Archive for the ‘Boasting’ Category

It’s a long story but let’s just say I started my recent trip to Sydney by rummaging through a bin at Melbourne airport for a plastic bag so I could meet Tiger Airways’ stringent luggage policy.

And it got me thinking – and not just about whether or not the Channel 7 crew filming the series ‘Air Ways’ had managed to capture that magic moment on camera. It got me thinking about how more people really should give me money to fly around the world having adventures that may (or may not) involve me pulling plastic bags out of public bins.

I mean, listen up, prospective sponsors:  I’m an adventurer! A pioneer! A natural born travel writer!

Here’s the kind of thing that I got up to in Sydney:

  • I went to Kerri Sackville’s book launch where I had to make my own name badge because I think Kerri must have secretly uninvited me suspecting I’d only get drunk, try chat up her publisher and blow raspberries into Mrs Woog‘s cleavage. Which is exactly what I did.
  • I subsequently ended up in a random bar in Darlinghurst with my gay toyboy ex-husband where we chair-danced with an inflatable doll and shoveled handfuls of free condoms into our bags. Good times, Rick. Good times.
  • Hungover the next morning, I got lost in that vortex of consumerism called ‘Westfield Bondi Junction’ and almost took a nap on a bed display in David Jones. In the end, I had to ask a stranger where the train station was. Yes, a stranger! And even then, I managed to get lost again.
  • Instead of watching some televised wedding that evening, I drank cocktails out of jam jars in a Melbourne-style bar in the heart of Sydney. Which was ironic because, as a Melbourne-based girl, I rarely get to drink cocktails out of jam jars in actual Melbourne bars.
  • I found myself talking to one of my many Sydney-based cousins, The Tall Man, who thought he’d be amusing and ask if I’d ever thought about starting a blog. Unfortunately for both of us, I thought he was suggesting I start a bog which then led us into a rather frightening conversational space about publishing pictures of my faeces on the internet.
  • I ate the world’s most delicious caramel eclair (probably not the best thing to follow up the previous point about publishing pictures of my faeces on the internet).
  • I used the toilet in Kerri Sackville’s personal en suite bathroom. Yes, I did. I’m sure this was a major breach of etiquette but a) I wanted to enjoy the magnificent views that the en suite afforded me and b) I thought it might bring Kerri and I closer together. And lo, here we are. Closer together.

    I am, like, totally grabbing her knee and - in Kerri's own words - she is, like, totally trying to shove her hand down my top.

  • My flight home was delayed and, while I basked in the strip-lit ambience of Sydney airport, my husband texted photos of our youngest child, with easter egg-smeared face in front of the TV in his pyjamas at 4:30PM. So at least I knew the kids were in good hands while I was away.
  • I fell asleep on the plane but unfortunately woke up at the very moment my body began to fall sideways into the lap of the alarmingly good looking man I was sitting next to.
  • I turned my mobile phone on before I was inside the terminal.

See?  Adventurer.

Actually, I don’t know why Channel 7 don’t just base their next reality TV travel series on me, quite frankly.


BTW, you should totally buy Kerri Sackville’s book ‘When My Husband Does The Dishes‘. Just saying.

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I ask you… what kind of person wants to come and do house evaluation at eight o’clock in the morning? And indeed, what kind of person makes arrangements for someone to come and do a house evaluation at eight o’clock in the morning?

Our bank and my so-called husband is who.

Problem was that the morning in question I’d been woken early by the kids and the puppy and had found myself in a restless mood. It was the kind of mood that, in the past, would have inspired me to turn a bruise into the face of Jesus Christ with a magic marker .

So when the valuation guy turned up and turned out to be quite cute, I started flirting with him, even though I was wearing tracksuit pants and hadn’t brushed my hair, let alone looked in a mirror for about five days. It’s the school holidays, people. Get over it.

“I took a bullet for the team,” I informed my husband later. “My reckoning was that if I flirted enough, the valuer would realise that any house that had me in it would be worth substantially more.”

I’m not sure $50 counts as being ‘substantially more’,” my husband replied, somewhat grumpily.

I knew I’d hit a sore point. He knows how hard I work at making everyone I meet like me and – ten years after the fact – still tells everyone about the time I temped in an office for three weeks and how they bought me a card and a cake on my birthday. Although, the last time he brought up this anecdote, I realised that due to the time of year I’d been in that office, it couldn’t possibly have been my birthday.

“It wasn’t a birthday cake, actually!” I told him. “It was only a card and cake because I was leaving…”

“… after only three weeks,” he replied dolefully. “Yeah, that makes me feel much better.”

Anyway, the long and the short of it is that the evaluation came in on Friday and was $20,000 less than my husband had predicted.

“It must have been the tracksuit pants,” I said, somewhat disappointed in myself. “I should have frocked up… at eight o’clock in the frickin’ morning. Shit, you should have scheduled it for eight o’clock in the evening, and then I could have been wearing a cocktail dress, full make up and heels.”

“You don’t even wear full make up and heels for me!” he cried.

“Only because you seem to think I’m only worth $50!” I sulked.

Honestly, there’ll have to be more than $50 on the table for me to put on full make-up. I mean, the last time I let KT put mascara on me, it was a deeply confusing experience for me.

“Has it clumped?” I had asked, trying to sound like I understood the perils of mascara application.

“No,” she’d replied. “Why?”

“There’s this black thing I can see above my eye.”

“Uh, that’s your eyelashes, darling,” KT had gently told me.

Who wants to walk around any more aware of their eyelashes than they absolutely need to be? Shuh!

Of course, like many women who don’t wear makeup, I like to think it’s because I don’t need it. Yeah, right. Look, I’m only listening to what my husband once told me.

“You’re naturally beautiful,” he had said – not because it’s at all true but because it’s in his contract to do so. Of course he’d then added: “Imagine how beautiful you’d be if you wore makeup!”

He’s now no doubt imagining how much our house would be worth, too…

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I always felt that, given half a chance, I would make a most excellent seamstress. There was absolutely nothing to support this theory, save a poorly-sewn and never-completed skirt project from Home Economics in 1982, which I’m pretty sure the Australian fashion world mourns to this day.

Twenty-eight years later, I’m finally getting my chance.

You see my husband – no doubt hoping to start up a sweatshop on our kitchen table and kick-start an alternative income stream – pooled together with my mother and my parents-in-law to buy me a sewing machine for my 40th birthday.

For a few weeks, the machine sat intimidatingly in its box until one day last week, I pulled it out to see if an old dog really could teach herself some new tricks.

Now, I’m not sure how hard they must have whipped us in Home Economics classes but the memory of how to wind on a bobbin and thread a machine came back to me very quickly – with the aid of the instruction booklet and a healthy continuous flow of top-shelf expletives, that is.

And before I knew it, I was sewing. Actually sewing (*weeps with happiness*).

Now I know that what  I may lack in excellence as a seamstress, I certainly make up for in enthusiasm. In five days, I have made a total of four bibs and a zip-up bag – all thanks to “Sew La Tea Do”, the latest book from Melbourne-based blogger Meet Me At Mike’s. Here they are:

Now before anyone gets too excited, please note that this photo is taken from a healthy distance so as not to show my (many) sewing errors – errors which I’ve subsequently decided are entirely deliberate, made to give my work a happy-clappy folksy home-made feel. Yes, that’s my “value-add” to the world of sewing.

Anyway, excited by my successes, I decided to contact the force behind “Meet Me At Mike’s” on twitter to say how much I was enjoying her book. However, I got a little sidetracked by her twitter handle.

Which is probably something she gets a lot. Almost as often as people ask me if I’m affiliated with the NDM-1 superbug virus or the National Democratic Movement in Jamaica, which happens, like, all the frickin’ time.

And of course, me being me, I had to take it a little further:

Which pretty much stands as the textbook example for getting in contact with someone whose work you admire.Yep, that’s it right there, people. Watch and learn. WATCH. AND. LEARN.


Leave a comment on this post and get a chance to win a bib made by yours truly, which handily can be worn while you drool over my deliberate-yet-mildly-charming sewing errors.

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I don’t know about anybody else but I’d have thought that if I had my hair done (two words: Mad Men), wore a tiara, donned a strapless black velvet dress and heels (okay, so not the mismatching red heels but heels nonetheless), bought $1000 worth of alcohol, called in favours from all my friends so there was great food, great music and a dance floor with moving lights and a motorised disco ball etc., etc., etc.,  that the night of my 40th birthday party would have been All. About. Me., right?

But nooooooooooo.

I had to endure guest after guest (after guest) coming up to me to say: “I want to meet the Mild-Mannered Lawyer!” and “I heard the Mild-Mannered Lawyer might be here!” and “That Mild-Mannered Lawyer is hot tamale!”

The MML! Shuh! (*shakes fist*)

I mean, I’m the NDM, people! Of course, I have to concede that it would have been a bit weird if all the party guests had been asking to meet the NDM or had been pointing and staring and saying, in hushed tones, “There’s the NDM! She’s sohotrightnow!” since, you know, they were my friends and knew who I was, anyway. But still!

Near the end of the evening, my friend Miss Deb came up to me.

“I’m so excited!” she said. “I met the Mild-Mannered Lawyer!”

“Whatevs,” I said. I may even have done the hand gesture.

“But to be honest,” Miss Deb continued. “I don’t think I could tell you which one she is now.”

Ha! In your face, MML! As I said to the MML later, “I MADE YOU. I CAN UNMAKE YOU!” Although, arguably, getting Miss Deb drunk enough that she couldn’t recognise the MML a few minutes after meeting her was more about unmaking Miss Deb than anything else.

Anyway, I should concede that the MML really is hot tamale even though I’m not entirely sure what ‘tamale’ is. And that the night really was All. About. Me. – as proven by my mothers group donning feather boas and providing back up to my dear friend KT singing her heart-of-gold out to “Reach Out I’ll Be There” just for me and then, later on, my Facebook Friend performing a spontaneous interpretive dance entitled “The Four Decades of [NDM]”, which involved a lot of primal screaming and, at one point, licking of the television screen. Tasty. Even my friend The White Lady, who every time I saw her told me, in no uncertain terms, that “THIS IS A SHIT PARTY! I’M SO FUCKING BORED!”, managed to drink and dance until the early hours, shortly before riding someone else’s $500 mountain bike home wearing heels instead of the clip-on shoes required.

And there was the Glügg. Of course there was the Glügg. HOW COULD THERE NOT BE THE GLÜGG? As predicted, a  group of people joined me in a shot of Glügg some time around 3am. I’m not entirely sure that Glügg is meant to be drunk that way and, indeed, some might argue that the best way to serve Glügg is to pour it directly down the drain, but still… my friends honoured me with those shots.

As for the karaoke, all I can say is that some people still can’t get ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ out of their heads four days later. Yes, they took that bullet for me and I love them all the more for it.

And then there were the hangovers right across the city the following day. Yes, my friends continued to honour me (and perhaps curse me a little) into the late hours of Sunday – and in some case, well into Monday, too.

So now I am forty. Pah! With such friends and family dancing up a storm in my corner, I think it’s fair to say that I’ve made forty my bitch…

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I think it’s safe to say that I was the only person at the recent school Quiz Night to have made my own team t-shirt.

Most certainly, if anyone else *had* made their own team t-shirt, they probably hadn’t made it for team with a name quite like ‘TEAM SPEEEDZ’ – a name born of a drunken conversation with my friend The White Lady some weeks beforehand (all I can say is thank god I didn’t name my children while under the influence).

And they wouldn’t have left making the t-shirt until the last minute and ended up using masking tape to write the words  ‘TEAM SPEEEDZ’ on a black t-shirt.

And then they wouldn’t have had to reinforce the masking tape with sticky tape in the fear that the some of the letters might fall off and they’d be left wearing a ‘TEAM PEE’ t-shirt, which would just remind everyone about that time they pissed their pants on school grounds.

So yes,  I made this t-shirt:

It’s fair to say that what I lack in brain power and ability to focus, I certainly make up for in enthusiasm. For weeks in the lead-up to the Quiz Night, I’d been pumping up my fellow team members by punctuating most sentences I uttered with “TEAMSPEEDZ!” (you have to say it as if it were one word, otherwise it just sounds stupid. Okay, so more stupid).

And then I drank just a little too much and it all fell apart. In my defence, this was the same day of my daughter’s birthday party and my husband’s rather ill-timed hangover. Let’s just say I had me some tension to release. And I was still recovering from the stress of organising two Quiz Night tables, which was not unlike doing a seating plan for a goddamn wedding with all the ‘who won’t sit with whos’ and ‘who doesn’t know anyone elses’.

By about the fifth round, I had completely taken my eye off the Quiz Night prize and set my sights on the people on the next table.

“Look at FatherOfCrankyPants looking at me. He’s soo hot for me right now,” I said to my friend The White Lady. FatherOfCrankyPants – it should be noted – was not looking at me. Not at all. In fact, I think he might have been trying to scrape something off the bottom of his shoe.

“Yes, yes,” said The White Lady, patting me on my arm like one might pat a small child on the head. “You’re a little bit bored now, aren’t you?”

Indeed I was. The other end of the table pretty much had the answering the questions bit of the Quiz Night under control. All that was left for our end of the table was to drink piss and talk shit.

“Look at that dad over there!” I continued, looking over at a table of people I didn’t know. “He’s checking me and my masking-tape t-shirt out. Again: Hot. For. Me. And that guy in the nylon tracksuit? Sohotformerightnow. ”

Yes, I had contracted a case of the ‘sohotrightnows’. This is when I make myself ‘sohotrightnow’ by telling everyone I see how hot I am at that very moment. It’s called “creating a buzz” by some PR types. By others, it might just be known as “being annoying and drunk”.

Sure enough, soon everybody was talking about how hot I was right then. By “everybody”, I mean ‘me’. Oh, and one other friend who went on to twitter to specifically mention that I was “sohotrightnow”- although he threw in the word “apparently”, which I thought showed how jealous he was that he wasn’t quite as hot as I was at that particular moment.

Anyway, the evening ended with a crushing third place defeat for ‘TEAM SPEEEDZ’ but with me being as hot as I ever was.

As we packed up, I made a point of going over to my friend McFee’s husband, whom I had discovered that evening was a complete hoot when playing lame-arse Quiz Night games.

“You are soooooo going to be my facebook friend,” I told him.

Indeed, I managed to befriend him on my iPhone while holding a full (plastic) glass of champagne as I walked home. My friend MM was witness to this amazing feat, although he had some reservations about it.

“Um, don’t you think it might be a bit ‘overwhelming’ to your new friend,” MM said to me. “I mean, we haven’t even left the school grounds yet.”

“He knows I’m sohotrightnow,” I told him, loftily. “He’ll be sohot for the friendship request.”

You have to understand that I’d manually converted my t-shirt to say ‘TEAM PEE’ by that stage and was spilling champagne on myself as I walked.

So hot right then.

And still right now.



The NDM: available for hire as entertainment at quiz nights, bar mitzvahs and ute musters.

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Dear Readers,

I realised the other day that I totally missed out on being nominated for Australian Cosmopolitan’s Fun, Fearless and Female Blogger Award for 2010 (although I’ve noticed they’re already accepting nominations for 2011hint, hint… I think we ALL want to see me treading the red carpet at that event, right?)

Luckily, the world was saved from me writing yet another angry Open Letter to Australian Cosmo because my friend ‘Mad Cow’ over at  Diary of A Mad Cow gave me this award instead:

On first glance, it appeared to be an award for being shit. But then I read it properly and realised it was an award for my rampant alcoholism and therefore quite complimentary, although the three arseholes filling in for the letters U, C and K in FUCKING were a bit off-putting.

Unfortunately, however, I can’t accept the award because I can cook for shit (she says, boasting just a little… okay a lot). Even when completely pissed on vodka, I can still cook. It’s true.

However, I’m very happy to pass it on to someone deserving. Just leave a comment describing the worst ever meal you’ve ever cooked and you can become part of Mad Cow’s Top Ten. I’ll even select the winner while drunk on vodka. It’s only fitting.

Love The NDM

PS. Let’s pretend the picture of the cow on this award is of a young deer. That way, the title of this non-post becomes so much wittier.

PPS. Let’s also remember here that the prize at stake is a JPEG! And, unlike my Bloggies Award JPEG you don’t even have to make it yourself. Gold.

PPPS. I’ll also throw in an Extra Special JPEG of my own as special prize for those entrants that are neither mothers nor bloggers. And I think we all know from my post ‘Picture Perfect‘ that when I say special, I mean special.

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As of today, I am officially off my P plates. For non-Australians, this means I am no longer a Probationary driver and am now licensed to drive a vehicle carrying more than fifty-seven people, while swigging gin straight from the bottle. Well, not really, but apparently I can legally drive a car with a manual transmission, which is quite worrying since I have never actually driven a car with a manual transmission and suspect that the difference between the two for someone like me is as great as the difference between being able to follow the plot of the first Matrix film (hard enough) and being able to follow the plot of the sequels (nigh impossible). Or even following that last sentence.

Anyway, many people asked me how I planned to celebrate getting off my ‘Ps’, and my glib reply has usually been something like “Get really pissed and do donuts in the Aldi car park”. Which is apparently what I was supposed to do when I was on my P plates, except I was too busy ferrying around small children around in a people mover.

Yes, people, I have been an extremely responsible and careful P-plater. I have followed the restrictions placed upon my probationary licence for three years to the letter. And that letter is ‘P’! (ha-ha-ha-ha-ha a little probationary licence holder humour for you there). However, I recently grew concerned that I might blow it all on the last day by taking my P plates down too early. I mean, my probationary licence expired on the 18th July, having been the date I got it. Intuitively, it felt right that I should take my P plates off on that day. It’d had been exactly three years. I’d served my sentence. If I took them off the next day, that sentence would have been three years PLUS one day. I mean, nobody said I’d have to be on probation for three years PLUS one day. Nobody. And yet, I wondered…

I asked one local dad who I knew to be an officer of the law about what I should do.

He took a long look at me and said something along the lines of “Listen, lady, I’m a detective. If you have a dead body in the back of your car or you’ve just made a getaway from a major jewel heist, then I’m the man to talk to.”

Or not talk to, as the case might be.

Anyway, I decided to take his subsequent advice and err on the side of caution. I waited until the 19th July (today).

I can’t say I’ll miss my P plates that much. For one thing, I won’t miss the other motorists thinking they need to ‘learn me real good’ just because I have P plates. Also, there’s something about driving around in your late 30s on Ps which smacks of Rodney Dangerfield in that “Back To School” movie. Not cool. And I’ve yet to see a P plate that sticks onto the car without half a kilo of blue tac and a roll of sticky tape. I can do without the stress of hearing the unmistakable ‘thwick!’ of the P plate unrolling itself off the back window so it fall into a puddle or, better still, a steaming mound of dog shit, the very next time I open up the back of the car.

But having said all that, there is one thing I will miss. Having them (precariously) stuck to my car windows was a bit like wearing a badge of honour. They said to the world “Here is a woman who overcame one of her biggest fears at the age of 36”.

Driving, eh? I thought I’d never be able to do it, but it turns out I can. But not in a car with manual transmission. That shit’s complicated.

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