Archive for January, 2010

IT’S OFFICIAL! Über -blogger and long-time hero of mine, The Bloggess has formally endorsed my campaign for the title of Best Australian/NZ Weblog in the 2010 Bloggies.

And by “formally endorsed”, I mean she’s posted something about it on flickr.

“How did this happen?” I hear you ask.

Well, a few days ago, I wrote her a series of emails politely requesting her support. And by “politely requesting”, I mean “pathetically begging”. And for the record, I do a very good line in pathetic begging. Don’t believe me? I’ll let you be the judge:


TO:  The Bloggess

Dear Jennie,

I am one of your blogging peers. I, too, am a finalist for the Bloggies. Except, well, if the truth be told, you’re like a finalist for the Bloggies and I’m like a finalist for the distant and possibly inbred cousin of the Bloggies. Yes, I am one of five Australia/New Zealand finalists. It’s a pity there couldn’t be six finalists because then all our region’s bloggers would have had a chance. Yes, I can make jokes, you know.

Anyway, I’m up against some tough competition… Is there some way you could please help further my cause via twitter or your blog? Wouldn’t you like to see the under-dog win? Although I’m loathe to use the term “under-dog” because I’m always worried it means the dog who’s taking it up the arse from the other dog on top of them.

ANYWAY, as a present to you, I am offering you this picture of a porn star I once made out of vegetables with my friend. I’m afraid that parts of her *did* get eaten some months ago – so my threat in the subject title was a little hollow. Although I’m sure part of her is still at the bottom of the compost bin, so I technically could still eat her except I expect that threatening to eat six month old compost won’t exactly spur you into action. But it might. You never know.

Yours sincerely and just an itsy-bitsy bit desperately,



TO: The Bloggess

PS. Did you like how I spelt your name “Jennie”? It’s just incase you were offended by the email and then I could claim it was intended for someone else.

TO: The Bloggess


It’s no wonder Australia never wins wars or anything. We’re fucking hopeless.


FROM: The Bloggess

http://www.flickr.com/photos/thebloggess/4308592975/ For you.


My sincere gratitude goes out to the Bloggess for a) indulging me with her flickr post and b) not alerting the authorities. And also to all my friends and family who have put up with endless rounds of emails begging them to vote for me this past week. I promise it won’t happen again. No, really. 

Please feel free to add your own endorsement in the comments section below and remember to Vote 1 for “Not Drowning, Mothering”  before 31st January 10:PM EST (That’s somewhere-in-America time).

Read Full Post »

Two years ago, we celebrated Australia Day in the traditional way by going to our friends’ house for a BBQ while a merry band of junkies broke into our house and nicked all our stuff. Now, if there was any justice in the world, they would have subsequently been apprehended, charged and transported to England, where they could have relieved the locals of their land, possessions and traditions. But no. 

Of course, I blame our neighbour for the break-in.

Two years ago, a young good-looking couple had just started renovating the house they’d bought across the road.  On that ill-fated day, “Darren” (not his real name) was out the front of his new house, painting the porch. We, in the meantime, had been packing up The Love Bus to go to the BBQ when we’d noticed a man on a BMX behaving suspiciously. Not only was this man extremely-very-obviously casing our joint, but he also wasn’t wearing a bicycle helmet. No helmet! I mean, it’s like holding up a placard that says “I LAUGH IN THE FACE OF THE LAW! HA-HA-HA!”. 

Anyway, because we were already late for the BBQ, my husband went across the road and asked Darren to keep an eye out for any further suspicious activity. Of course, when we returned some hours later, Darren had packed up his paints and gone – and so had all our belongings. 

Now, I’m in no way accusing Darren of stealing our stuff. And I’m not really blaming him. Not much. I mean, he was there to paint his house and not to stand sentry on our belongings, right?

However, just a few weeks ago, I found myself glaring at him through the children’s window as he painted his new fence. And I was thinking “Oooh, my name is Darren! I’m not joining Neighbourhood Watch! I’m joining Neighbourhood Don’t Watch!” and other such mature, sagacious thoughts. As is my way. 

And then suddenly I noticed that A) he wasn’t wearing a shirt; and B) he was looking back over at me looking at him not wearing a shirt. 

I did the first thing I thought of and ducked. 

Which would have just made him think I was just this bored housewife who was totally hot for him and his “Look at me! Look at me!” shirtless ways. Which reminded me of the time another young, rather good-looking man had to step over all my writhing children to get out of the local cafe and I’d thrown myself in front of him and jokingly said “Now you have to get past me, too!” and he’d given me this slightly-disgusted look as if to say “Get away back to your Tupperware Party, Frumpy-Jean”. Stupid Tupperware. 

Anyway, the point of all this is that I just want to reassure the neighbourhood at large that I am not a pervert. I am just a mean-spirited son of a bitch who can hold a grudge for years at a time and for no real reason at all. I mean, that’s better than being a pervert, right?

Read Full Post »

Something has happened to the radio in the Star Wagon these school holidays. It has found itself tuned away from the usual independent broadcaster and over to “Gold FM”, home to the Good Times and Great Classic Hits.

This is partly because some of the music played on the independent station makes my children cry with fear. Which is not to say that they don’t cry when Gold FM is on – I just wouldn’t know because I’m too busy singing along to Orchestral Manouvres In The Dark at the top of my voice.  Yes, through the power of The Singalong, I’ve been finding that Happy Place in my head as I ferry my screaming children between school holiday activities. Also, I’ve been trying to drown out that Elmo Chicken Dance song that still haunts me from time to time. 

For a while there, I was worried that my husband might burst my bubble by calling me a “goddamn 80s tragic loser” and turning the radio back over to the independent station. 

But no, he came back from taking the car out, all smiles and exclaiming “That Gold FM plays hit after hit after hit!”

So we’ve both been driving around enjoying good times and greatest classic hits and life’s been good… except…

After a while, you begin to realise that there really aren’t *that* many songs Gold FM gives its Great Classic Hits Stamp of Approval to and that you’re hearing a lot of the same songs again and again. And again. And you hear a few too many songs by Christopher Cross, Phil Collins and Whitney Houston and you start wondering whether the 80s were really that “great” after all. 

And then you find, after one too many repeats of a song like “Eye of the Tiger”, that it slips easily into your head, like so much tanbark into your shoes, and that you just can’t shake the thing out, no matter how hard you try. Even when all is still and silent at night, all you can hear is “DAH! Dah-dah-DAH! Dah-dah-DAH! Dah-dah-DEEEEERRRHH!”

And then you start to find everything you do and say and write is informed by that song and that you’ve totally become this freakish Eye Of The Tiger Lady and the goddamn song has become the goddamn soundtrack to your goddamn life. 

And then you stop fighting it. You accept that this is how things are going to be from now on. And you google the lyrics so you can at least sing along to this stupid song in your head accurately and not just go “nah-nah-nah” in the bits you don’t know. 

And that’s when you find out that the lyrics that you’ve thought were “it’s the thrill of the fight” for twenty-eight years are actually “the cream of the fight” and there’s all these references to “rising to the challenge” and being “face-to-face out in the heat” and you realise that the whole song is thinly-disguised pornography and that the “eye of the tiger” is probably a euphemism for that hole at the end of a penis and now it’s LODGED IN YOUR HEAD AND YOU CAN’T GET IT OUT.

So much for that Happy Place in my head. Sheesh!

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »