Archive for December, 2010

Dear 2010,

And so it comes time for us to part ways. I do hope we can be remain the best of friends, even though I’m planning on leaping into the arms of another, hopefully even better year.

Still, I won’t pretend it hurts to leave you. After all, we’ve had some pretty good times together.

I won an international blogging award and made my own JPEG as my prize. I was briefly wooed and then unceremoniously dumped by an internationally-renowned literary agent. And I then went on to write a series of open letters to my cat, Gisele Bundchen, my hangover and my  husband’s hangover.

Back at home, Mr Justice turned eight and I was finally able to write about his birth, subsequently popularising the ‘pubic mullet’. Mr Justice, in turn, led a one-boy campaign in preventing a plastic doll from being legally declared his ‘sister’.

The Pixie started school,  joined the ranks of the Girls Who Wear Glasses and gave me the best night of my life at the school disco.

Tiddles McGee finally got to have his mummy all to himself and  bid farewell to nappies, bringing a long era of nappy bags and arse-wiping to an end.

And my husband grew a beard and (allegedly) went on a twelve-day Asian sex tour with the local rugby club.

I also got to interview an inflatable Brad Pitt, befriend a whole gaggle of Hugh Jackmans on facebook and inadvertently give my friend a vibrator for her birthday. I went on to threaten a major Australian advertising agency with my splatter-crapping cat and have a midlife crisis whilst sitting with a king-sized doona cover on my head.

I then turned 40 in the best way possible and managed to persuade everyone that I really was sohotrightnow just through sheer force of personality.

Yep, a lot of good times, 2010. Good times. Classic hits.

Man, you’re going to be a hard act to follow…



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Today is my cousin K’s 30th birthday.

Having a birthday in that No Man’s Land between Christmas and New Year’s for thirty years can’t have been easy for him.

It’s a little like receiving a big box from Nokia the day before the night before Christmas. Well, actually it’s not at all like receiving a big box from Nokia the day before the night before Christmas, but I had to bring up the big box from Nokia somehow and, since I’m in that No-Man’s Land between Christmas and New Year’s, I’m struggling to find an elegant way to do it.

In the interests of full disclosure, the big box from Nokia contained a gorgeous case. And that gorgeous case contained a beautiful pop-up book. And that beautiful pop-up book contained a shiny new Nokia handset for yours truly. Apparently, Nokia have sent all me this because they really really want me to try out their new personalised satnav app ‘Own Voice‘, where you can record your own voice to give the instructions. My plan, of course, is to get my husband to do his bad Sean Connery impersonation so that when I’m trying to do a hook turn in the middle of heavy city traffic and the SatNav tells me to “Turn right here, Misshhhh Moneypenny”, I have full license to use the ‘C’ word in the car. And for the record, that C word is not ‘Connery’.

Anyways, Nokia is now to be officially known on this blog as ‘The Only Finnish Communications Corporation To Give The NDM Free Stuff This Christmas So Far’. Just in case you were wondering.

But I digress.

Last night, I went to my cousin K’s surprise 30th birthday party. In lieu of an actual gift, I arrived bearing a photo of my husband with K’s name written on his flexed bicep in dark red lipstick, with a heart with an arrow drawn through it.

Yes, my husband is all class.

Of course, I chose to show my cousin K this photo just as he was having a little emotional moment post-discovering the fact his sister, brother and parents had all flown interstate just to be at the party. It’s amazing how quickly tears will dry up when faced with such a vision.

Later in the evening, after one or two drinks, K’s siblings (and my cousins) encouraged me to text a copy of the photo to K, which I did with one single accompanying word: “Hot!”.

My, how I laughed. But it’s amazing how quickly that laughter dried up when I discovered that my cousin K hadn’t received the aforementioned text two hours later and I became struck with fear that I’d keyed his number incorrectly into my phone and had therefore just emailed a photo of my semi-naked husband with a man’s name written on his bare skin in Cherry Desirable lipstick to a complete and utter stranger.

Luckily, it turns out I hadn’t. The number I had in my phone for K was correct and the photo was just taking the scenic route through the ether to get to him. And so, an awkward conversation with my husband where I had to explain how such a photo got out into the public realm was avoided. Just as the arrival of The Silent Red Ninja on Christmas Eve over four weeks late got me out of another awkward conversation with my post-vasectomy husband (“Darling! It’s a Christmas Miracle!”).

And no, I’m not sure what this blog post is really about, where it is supposed to be going or how I’m going to end it. I think I need my so-called-husband-as-Sean-Connery to come to the rescue, quite frankly.

PS. In case you were wondering, this is what happens when you try to write a post from scratch after only four and a half hours sleep.

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From the pen of Mr Justice, aged 8.


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When I was ten years old, I came up with the creative (and thrifty) idea of making everyone ‘paperweights’ for Christmas. So yes, I ended giving everyone that year –  as one obviously grateful person put it – “fucking painted rocks”.

Years and years later, after my beloved paternal grandmother died, I found the rock I had painted for her amongst her things. Yes, she had kept it for twenty years.

Moreover, it had evidently broken into into a number of pieces at some point and someone – most probably my grandfather – had carefully glued it back together.

It felt to me to be the ultimate display of grandparently love. Although, when I shared this story on twitter and admitted that we also discovered, upon my grandmother’s death, boxes and boxes filled with empty sandwich bags, some remarked that it could also be seen as the ultimate display of some kind of pathological hoarding disorder.

But what is love, except the pathological hoarding disorder of the heart, I say.

I have so many things around the house to remind me of all of my grandparents and, as my post on the demise of my grandmother’s Kenwood Chef shows (see ‘K-Chef‘),  the passing of every single one of them is like a small dagger in my heart.

A few months ago, one of the ceramic ‘love birds’ I inherited from my maternal Nanna, got smashed into a thousand million pieces by one of the boys (illegally) kicking a ball in the loungeroom. I was devastated.  My husband immediately picked up the pieces, saying he would put it on his ‘to be fixed’ pile.

It was at this point, I really cried. You see, “going on the ‘to be fixed’ pile” is generally a gentle euphemism for “going straight to the bin”, used to sooth the tears of a small child whose ‘favouritest’ plastic McCrappy toy has been chewed like so much puppy chewing gum.

But a few weeks later, I was rummaging through my husband’s top drawer to find change (for the lunch order bags, what else?) when I found it. There, carefully placed and tied up in a plastic bag, was my shattered love bird, really waiting to be fixed.

And it made me grateful that I had such a husband and such grandparents and such a life.

Merry Christmas, everyone. May you all give – and receive – wonderful gifts this Christmas. And may nobody give you a “fucking painted rock”.

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On my gravestone, it’s going to read ‘It was the puppy that did it’.

Fuck the Andrex puppy. Roxy the puppy shows us how it's done.

After that, the gravestone might actually then go onto mention the $100 my husband spent on a second hand wetsuit only to have the zip break the very first time he went out in it. For the record, my friend KT ended up having to cut him out of it while I stood by trying to block my ears to the deafening sound of a hundred dollars going up in flames less than two weeks before Christmas.

The Alcatraz of the wetsuit world.

And then, shortly after that, there might be something about these boxes, which appeared unbidden and without explanation, and pulled up a chair in the house’s main thoroughfare. And stayed there.

Make yourself at home, you cardboard bitches

Oh, and there probably would be something about how the festival of consumerism just wore me down in the end, not more so than when I discovered that Barbie and Stephanie Meyer had rogered each other senseless and put the following in my local supermarket for the rather reasonable price of $20 per doll:

The photo is blurry because my hands were shaking in fear that such things exist in this world.

And then maybe – just maybe – there might be some small mention in very small print about how I basically ate and drank myself to death that Christmas.

Best served with half a litre of gluhwein and at least four shots of vodka.

And then at the very bottom it will say “But really, it was the puppy that did it.”

No, really.

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I regard my friend Mzzz E as one of my most effective ‘channels to market’  when it comes to my good works as an international trendsetter. After all, when I first briefed her about ‘Awks Giraffe‘, it took less than a week for one of her supercool friends to be using it on Facebook. Yes, Facebook.

So I couldn’t wait to pitch a new trend I’d been working on to her when we caught up the other day.

“I’ve got this idea, right?” I began. “I’m thinking of doing a ‘What’s HOT and what’s NOT list for Christmas’.”

“Tell me about it,” Mzzz E said, all ears.

“Well, because everything I write as being HOT, I end up then dissing anyway and anything that I write as NOT kind of becomes hot simply because I, the NDM, am writing about it… I thought I should morph the two terms so it becomes what is H’NOT this Christmas,” I concluded, triumphantly.

“What?” Mzzzz E said.

“H’NOT!” I repeated, with gusto.

“… And?” Mzzzz E said.

“It’s neither HOT nor NOT. It’s H’NOT!” I repeated again, widening my smile to the point of almost cracking my face in two.

She just looked blankly back at me. At that moment, I swear I could hear a tree falling alone in a forest.

To be honest, I must admit I felt hurt and a little confused. I mean, c’mon people!  She was an instant adopter of ‘Awks Giraffe’ but wasn’t going to touch ‘H’NOT’? The mind boggled. H’NOT was so…. so…. H’NOT!

The topic of conversation swiftly changed and any attempts to put H’NOT back on the table were swiftly dismissed by the obviously discerning Mzzz E. Eventually, I let it go.

Then, yesterday morning, after an hour of sitting at my computer trying to work out what the hell I could write about this week, I burst out of my room, all smiles.

“I’ve got it!” I said to my husband. “I’m going to blog about ‘H’NOT’! And how Mzzz E refused to board the H’NOT train! And how that’s all her mistake because that there train’s an express to the stars, baby!”

[Which, now I think about it, probably makes it more a rocket ship than a train, but somehow, saying Mzzz E was refusing to board the H’NOT rocket ship doesn’t sound as good.]

“You’re really scratching around for material at this time of year, aren’t you?” my husband responded, shaking his head.

“That in its very self is so H’NOT, it’s not funny,” I replied.



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The other morning I woke up with some trepidation. I needn’t have worried because the hangover I’d been courting so hard the night before was nowhere to be seen. Evidently, that hangover had decided to go home with someone else instead.

It was a lucky escape because I had been The DPT at my husband’s work Christmas party the night before. You know, ‘The Drunkest Person There’. Thankfully, the party had been held in a dimly-lit bar with loud music, where the extent of my drunkenness was not obvious to anyone other than those who I was blethering on to.

Still, nobody wants to be The DPT. Nobody. Earlier in the week, I had the pleasure of declaring my husband to be the DPT in the car on the way home from a BBQ . You see, I, in my capacity as designated driver, had kept my body pure. And my mind – since for some reason, all the drunken BBQ people had been exchanging porn anecdotes. Of course it might have had something to do with me setting the tone for the evening by arriving, a peach and custard tart in my hand, and shouting “WHO’S UP FOR A BIT OF TART??”. But that’s a whole other story.

In my defence, I ended up being crowned the DPT that night at the Christmas party because I was drinking champagne on an empty stomach. And I was drinking champagne on an empty stomach because I kept missing the trays of food going around. And I kept missing the trays of food going around because I was being chatted up by a Kevin. Yes, a Kevin.

Eventually, however, I was able to handball the Kevin onto The Bride-To-Be (whose engagement party I had recently attended on the side of a mountain) and chatted instead to another of my husband’s colleagues, who admitted he hadn’t recognised me at first because he (and here I quote) “hadn’t remembered [me] being so hot.”

Yes, he used the words ‘so hot‘. I think it was all I could do to stop myself from punching the air. And, for the record, the reason he hadn’t realised I was “so hot” before was because I mostly visit the office, heavily accessorised by small children. It somewhat dampens the flame of my hotness, it must be said.

Anyway, fifteen minutes later, The Bride-To-Be came over with a horrified look on her face. She said one word and one word only:


It was at that moment I knew that I loved her. Like, really really loved her. It was hardly surprising because the “Izzzzzz loveshhhhh you!!” is one the trademarks of the DPT, along with “sobbing face down on the carpet” and walking that kind of walk that requires you to maintain constant body contact with the walls, furniture and complete strangers.

“Izzzz loveshhhh you!!!” I exclaimed with great gusto. Repeatedly. I also went on to tell her vaguely-alarmed looking fiance, Marmaduke, that I loved him, too. Repeatedly. Yes, I suddenly had a whole lotta love to hand out that night.

To the Bride-To-Be’s credit, the fact I was seventeen years her senior and evidently some kind of lesbotic cougar didn’t not deter her from agreeing to be my friend on facebook – another trademark move of the DPT (“Lezcchhhh be facebook friends…”).

And to my credit, I made being the DPT look pretty hot. You all know it. Now I just need you all to say it.


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