Ding dong the blog is dead

Hi foxy mamas and papas (or total fuggers. I have no idea who reads this scrawl),

I’ve decided to ditch this blog. I dunno, writing about my life for nigh on a decade is leaving me tired and outta puff.

I mean, you’ve heard it all before, man. I know I have!

Instead, if you wish to find me, I’ll be over on RAD MY WORLD where I will mention things I LIKE with irritating winsomeness and vim. Soon, I will add books and otherwise intelligent brain-boxy things rather than STUFF.

Don’t worry, while I am a bastion of style, I will never mention anything overtly high-end designer-y, unless it is in some way completely mental and thus attracts my keen interest. I am over blogs salivating over stupidly expensive things, I really am.

Yet, I play my cards right, maybe some sucker will send me a Sky Puppet, no questions asked!

For those who are feelin’ kinda sporty, watch me Run! Forest! Run! over on STREAK OF GENIUS.

There, you can sit rivetted for 15 months, as I train for the 2012 New York Marathon! My coach is the splendiferous Julia Jones of Up and Running.

Yes, I’m officially entered, I’m representing a fantastic charity, and dammit if I don’t WIN that sucker in a storyline worthy of That’s Incredible!

Right now, Streak of Genius is a list of stats and grumbles, but I’ll start to put some more razzle dazzle into it all personable-like. You know me.

Catch you on the flipside.

x S

Getting lip

Man, the thing about almost-three-year-olds is the constant LIP. After 34 months of relentless vocab building, these pint-sized creeps now have an answer for everything! Naturally, I can only stand back and admire their prowess.


About 10 minutes ago, I totally blew my top when they threw pencils all over the floor and started kicking them around.

Here’s some of the pencils. And some crumbs, now that I’m looking up close.

“STOP THAT!” I commanded with admirable authority. “PICK THEM UP NOW!”

They scampered off to the neutral territory that is the replica ball chair (which, three years after its purchase, has only JUST lost its tangy glue-gun odour that sent the occupant on a magic carpet ride if he/she sat in it too long.)

“No, we can’t pick them up!” they replied

“YOU’VE GOT ARMS!!!” I pointed out, helpfully.

“Oh no, we don’t have arms!” said Saffron, hiding hers behind her back.

“We’ve got MONSTER LEGS!” retorted Jasper, dangling his four ‘monster legs’ in some sort of menacingly monstrous manner.

“HMRGH! WHATEVER!” I replied, reaching for my  iPhone to capture this touchingly hilarious moment.

Blur of dissidence

“Hahaha. You say ‘HMMRGH!'” they sang/taunted.

And, at that point, I retreated to the computer.

An brief but open love letter to Sydney

Far out, I love Sydney.

Yeah yeah, Melbourne and Sydney are apples and oranges, chalk and cheese, Gaga and Hawking. Comparisons are futile.

Even so, you never saw Ken Done draw a pastel-bright Crayola-caddied scrawl of the Westgate Bridge, did you? Or possums fighting and pissing on tourists in Fitzroy Gardens? Or some young black-spectacle-wearing nonchalant bloke in Brunswick sporting a Ned Kelly beard that may or may not be polyester and attached by a string of elastic (that you just PRAY won’t get caught in the chain on his fixie)?

No, mofos, YOU NEVER SAW KEN DONE DRAW ANY OF THESE THINGS because, when it comes to scribbly pastel-bright pictures printed on t-shirts, duvet covers, make-up bags, tote bags, bumbags — all rediscovered and worn ironically by a certain brand of douchebag — Sydney wins in the flash stakes HANDS DOWN.

I’ve was up there twice over the course of a week, first with my mate Loony, where we stayed in a luxury hotel, sang Kajagoogoo songs in a dingy but excellent karaoke booth, and marvelled at the abundance of available taxi cabs. While all of those things were of course enough to drag us from our young families and hot-foot it up to the Harbour City squealing “YIPPY-YI-YO!”, the real drawcard was seeing The Cure at the Sydney Opera House. If you want to know more about that phenomenal experience, I reviewed it over here.

Later in the week, Tim, the children and I returned to see Yo Gabba Gabba! (again at the Opera House) and it was, in a word, awesome.

While I have loads to say about all that, I am a bit skinny on time right now. And so, here is one picture that sums up my second trip there with my family.

It is the first in a collection of family tourist trap photos that I CAN’T WAIT to line our walls with! And, that mermaid nuzzling the upper quadrant of my thigh? I had to let her down gently.

Lawd almighty …

I was in a rotten mood yesterday, as evidenced by that previous blog entry. I feel moderately embarrassed, particularly as I read back over it and realise it doesn’t make a great deal of sense. Was my ire up OR WHAT?

Anyhow, I’m at work today and feeling relatively confident that the children have the hang of using a toilet.

They were thrilled to bits when their lovely nanny arrived this morning, clearly thinking THANK GOD SOMEONE WILL LET US OUT OF THE HOUSE, THAT WOMAN AND HER INCESSANT QUESTIONING IS DRIVING US MAD!

“Do you need to do a wee? How about a poo? Are you sure? Really? Are you sure? How about now?”

I have never heard two year olds sound so exasperated.

“NO! I! DON’T!” they growled indignantly.

In other news, Tim and I are starting a small-time Mom and Pop business together. It has absolutely nothing to do with words or technology, our usual bag of tricks.

We will be purveyors of something wonderful and extraordinary. It has a bit to do with textiles and super awesome design. The best thing is, these wonderful and extraordinary things we’re producing will make those who purchase them EVEN RADDER THAN THEY COULD POSSIBLY IMAGINE.

I know almost nothing about the area we are getting into, but I do know what I like, and have consulted an ultra radical person or two on their learned opinions.

Hopefully it doesn’t result in wrack and ruin.

I haven’t been excited about anything like this for a LONG LONG TIME.

I think it’s going to be a GOOD THING. Who said that first? The Fine Young Cannibals, I think.

Oversharing and the haters

Hello friends!

Herein follows a ranty raver!

So. I read this article about parents who over-share with keen interest, especially the comments section.

I’m sure that anyone who reads anything Fairfax publishes online will agree that the vitriol people spew in the comments sections is its own brand of BEASTLY. I often feel sorry for the journalists who venture forth in that forum. If in, oh, a million years or so, someone scoops up some of that bile from the comments section, harvests it in a petrie dish, and grows a new crop of humanoids, I’ll be glad that I am long dead and not have to suffer breathing the same air as those motherfuckers, that’s for sure.

Anyway, the article, if you can be bothered reading it, basically talks about parents (which seems to be code for MOTHERS, specifically) who bore all and sundry with chat about their genius sproglets, especially on Facebook. There’s also a subtext of one-upmanship, bragging, and all manner of other stuff that I’ve never experienced in my circle of friends-who-happen-to-be-mothers, anyway.

I tend to talk about my kids on Facebook (when I have an activated account, 30% of the time) and figure that those who are disinterested in these tiny triumphs will have me hidden in their feeds.

Really, that’s all it requires.

Over on Fairfax, people are droning on about their “facquaintances” (a new term I’d never heard of) that bore and gross them out with tales of kids toileting habits.

First of all, if they’re not your mate, maybe they shouldn’t be your friend on Facebook? And secondly, for that very same reason, stop being such a two-faced mongrel! If you consider them nothing more than a facquaintance, hide or de-friend them! And thirdly, I agree, PHOTOS of nappy contents are unnecessary, as are lengthy descriptions of any bodily emissions.

On that note:

Currently, I am toilet training the twins. In the spirit of not-oversharing, and maintaining the privacy of my children, I’m not going to regale you with hideous tales. Not in public, but do feel free to email me and I will cut loose in the spirit of a television-wielding rockstar perched upon a windowsill at Chateau Marmont.

Frankly, it feels a bit Bleak Street at the moment, stuck at home amid this intense experience. And it’s precisely the time I feel like reaching out and chating to mates online. Or just throwing something out on the ‘Book, hoping someone will respond because I haven’t spoken to any adults other than my partner for three days being bound HOME and zeroed in to the GODDAMN POTTY, like some type of messed up HOUSE ARREST.

So, in  the unlikely event that you are one of those haters that thinks parents are boring and talk (which is somehow constituted as BRAG) about their children RELENTLESSLY, bear in mind that perhaps they are just isolated, lonely, and reaching out for someone to chat back about something/anything.

Isn’t that the whole point of Facebook, anyway?

And, with that said, yes, a certain proportion of parents are just dullsome fuckers and most likely were before they had kids. Admittedly, someone as unfathomably fascinating as myself has found it quite difficult to find new mother friends in kiddie-specific circles, but every now and then a kindred spirit comes along and we totally ROCK THAT CRAZY SHIT.


Streak of Genius: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love to Run

Yesterday, I completed my first ever running race, the 4 km Mother’s Day Classic, in just 22 minutes and 1 second.

1991, Time for the Guru (plus one), and also my race number. Look at me in that gritty urban setting, fire hose and all! I am totally the gangsta runner.

I placed 64th in my age group. If we’re talking medals, I reckon 64th place should be presented with a well-chewed gob of Juicy Fruit gum.

Prime real estate for a gob of Juicy Fruit. Nikes just like Marty McFly used to wear.


Frankly, I don’t know how many 30-39 year old women participated in the race, positively OODLES by my quick headcount of the pack. All up there were 5,374 folks in the race and I finished 773rd. I was also the 361st woman across the line.


As I galloped toward the finish, I was volleying air punches like a Brigadier of Air Punches might. Y’see, I may have very little to back it up, but those close to me know that I am nothing if not A COMPETITIVE LITTLE CREEP.

So anyway, while I have been dabbling in running on and mostly off for about a year, right now I am being coached by the magnificent Julia Jones of Up and Running Online Running Courses.

Julia and I are working on getting me to run a half marathon sometime within the next 12 months, hopefully, and then …

my next goal?

Well, a half marathon’s only half, innit?


Go on, dislodge your fingernails from that wailing cliffhanger and tune in to my running blog, STREAK OF GENIUS.

There, you can BEHOLD!




if you live for a world of regret …


We are the Goon Squad and we’re coming to town

Photographs of moi, all taken in the past four hours.  I don’t know what freaky-shit wormhole portal I entered on the Nepean Highway today, but THINGS SOMEHOW WENT VERY VERY WRONG.

The After Photo

Passport* posse AKA WE ARE THE GOON SQUAD:

Not to be confused with ‘The Freak’ – Prisoner Cell Block H

The Before Photo

Morning lame but true glee-ridden vanity check on iPhone:

Not to be confused with nigh-on middle-aged Snow White, sans bird in palm.

FELLAS AND LADIEZ: Should you find an empty half of your locket CRYING OUT FOR SOME MOMO ACTION, do feel free to print out your preferred version: “Vinegar Tits” (what they also called the warden on Prisoner Cell Block H) or Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?

* Before you ask, I’m off to Wellington, NZ, in a couple of weeks on a rather ridiculous, hare-brained, and moderately embarrassing rock pilgrimage (more about that later).

BTW: Yes! Australians really do need current and not three-years-out-of-date passports to enter New Zealand (don’t worry, the lady genius here — Vinegar Tits and Snow White — has already made QUERIES.)


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