Archive for the ‘Seasonal Musings’ Category

It think it’s fair to assume that when Jesus chose to rise again on Easter Sunday, he at least waited until the sun had come up.

Not true, however, of my children this recent Easter Sunday.

You see the kids and I had invited ourselves around to Mistress M and The Sculptor’s house for a sleepover. It should be noted here that this was the third weekend in a row where I had found myself nestled deep in the warm bosom of another family’s hospitality. And yes, I’m starting to develop a serious fetish for having someone else’s husband making me toast and coffee on a Sunday morning.

In this particular case, however, I was careful to have started my campaign for ‘toast and coffee’ a few days in advance by telephone. I didn’t want another situation like we had on New Year’s Day where I found myself shouting “WHERE’S MY FUCKING TOAST?” outside the slumbering Sculptor’s bedroom door.

I needn’t have worried. Our children, by rising at five-fucking-thirty-AM, made sure that a) The Sculptor was out of bed and b) there was a pressing need for coffee. He set about making it immediately.

“Do you take sugar?” The Sculptor asked as he handed me my cup.

“No, I’m sweet enough!” I replied, brightly. Giving that answer never grows old. Never. In fact, it’s fair to say that I gave up sugar in my coffee just so I could give that answer Every. Single. Time. for the rest of my life and get a little jolt of pleasure from my own wit Every. Single. Time. It’s the little things, people.

“And the toast?” I reminded the Sculptor sweetly.

“Oh, do you want toast?” he replied, feigning surprise.

“OF COURSE I FUCKING WANT TOAST,” I said, before immediately changing tack and adding demurely:  “But no, no, no… not now. It’s far too early for you to be making me toast… ”

After all, everyone knows that you have to refuse at least once before forcing someone to bend entirely to your toast-eating will.

Apparently, the Sculptor is not “everybody”.

“Are you sure?” he said cheerfully in a way that made me realise he wasn’t actually asking a question. “In which case, I might go back to bed for a while.”

And with that, he practically said “Toodle doo!” and skipped back to his room, leaving me toastless and with the task of keeping five rabid children in the house until there was enough light for them to see the frickin’ eggs hidden in the garden.

Luckily, Mistress M got up to help me supervise the easter egg hunt and, while I tried to go back to bed myself for a while (turns out five children, high on chocolate, riding scooters in the wooden corridor outside your room makes for less than optimal sleeping conditions… who knew?), she got busy making toast  – and not only toast, but crispy bacon and eggs to go with that toast.

God, I love that woman.

Anyway, the long and the short of it is that the children and I are now on the market for a sleepover next Saturday night for anyone who’s willing. I like my toast medium-rare (two slices: one with a ‘main course’ topping such as vegemite and one with a ‘dessert’ topping, such as raspberry jam) and I have my coffee white with no sugar because, well, I’m sweet enough.

See? It never gets old.

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2011 came with the promise of toast and coffee.

You see, I had a ‘sleepover’ at my friend Mistress M’s house on New Year’s Eve, having decided to leave my three children and sick husband at home and go to a real grown-up party with her instead.

Some grown-up party that turned out to be. For one thing, I spent a long time talking to someone called Nigel who actually turned out to be called Marshall. That kind of shit is confusing. I also ended up ripping a peek-a-boo panel up the side seam of my favourite dress by dancing to The Violent Femmes. And at another point, I found myself being offered another place to stay the night.

“[The Sculptor] has put toast and coffee on the table. What’s your offer?” I said.

“Uh, experimental sex?” was the response, which earned the man in question thirty-seven minutes on the naughty spot from his wife, one minute for each year of his life. Too right.

Anyway, come the next morning, The Sculptor stayed in bed while Mistress M got up to make the coffee. According to Mistress M, he had asked her to get up and make coffee and made no mention of toast at all.

I marched down the hallway to outside their bedroom.

“WHERE’S MY FUCKING TOAST?” I roared. “There were promises made which are NOT BEING HONOURED HERE.”

“Um…. Mistress M told me to stay in bed,” was his meek response.

I have to say that I felt for the guy to a certain extent. We had all been up until 4:30am (according to my facebook status on New Year’s Day, I’d been merely making sure “it really was 2011 and not some lame-arse extension of 2010”) and we may (or may not) have been drinking excessive amounts until said time.

And yes, there have been plenty of times I, too, have gone to promise the kids that I’d do something “tomorrow” without first mentally adding the words “when I’m hungover like a bastard” – something that generally acts as a reminder not to enter verbal contracts of any kind. You know it makes sense.

Still, for better or worse, promises had been made. And, as I always say, you have to start the year as you mean to continue – and if that meant I intend to harass hungover men into serving me hand and foot all year, then so be it.

Luckily, it only took a few minutes to shame The Sculptor to get up and make me toast and, for the record, it was the best goddamn toast I had eaten that year so far. Fact.

And so another year has begun all over the globe, with or without toast and coffee for some. And this year, 2011, will see some differences here at ‘Not Drowning, Mothering’. I have Plans. Capital P Plans.

I hereby formally announce my intention to cut down my three-posts-a-week habit to one post a week for the foreseeable future. You see, I’m going to try and write a book.

Yes, a book.

Now, I should stress here that I’m not promising anything to anyone here. I don’t want people shouting at me “WHERE’S THE FUCKING BOOK??” at the end of this year. I’m just giving myself a chance to try to write. That’s all.

However, I might just try bully that Sculptor into bringing fresh coffee and toast to my house every morning while I try to write it… Yeah, there’s a Plan right there.

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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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