore to the premier. My hair was short and a weird dyed-blondey colour, my skin was tanned from six weeks on location in Queensland, and I was plump after eating my way through the catering services.

It was late, about two in the morning. My parents had excused me from my normal curfew because it was such an exciting occasion. And I was with adults. I was being dropped home in a cab. There really was nothing to worry about.

Of course, I was a little bit drunk, because this was a film crew, and people in film crews drink. And the actors drink, even the teenage actors, even the ones who had barely turned sixteen. I was a little bit drunk and I was in a taxi and it was two in the morning and it was time to go home.

I can't remember who I was in the cab with. I do remember that I wanted to be grown up like them. And so, when the taxi reached the corner of my street, I offered to get out right there, and not be driven to the door. It would have been no trouble at all for the cab to make that right hand turn, to travel the extra 150 metres to get me to my house. But no, I said, this was absolutely fine, even though the streets were empty and it would have taken all of two minutes.

And so I hopped out of the cab on the corner of a main road, shut the door and waved my chaperone goodbye, and headed up the street to home.

It was 2am, I was a bit drunk, and I was sixteen. I heard a car behind me, the only car on the deserted road. And then I heard the car slow down, and stop altogether, and then turn slowly into my street.

And as my whole body went cold, and the terror rose in my chest, the car pulled up beside me, and began following me at pace.

I could barely breathe. I was bathed in fear. My alcohol haze was lifted and all was crystal clear. My vision narrowed to myself, the street, and the car. I was aware of nothing, not the past, not the future, not my life, just my home up ahead and the distance I needed to cover.

The fear. The fear. I wanted to run and keep running. But I wasn't a great runner and I knew I couldn't outrun a car. And I knew the car door could open and a hand could reach out. I could feel the emptiness of the streets, and the silence all around.

I considered bolting into a stranger's house, but it was 2am, and I could bang on the door, but what if nobody heard? I figured my only chance was to make it home. And I knew I couldn't sprint the distance, so I had to play it smart.

I wanted to run but I couldn't. Not yet. And so I forced myself to walk normally as the car trailed beside. I kept my eyes straight ahead, agonisingly aware of the vehicle, and calculating how many steps it would take to get me to safety.

And when I thought I was close enough, I broke into a run. I ran as fast as I could run, frantic with fear. I ran with eyes fixed on my house, terrified that any second that car would stop and a hand would reach out and I'd be gone gone gone.

I ran full pelt to home, and as I got through the gate I grabbed my keys from my bag and slid them into the door. I was ready to pound and scream and ring the bell, but I got the door straight open, and I slammed it shut behind me.

And then I was there, in the hallway of my parent's house. The fear drained away and I stood shaking with relief. I looked down the hall at the home in which I grew up, and I had never felt more safe. I had never felt more secure. I kissed my parents goodnight and I went to bed and I was so happy to be home. I never wanted to leave.

To this day, I don't know who was inside that car. Whether it was one person or six, whether they intended to scare me or worse. But it was the first moment of sheer terror I had ever known. I need only to close my eyes, and it is just under the surface.

I've had other moments of fear since, in many different forms. But none have resembled that night in the street. It has only been replayed in my dreams.

Next week's topic: My First... Obsession

On My Sister's Birthday...

Today was a significant day for two completely different reasons. Firstly, it was my sister's birthday. June 18th. She would have been 43. I thought of Tanya all day, but then again, I think of her every day anyway.

And today was significant for another reason. It was my first time on a new TV show, The Daily Edition. I am going to be a regular on a weekly panel called The Debrief with two fabulous bloggers, Mrs Woog from Woogsworld and Beth from BabyMac.

I had a great time before the panel began. A stylist looked at our clothes and suggested I wear the other scarf, not that scarf, which was terribly exciting, because she was a stylist, and she said "Yes, that works," and not "OH MY GOD YOU HAVE SHOCKING TASTE" which is what I had feared she'd say. (Although to be fair, the brief for the panel was possibly 'two stylish bloggers and one with shocking taste', so that could have been her reasoning.)

A ridiculously good looking man. And a happy woman.

I had fun with Woog and Beth practising saying key phrases such as "Well, I'm glad you asked me that," and "Let me elaborate for your elucidation," and "What a fascinating point. May I respectfully repudiate?"

And then a very tall and very handsome and very.... broad shouldered man walked into the room.

It was Kris Smith, one of the co-hosts of the show.

The man is good looking. Like, movie-star good looking. Like, slightly luminescent-with-a-hint-of-fairydust good looking. I felt shy, so I didn't approach him. And if you believed that, you've never met me, because I am SHAMELESS around celebrities and immediately pounced on him and asked for a photo.

And then I thought, I have to call Tanya. Because Kris Smith was married to Dannii Minogue who was one of our favourite Young Talent Time stars. And Tanya and I LOVED Young Talent Time. She would be so excited!

And then I remembered. I can't. She died five years ago.

I miss Tanya on her birthday. But it's in moments like these - those everyday moments that are part of the fabric of life - that I miss her the most.

Nutella? I Call BULLSHIT

A couple of years ago, when I was releasing When My Husband Does The Dishes, I contacted the Australian distributors of Nutella. Given that there were dozens of references to Nutella in my book, dozens of references to Nutella in my blog, and hundreds of references to Nutella in my tweets (and that I was so famous for my Nutella addiction I was being sent Nutella recipes, images and information almost daily), I thought that perhaps they would like to sponsor my launch.

My request went through to marketing, who seemed interested in the idea. I was in discussions with them right up until the last minute. And then, a couple of weeks before the launch, they changed their mind. Apparently the way that I portrayed Nutella in my musings - as a big jar of chocolatey fantabulousness that one digs into with a spoon with animal abandon - was not in line with their policy of promoting Nutella as a 'healthy breakfast option'.

Yup.

Well guess what Nutella?

NOBODY BELIEVES THAT.

Last night I saw the latest ad for Nutella on TV. It is full of delightful images of morning, and healthy, glowing people, and sunshine, and attractive, sporty men. And I watched it and I threw my Nutella-encrusted spoon at the TV  because yet again the Nutella folks are lying to me.

THIS IS NOT HOW WE EAT NUTELLA, people! In fact, this is not WHO eats Nutella! The ad is full of men (post surfing, in their business suits, pulling a coffee) and a smattering of happy kids, eating Nutella on wholesome bread and toast. The only women in the ad are either serving breakfast to their children, or giggling alongside their Nutella-scoffing boyfriends. (Two of the chicks manage to score a single bite of their boyfriends' Nutella toast, but it is quickly snatched away. Clearly one bite is all they're allowed. Perhaps the boyfriends are worried they'll gain weight?)

I am so tired of the Nutella propaganda that bears no relation to the truth. For once, I would love Nutella to release an ad that is real. Pre-menstrual women weeping and shoveling Nutella into their faces with a spoon. Post-menstrual women eating Nutella for dessert. Gleeful pre-schoolers painting with Nutella all over the kitchen. Teenage girls gorging on Nutella crepes in a cafe. Mums eating their kids' leftover crusts with a three  inch topping of Nutella. Nutella fudgsicles. Nutella brownies. Nutella microwave mud cake. Nutella on ice cream. Nutella as the treat food it really is.

If Nutella is a healthy hazelnut spread, then I am a cave woman who hunts for food. Except that I'm not. Okay, so I may have the tiniest remnants of cave woman DNA in me, but I am a 21st century Jew who buys instant noodles and cans of peaches. Similarly, though Nutella may technically have a few hazelnuts in it, it is essentially a chocolate spread that we eat when we're depressed or need to celebrate or are feeling fat or one of the billion other reasons we women eat chocolate. We don't eat it because it's healthy, because it's not. And and we certainly don't feel virtuous when we feed it to our kids, because it's chocolate (although we do feed it to them anyway, because they love it and it shuts them up and we are crap parents).

So Nutella, please come clean and start telling the truth in your advertising.

And when I launch my next book, I would really love to hear from you.

A True Story About A Missing Limb

The other day I was over at my friend J's house. I was showing her the lovely colour  of my nail polish, and suddenly she reeled back in horror.

"What IS that?" she cried.

Now, I understand the colour wasn't necessarily to everyone's taste, but I really didn't think it was that bad. It was a subtle pale pink; perhaps one could accuse me of being too conservative, but it was certainly not worthy of sheer disgust.

"It's my fingernail!" I answered, a little hurt.

"No! Not your nail!" she screeched. "Your finger! What's on your FINGER?"

"Um... my wedding ring?" I asked. Now, my wedding ring is really very nice. It's classic and restrained and extremely shiny as I recently cleaned it with my toothbrush. There was no way J could have a problem with my wedding ring.

"NO!" she said, and she was positively wincing. "That... that.... WHAT IS THAT?"

And finally I got it. She was pointing to my Bum Finger.

The Real Life Bum Finger

Now, J has known me for nearly fourteen years. She has spent hundreds, if not thousands, of hours with me. Could it be possible she never noticed my physical deformity?

"It's my Bum Finger!" I told her. "Have you seriously never seen it before?"

She shook her head. I was astonished.

Later that night I was lying in bed thinking. And then I remembered a time, long, long ago, when I suddenly noticed a friend's serious deformity three months after meeting him.

I was sixteen years old, and I had just completed filming the television mini-series I starred in. The shoot was over, and  I had been sent a cast and crew photo in the mail to keep for posterity.

I took out the photo and looked at it. And as my eye wandered over the faces of the people I had lived with on location, and worked with, and eaten with, I glimpsed something that made me jump.

One of the crew - a cheery bloke called Bill - was missing his right arm.

Oh. My. GOD. I was shocked. How could I not have noticed it? I had been around Bill every single day for twelve weeks and I had never noticed he was short one limb. He had only a stump where his arm should have been.

It rocked me to the core.

For years I wondered how I could possibly have missed something so obvious. For years. Until finally, one day, I took my photo album out, and lingered over that picture one more time.

And it hit me. Bill's right arm had been there all along. It was in shadow. I'd fallen for a trick of the light.

I felt like a total fool.

Still, being with J made me feel somewhat better. Because J managed to miss a real life Bum Finger. So I guess that makes us just about even.*

*okay, so I'm way stupider. I'm clutching at straws here, people

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

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.

Guilt And The Nap Trap

Today I was given a very precious gift.

Time.

Pinkela is away on camp, and my (beautiful, kind, generous) mother agreed to pick up Little Man and Boo for me so that I could have the whole afternoon to myself. An empty house.

Bliss.

Things have been pretty crazy recently. I've edited my first book for the UK release, edited my second book for it's Aussie release, written three regular columns, and taken on a new writing project, as well as several other bits and pieces that have flown in at different times.

Oh, and I've looked after my three children, their father, the house we live in, the finances, the bills, the laundry, the shopping, our social lives, and pretty much everything else.

I. Am. Exhausted.

I need a break, desperately. And whilst a real break isn't coming for a while, I realised that today was the first day without a deadline looming, and that I could afford to take a few hours off.

I'd been up at 5.45am to get Pinkela to camp and the others to school, then had a meeting with my publishers. I got home at 11.30am and realised: This is it. This is my chance to relax. Do it.

But I pretty much had forgotten how.

I wandered around the house for a while, occasionally tidying, or wiping a surface with a cloth. And then I sat down on the couch and thought, What now?

I didn't know. It felt.... odd. Discordant. Where was my computer?

I watched an episode of Modern Family and then one of Sex And The City (the Modern Family I hadn't seen, the SATC I'd seen around 17 times), both in slight agitation. I was enjoying the shows, but something was wrong.

I didn't feel relaxed enough.

I decided to try to nap. I went upstairs and lay on the bed.

I couldn't sleep.

I COULDN'T SLEEP!

What was happening to me? I fall asleep the second my head hits the pillow! I fall asleep BEFORE my head hits the pillow! I fall asleep at my desk with Boo yelling in my ear and my laptop grinding a dent in my forehead.

WHAT WAS HAPPENING TO ME?

The answer, people, was guilt. Guilt was what was happening to me. Guilt for taking an afternoon off. Guilt for doing nothing. Guilt for stopping.

Guilt is bad. Guilt is a useless, stupid emotion. I shouldn't feel guilty for taking time off. I shouldn't feel guilty for stopping. I deserve some relaxation and I deserve to stop and enjoy my life. And I deserve a nap, god damnit, even if my tick-tick-ticking brain won't pause for a moment and let me.

So from now on, I'm having a rostered afternoon off every fortnight. It's going in my diary. I'm going to watch TV and lay in bed and roast marshmallows and eat bonbons (okay, so I may have lied about the marshmallow part).

Life is short and guilt is stupid and Sex And The City is on endless rerun on pay TV. And I am going to learn to enjoy it.

Hilarious

I've had a rough couple of days (don't ask) and so I thought that instead of feeling sad I'd think about happy things. Even more specifically, things that make me laugh. A lot. So I have compiled a list. Please add your own!

Things That Make Me Go Ha!

• Playing charades with nearly-four-year-old Boo. It goes something like this:Boo: Stands up in front of us, and makes some inexplicable sign with her left hand. Us: "Movie? Book? TV show?"Boo: "No!" Holds up three fingers.Us: "Three words?"Boo: "Yes!"Us: "Dora The Explorer?"Boo: "No!" Holds up one finger.Us: "Spongebob?"Boo: "No!" Holds up five fingers.Us: "The Simpsons?"Boo: Thinks for a minute. "Yes!"Us: "Hooray!"

• The cable TV show "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant", about women who had no idea they were pregnant till they started giving birth. I particularly loved the 20 year old who assumed she'd gained 25 pounds because she was eating so much junk food (you know, after the condom broke), and the 46-year-old mother-of-two who assumed that she was going through menopause and that her stomach was growing because of a 'tumour'. Oh, and I adore the re-enactments of the births with actors who are mysteriously far, far better looking than the real women themselves, and the 'newborn' babies who look like they've been at pre-school for a year.

Boo. Don't mess with her.

• The iPhone app that puts tattoos all over my kids.

• The outfit my husband dressed Boo in when I had to rush out of the house early before (think frilled pink summer dress over long sleeve navy jumper, worn fetchingly with purple sandals and Dora The Explora socks).

• The cost of replacing my car door handle after it fell off in my hand (though admittedly I was laughing through my tears).

• My husband's face when I explained that his daily morning 'coffee' was probably responsible for his bizarre, recent weight gain, given that it is a 'White Choc Rasberry Grande Frappucino'.

• Penises. Have you ever looked up close? They're hilarious. I don't know how men walk around with those things.

Take One Alex And Call Me In The Morning

In recent times I have got myself a little stressed. I know that most of you think I am super cool and laid back (and the sound you can hear is the guffawing and eye-rolling of all my closest friends at the idea that I am a) super cool, or b) laid back [and yes, I know that 'eye-rolling' doesn't make a sound, it was just a figure of speech]) but I am quite a stressy little person (and yes, I know that 'little' is debatable, but let's not get picky here, okay?).

Well, a couple of days ago I decided it all had to change. Which is not quite true. My husband The Architect decided it all had to change. He sat me down, gently stroked my angsty brow, and said:

"Sweet honey pie of mine, if you feel you can't relax a little more I will have to send you to a resort alone for a few days. It pains me so deeply to see you so uptight."

And if you believed that, clearly you haven't read my book. Or this blog. Or have had much contact with the male of this species.

What he really did was sit me down, look at me firmly, and say:

"Can you pull yourself together please? You're a total nightmare at the moment."

(And that, friends, you can believe.)

So I decided I had to destress at once, not just because The Architect told me too, but because I really was feeling horribly tense. Over the past few days I have engaged in many attempts to relax my body and mind. Some have been successful, some less so, but I will share them all with you today.

• Did online Sudoku puzzles. This worked wonderfully initially, as it refocussed my brain and gave me a rush of elation whenever I figured out where to put one of those little numbers. And then it backfired horribly when I got stuck about an eighth of the way through, and had to call my twelve year old son to help me finish it. And then, to rub salt into the wound, he got bored before it was completed, and wandered off with a breezy "You can take it from here, Mum". Which of course I couldn't. Bloody stupid Sudoku. Makes me bloody crazy.
• Watched Alex Dimitriadis running around in his swimsuit in 'The Slap'. This made me feel fantastic.
• Ate Nutella sandwiches for dinner, followed by spoonfuls of Nutella straight from the jar. This was fun and relaxing for the first twenty minutes, but rather less enjoyable when I lay moaning and bloated about ten minutes after I finished the jar.
• Took my kids to the beach. This was really gorgeous. We played on the sand, they buried my feet, I read my book, they buried my legs, I lay in the sun, they threw sand in my hair, I got really thirsty, they drank all my water, it was really beautiful, I got hot and sandy and had to get out of there that minute.
• Drank a great deal of alcohol. This has proven to be very effective.
• Read some books, watched some TV. Particularly 'The Slap'. That was great.
• Had a bath. Baths really do ease the body and soul. I just have remember to be more careful whilst acqua-texting. Still, I think the phone is drying out nicely.
• Nah, that's it. Though did I mention Alex Dimitriades?

Why I Need A TV In My Bedroom

Those of you who follow me on Twitter will know that the television in my bedroom died the other day (and yes, I thank you in advance for your kind wishes at this very difficult time in my life).

I do not watch an enormous amount of TV, but the television in my room is irreplaceable (though I hope not literally so, as that would be bad news indeed). And having gone forty eight hours without it, I can specify why:

Top Reasons I Need A TV In My Bedroom

1. My husband and I have been married for nearly fifteen years, and our kids and work aren't interesting enough to sustain us through a long evening. Without television, we would run out of things to talk about within about ten minutes.
2. The door to our ensuite bathroom is not very sound proof. Without the television volume turned on high, I might hear souns emanating from that room that I just won't be able to ever unhear again.
3. When my husband and I both read in bed, he tries to read me passages from his book, I try to read him passages from my book, we both get annoyed at each other for not showing interest in each others' books, and the whole thing descends into chaos.
4. Without television in the bedroom, until we are ready to sleep there will be nothing to do in bed but talk (see point 1. above), read (see point 3. above), or have sex. As mentioned, we have been married for nearly fifteen years. There's only so many times a week we can have sex before it gets old.
5. Without a television in the bedroom, I can't warm up for sex by watching The Mentalist.
6. Without a television in the bedroom, my husband can't warm up for sex by watching one of those BBC 'Documentaries' he is so fond of (though quite frankly, Top Gear seems to do it for him just as effectively).
7. Without a television in the bedroom, there is nothing to watch while I actually am having sex.
8. Without a television in the bedroom, we can't turn on the morning shows as we get ready for the day, which means that all we can hear from 6.30am till 8am is the crazy-making sounds of Spongebob Squarepants.
9. If I can't turn on the the morning shows as I get ready, I don't know what the news of the day is, or, more importantly, what the temperature is going to be.
10. If I can't turn on the morning shows as I get ready, I can't pretend that I don't hear my kids above the noise of my television, and I might have to actually respond to their demands for food, bag-packing assistance, conflict mediation and retrieval of lost shoes, and quite frankly, I'm far too tired.

Do you have a TV in your bedroom?

All Your Questions Answered

So after my star turn on this episode of A Current Affair last night, I have been bombarded with questions about four particular issues (and yes, three questions can definitely be a 'bombardment'). People wish to know:

A) What on earth am I doing with a white sofa when I have KIDS?

B) Were they my real children or stunt-double pefect children?

C) Were they my real eyebrows or stunt-double perfect eyebrows?

D) Why was I cut off so rudely at the end of my interview?

Thank you all so much for your interest in these terribly important issues. I shall now address each question in turn.

A) Why do I have a white sofa when I have kids? Because I also have a Husband, and he is a Designer (said in Very Important Tones), and according to my Husband the Designer, a white sofa is the only possible design solution for that particular Space. (Architects do not refer to 'rooms' or 'areas', they refer to 'spaces'. Please remember that.)
Never mind that one out of three of my kids is a Toddler, that two out of three of my kids are very clumsy, or that three out of three of my kids are incredibly messy. Never mind that I spend approximately 47 minutes EACH DAY OF MY LIFE cleaning that couch with special White Sofa Cleaner (also known as 'Chux Magic Erasers', and no thisisnotasponsoredpost, but while we're on the subject they are the best thing since sliced bread, in fact better, because they get rid of the Vegemite stains that sliced bread leaves behind). I HATE that friggin white sofa. It is the bane of my existence. I'm kicking it now.

B) Yes they were my real children sitting on my real white sofa. And yes, they are perfect. They sit there for HOURS like that, placid, serene and compliant, with their little legs sticking out and their little mouths hanging open. Sometimes they even drool. And then I turn off the TV and they become hideous monsters again. So I try to turn it off only rarely. After all, I don't have time to deal with monster children. I'm too busy cleaning the white sofa.

C) Yes they were my real eyebrows. However, they have not always been my real eyebrows. My real eyebrows used to look like this:
It took months - no, years - of painful - no, excruciatingly painful - electrolysis to get them looking so perfect. So praise my eyebrows. And keep it coming. Because every single one of those hairs needed to be plucked out at the root and a red hot poker thrust in to kill the follicle, and I'm going to need a LOT of appreciation to make up for that hideous trauma.

D) Why was I cut off so rudely at the end of my interview? Well, as Tracy Grimshaw so eloquently expressed in her tweet, it was an itchy trigger finger in the control room of ACA. But to tell you the truth, I must accept some responsibility. After all, I did not stop talking. For about two hours. In fact, I continued to talk long after the camera crew had left my house, driven down the road, and off into the night. I continued to talk long after the TV had been switched off and my kids had resumed smearing Nutella all over the white sofa. If you really want to know, I am still talking now, as I kick the white sofa with all my might. So don't be too harsh on ACA. I pose a pretty tough editing challenge.

I hope that answers all your questions. So, from me, and Tracy Grimshaw....

Goodnight.

Not Just Your Average Peni... I Mean Post

So the other night my husband and I were watching an educational documentary on SBS. We do that a lot. This particular educational documentary was about porn stars, which made for an interesting change (usually the SBS docos we watch are about prostitutes, strippers, pole dancers and sex addicts).

The doco followed a renowned photographer who decided to do a series of portraits of porn stars with and without their clothes on. This was designed to highlight all sorts of deep and meaningful things, such as how different porn stars look with and without their clothes on.

My husband and I watched the show with great interest. After all, neither of us had really seen porn stars with clothes on, so it was quite fascinating.

The porn actresses featured in the doco were very diverse. As one would expect, there were a couple of dozen actresses who were blonde, slim and huge breasted, but there was also one actress who was black, slim and huge breasted, and one actress who was Asian, slim and small breasted. Really quite an extraordinary collection of female forms.

As for the men, well, they were a revelation. Seriously. I didn't recognise this straight away as the renowned photographer began by taking pics of the guys with their clothes on. Of course, I did notice that one of the men seemed to be tucking something ginormous down the leg of his jeans, but I assumed it was a spare sock, or maybe a Subway bread roll for his lunch. It wasn't until he stripped off for his naked shot that I saw what it actually was.

It was a penis.

Now, I kind of guessed that the porn actors would have penises. I've been around the block once or twice or even *insert number of times I've actually been around the block* times. And I've seen the odd porno. But I have never, and I repeat NEVER, seen anything like this specimen. Ladies (and gentlemen), it was terrifying. If I had ever contemplated a future in the porn industry (which I really would do only when Toddler started school full time) then this put me right off. The thing was HUGE.

Now, I know some women believe that size is important (although personally, I have always been more attracted to the man attached to the penis than the penis attached to the man), but this thing was a killer. If I was to see something that size come at me (er, so to speak) I would throw my shoes at it in terror and run screaming from the room.

That, of course, is never going to happen, as I'm happily married to a man whose penis is *insert husband's actual penis size here* inches long. But it freaked me out big time. Firstly, because I did not realise that there was another category after 'small', 'medium' and 'large'.

And secondly, I have NO idea how they manage to walk around with those things.

I Want What She's Having

I have a problem. I want to eat candy.

Now, before you jump down my throat, I KNOW it's not called candy. It's called lollies, or rather they're called lollies, as 'lolly' is not a collective noun (although it should be, don't you think? I mean, lollies should always, always be plural). But I don't want lollies. They might walk like candy, they might talk like candy, they might even taste like candy (far more likely, really, as lollies can't actually walk or talk) but they're NOT CANDY. And I want to be eating candy.

Why do I want candy? Well, I've been watching Real Housewives of NYC (and yes, I know that is shameful and sad, but what can I say? I am shameful and sad) and Kelly, the crazy ex-model, keeps keeps eating candy. Gummi bears and jelly beans, to be precise. And though Kelly is quite profoundly nuts, she is also sensationally beautiful, and watching her shovel the candy into her mouth makes me crave it like a desert craves the rain. Or rather, like I usually crave chocolate, which is really far more apt a metaphor.

Whereas before the show I hadn't had a jelly snake for years, since watching it last week I've consumed more than three packets on my own. It may not help me to gain a figure like Kelly's, but it sure gives me a bit of her psychotic buzz.

This isn't the first time I've longed for something I've seen on TV. Every time I watch Mad Men I crave a cigarette, although I haven't smoked in over 20 years, and even then it made me feel dizzy and ill. The characters are all so glamorous, and the curls of smoke so seductively smooth, I just long to be blowing smoke rings out of my own voluptuous, red painted lips. I don't, of course (have a ciggy or voluptuous red painted lips) but I do find myself sucking rather pathetically on pens and cotton buds, which is about as glamorous as a slice of cheese, and not nearly as tasty.

Now, this isn't the same as being susceptible to advertising. I don't want burgers when I see a Maccas ad. I don't crave Pizza Hut pizza, or McCains vegetables, or even Carefree maxi pads. But when a character on TV does something appealing, I want to do it too. Like cut my hair. Or wear purple nail polish. Or drink litres and litres of apple juice on ice in my best clinky glasses (which I am pretending is scotch on the rocks as I totally hate scotch). Or eat with proper cutlery instead of my fingers (which I do anyway, of course... I'm just saying...)

So do you copy what you see on TV? Or am I the only one?

Either way, let's hope they don't show Kelly eating eggplant next week on Real Housewives. I'm allergic, and the results could be pretty ugly.

The Door That Jopped

The other day, I was interviewed for television by a reasonably famous television journalist. Now, I'm not going to give you specific details about why I was interviewed (so don't ask), but it was about someone else's project, not my own. I was being interviewed in the capacity of 'commentator' rather than 'star', which, quite frankly, is not at all my preference. As you know, I have never been one to shun the limelight, and I can talk about myself for hours. Still, any publicity is good publicity, so I touched up my lippy and composed myself on the couch.

'So, what was your reaction?' the reasonably famous television journalist asked me.

'Well,' I said, beaming, and offering my best side to the camera (which, obviously, was the one without the sticky-out ear), 'when I saw it for the first time, my door jopped.'

'Right,' said the RFTJ. 'Let's do that again. So, what was your reaction?'

I beamed again, a bit blankly, wondering why the hell he had repeated the question.

'Well, uh...' I started. And then it hit me. Oh GOD, I realised, did I say just say door jopped ?)'Um... my JAW, it DROPPED,' I said, slowly and carefully.

'Right', the RFTJ said, smiling and nodding back at me, clearly understanding that he was dealing with someone who had a serious speech impediment. He looked about to wrap up, but gave it one more go.

'So why do you think about it?' he asked. (Okay, so he was a bit more specific than that, but it will do for the purposes of this post.)

'Um...' I began, and my mind went blank. What DID I think about it? Did I think anything at all? I wasn't sure I did. In fact, I couldn't recall any thoughts I'd had, ever, in my life. But I had to say something.

'Well, I think it's marvellous, just marvellous,' I said, because obviously that was expected of me. I beamed again, showing my flat ear.

The RFTJ looked satisfied. 'Great! Just great!' he said. 'I think we're done here!'

'So I'll be on the news tonight, then?' I asked.

'Tonight! Yes!' He shook my hand vigorously. 'Of course you will. Don't forget to watch!' And he dashed to the next subject.

And I was on the news. A glimpse of my hair, seen from afar, as I was deeply and eloquently engrossed in conversation with someone who wasn't waving a camera in my face.

But my interview? It wasn't used. And as I watched the show, in great anticipation, my door jopped.