Archive for the ‘The NDM’s Open Letter Series’ Category

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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Dear My Husband’s Hangover,

You almost didn’t get this letter. My husband offered to write a guest post instead entitled ‘Why I Thought It Was A Good Idea’.

“It”, in this case, referred to going out the night before his daughter’s sixth birthday party. And not only going out but going hard. And not only going out and going hard, but going on and on (and on) until he stumbled through the door at 1:48AM (not that I looked at the clock or anything).

I think, had I let him write that guest post, it would have included a few conversations like this:

UNCLE B: Shall we get in another round before the pub shuts?
MY HUSBAND: I’ve got a good idea: let’s get in two!

UNCLE B: Aw, the pub is now shut. I’ll have to go home…
MY HUSBAND: …and I’ll come with you so we can continue drinking!

UNCLE B: (sadly) This bottle of whisky is empty.
MY HUSBAND: Let’s open anothery!

Of course, I’m making these conversations up. The only part I know for certain of the “best conversation ever” that he and Uncle B apparently had that night is the following snippet, overheard by KT as Uncle B bade my husband good night at their front door circa 1:30AM:

UNCLE B: See you tomorrow!
MY HUSBAND: What’s tomorrow?
UNCLE B: Uh, your daughter’s sixth birthday party…

(For the record, boys, technically “tomorrow” was already “today”. Whatevs.)

And so you got to pay us another visit, Hangover. You must have felt flattered to have been courted so brazenly, with so little regard for consequences. And such consequences! You made my husband spend the whole day in bed vomiting, while I wrangled the kids and cleaned and decorated the house and iced the cupcakes and stuffed the party bags and removed the petrified corpse of a rat from the cubby house. All of which I did with a song in my heart – that song being “Man Overboard” by Do Re Mi, of course.

And then, having promised he was on the verge of “coming good” all day, you made him stay in bed during the party. Yes, twenty little fairy-mermaid-princesses and pirates yielding plastic weapons descended upon his house and he remained in his bed. Well, except for the cake. I guess I should thank you for letting him get up to see the cake. It meant a lot to my daughter and a lot to my husband. And to me, too – although I still had to cut the fucking thing.

Anyway, here’s my beef with you, Husband’s Hangover. I understand why you had to visit but did you have to go so hard? And go on and on (and on)? If you’d reined it back just a little, I could have said “Suck it up, Whisky Boy!” and made him supervise the little pirates jumping up and down on the trampoline with their swords for two hours.

But nooooooo. You had to make him so sick that I could do nothing but internalise my anger and leave him alone to recover. Do you know how hard it is feel compassion whilst simultaneously maintaining your rage? Well, do you?

So listen up, Husband’s Hangover: my 40th birthday party is in less than 4 weeks. Pull this kind of shit then and I can not be held responsible for my actions. You have been warned.

Yours, very very sternly,

The NDM.


Big juicy heartfelt thanks going out to my friends who stepped up and helped me before, during and after the party. I owe you. Or rather, my husband owes you.

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Dear Hangover,

I am writing to you about your recent and rather unwelcome visit – which coincided with another unwelcome visitor, Daylight Savings.

Interestingly enough, the day before you both arrived, I had googled “Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to start Daylight Savings on the last day of the Victorian school holidays???”. BTW, the multiple question marks really help me channel my anger.

After you had both arrived, I had a full day of people talking about “Old Eight O’Clock” and “New Eight O’Clock” and – even more confusingly – “Eight O’Clock”, where I didn’t know whether they were talking “New” or “Old” and felt like crying because my head hurt so much. After that, I googled “Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to start daylight savings on the day I was hungover like a bastard???”

(Some might say a more appropriate question might have been “Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to drink for 12 hours solid the day before daylights savings kicked in???” – the answer to which would be “Me!!!!!!!!” –  but that’s a matter of opinion.)

Anyway, you came with the kind of vengeance reserved for people who had been out drinking until 2:30am, whereas technically I had been drinking until Old 1:30am. As a result, I suspect you charged me the price for that extra hour of drinking that I didn’t actually do. I’m sure of it.

Admittedly, I should have known that there would be trouble. The fact that I started doing bare-footed modern dance moves with my wayward friend McFee should have been a clear indication something was afoot (if you’ll pardon the pun). Yes, we went all interpretive. I even remember lying on my back and encouraging her to put her whole weight on my feet so I could lift her like Superman. “I can do it, I can do it!” I shouted to her, quickly followed by “I can’t do it” as we collapsed into a drunken heap.

Still, such joie de vivre shouldn’t be punished so harshly, Hangover. No, really. The world needs more interpretive dance. It is the international language that all human hearts speak… when completely pissed, that is.

When I awoke the next morning, I thought I had managed to avoid you. I felt so invincible that I got up to make pancakes for my children. Turns out, I was wrong. The only reason I still felt any good was because I was still drunk. And with sobriety, came your arrival. And with your arrival, came a new meaning to the phrase “tossing pancakes”.

The point is, even if I did deserve your visit, did you have to stay so long? When it came time to honour my promises to the kids to play the Ben Ten Omnitrix Duel For Power Game and help construct a Lego Hero Factor Furno Bike did you really have to hang around? That shit ain’t funny, Hangover. You could have nipped off quietly and left me to it. But noooooo.

And then, because of your little friend Daylight Savings, I was left with one hour less in the day to get over you, so you extend your visit til Monday morning, which was the morning after the day after the night before. It was also the first day back at school, so I had to get the kids up at Old Six O’Clock in order to get them to school at New Nine O’Clock even though they’d been up to eleven o’clock the night before. And no, don’t ask me if that’s Old or New eleven o’clock because it doesn’t matter. It was frickin’ late, okay?

Sheesh, no wonder I’ve still got a headache three days later.

Yours, resentfully,

The NDM.

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Dear McCann Sydney,

It has been some months since your initial call over the interwaves for ‘Australian Mum Bloggers‘.

I, along with half a zillion ‘Australian Mum Bloggers’, dusted off my CV and sent it off, in the hope of one day making an honest buck from what I love doing most (other than sleeping).

I was excited. After all, I loved that you were looking for someone with “proven experience in the online content space”. It made me walk around muttering ‘Online Content Space: the New Frontier’ to myself for a few days. I was even tempted to include in my application a photo of me sitting at my computer, wearing Spock ears and maybe, just maybe, one of those Seven Of Nine outfits that’d make my breasts look like they were about to start their own blog. But I didn’t.

Perhaps, in hindsight, I should have. You see, I recently found out that some other ‘Australian Mum Bloggers’ had already received rejection letters from you weeks ago.

Me? I’ve received nothing. Nothing.

I mean, don’t you know who I am?

For one thing, you might think I’m just some sad pathetic housewife who likes to write about menstrual accidents. And yes, I am that, but I’m also a sad pathetic housewife who dislikes rejection so much that she will try to pass off a bruise on her leg as the image of Jesus Christ. Remember this, McCann.

For another thing, I know people. Important people. Why, one of my friends won a Creative Emmy just the other day (it’s the same as an Emmy except the statuette apparently comes with its own hand-crocheted cover). Although, having said that, when I tweeted about my friend winning the Creative Emmy on Twitter, nobody seemed to care. Perhaps it had something to do with me also tweeting at the same time about my cat splatter-crapping all over the carpet. People were a bit more concerned about the state of the carpet and the colour of the shit than they were about the Creative Emmy. And me, being me, I went and told my friend that my cat’s shit was evidently more interesting than his Creative Emmy so he might not actually be my friend any more. Still, he said he’d let me have my photo taken with his statuette so my plan is to start claiming I’m a Creative Emmy Award Winning Blogger and make all you McCann folk regret having put my McCV in your McBin and missed your McChance with my McWriting Genius. Are you following me, McCann?

But actually, now that I think more on the subject, my cat is probably the most effective weapon I have at my disposal.

So let me conclude this letter by saying this: I have a splatter-crapping arsehole of a cat who will fuck your soft furnishings up big time.

You have been warned.

Yours sincerely, etc.


cc. The Age Online. You’re next.

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A work friend of my husband’s evidently has seen my “WILL WRITE POSTS FOR WINE” sign because she asked him to ask me to write a post about Gisele Bundchen’s recent remarks about breastfeeding. I’ve asked my husband to ask her to pay the wine directly to me and not to pass it on via him because he is likely to have drunk the lot before the bottle even gets through the front door. Somehow I don’t think the message got through because I’ve yet to receive the wine. Or maybe she doesn’t actually know about the ‘FOR WINE’ part of my writing. However,  I remain hopeful. And just a little less drunk than I would otherwise like.

Dear Gisele,

Thank you so much for sharing your recent thoughts regarding a world-wide law to ensure mothers breastfeed their babies for the first six months. You’re obviously an Ideas Person and as one Ideas Person to another, I applaud you.

However, I remain a little uncertain of how such a law might be enforced.  My husband likes to think that there will be an international congress of topless women. I, personally, choose to imagine teams of special-force Lactating Ninjas creeping around after dark, conducting surprise inspections of recycling bins to make sure there are no empty SMA GOLD tins in there and squeezing new mother’s breasts to check that there’s adequate flow.

I mean, seriously, Gisele. What the fuck? Okay, okay, I know it’s likely that your comments were taken out of context. You probably said something much more innocent like women who don’t breastfeed should be nailed to the front doors of the maternity hospitals as an example to one and all that Breast is Best.

Now, don’t get me wrong, Gisele. I am pro-breastfeeding. I really am. I even was a card-carrying member of the Australian Breastfeeding Association and once had the uncomfortable experience of hosting an ABA meeting in my lounge room a few days after The Pixie had unexpectedly and suddenly self-weaned at 14 months. And yes, I was sad she had self-weaned, but not so sad that I was willing to pay $5 for the ABA brochure about ‘Relactation’ that they tried to sell me . After all, I was sick’n’pregnant with Tiddles McGee at the time and felt that ye olde “tandem feeding” was probably best left to other, more robust people or The Goodies cycling their way through a McDonald’s drive-thru.

Anyway, I have always known it was easy for me to be pro-breastfeeding because I had two fully-operational mama-jugs to offer my three healthy children in the comfort and safety of my first world home that I shared with my loving, supportive partner.  Just like you, Gisele. Well not just like you because, unlike you, I wasn’t modeling swimwear six weeks after the birth of my first child. That shit ain’t right.

But did you ever stop to think that not all people might be as fortunate as you, Gisele? There are a whole myriad of reasons why women might not breastfeed, many of them completely of their control. Just as there are a myriad of reasons for why women might not be able to give birth vaginally.

Apparently you never thought for a moment that you wouldn’t be able to have a natural birth. “Billions of other women have come before me and have done this  –  so why can’t I do it?’ you reportedly said to Harper’s Bazaar.

Sure, I once thought I could do it, too. Turned out, after twenty-eight hours, I couldn’t and I had to say hello to my doctor’s friend ‘Mister Knife’. Of course, had you turned up at this point to share the story of your eight-hour labour enhanced by the power of meditation, I would probably have shown you the colour of both my fists and said “MEDITATE ON THESE, BITCH”.

I mean, to be completely honest here, Gisele, you were much  more likeable when you were going out with Leonardo DiCaprio for a living. Fact.



PS. In case you can’t tell, I did all the graphics for this letter while still under the influence of the drugs my oral surgeon gave me when he drilled into my skull.

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Attention: Genghis Cat, Feline Overlord of [address omitted]

Dear Cat,

I am writing to remind you that, according to the pet registry at the local council, I am listed as your owner. Not the other way around.

Admittedly, however, I mustn’t be much of an owner. I mean, I’ve never felt the need to put a picture of you up as my facebook profile pic or get you to wear a Santa Hat on our Christmas cards or have your name tattooed on my arse. Also, I’ve certainly never felt the way cat food manufacturers obviously think I should feel – most of the cats featured on their packaging are giving me their best “Come Hither” eyes and others seem positively post-coital. Is this really how cat owners feel about their pets? If so, I’m sorry. I just don’t see you That Way. For one thing, whenever I try to pat you, you just bite me. Perhaps that’s your way of giving me some lovin’ but I can tell you now, Cat: I’ve no interest in becoming your S&M bitch-slave. It just ain’t my scene.

Anyway, now that I’ve reestablished the fact that I’m your owner, I would like to remind you of a few house rules:

Please do not greet me at the door with an accusatory whine, as if continuing a previous argument right at the point where we left off (no doubt about the fact that I “never” feed you). In return, I will cease regarding you warily with a “Helllooooo, Genghis”, like I’m Jerry Seinfeld greeting his nemesis Newman.

Disposal of body parts
I may be wrong here but I think most serial killers attempt to tidy up after themselves a bit. Whilst it can be said that nothing heightens the hanging-out-the-washing experience more than standing barefoot on a mouse head, I’d prefer it if you could either eat your prey in its entireity or use one of the garbage receptacles provided.

Land rights
You have no legal claim over the spot in front of the heater. You therefore do not reserve the right to stalk, pounce upon, scratch or bite anybody standing in that spot, especially if they have just been outside in the cold, cleaning up bird entrails from the trampoline. My husband would also like it to be known that when he sits naked in front of the heater in the mornings (for reasons known only to himself), those things hanging down between his legs are not your sworn enemy.

Meal Times
When I refuse to feed you outside of designated feeding times, please do not sit right in front of me and proceed to elaborately groom your arsehole in protest. And, for the record, other cats the size of small ponies subsist on one cup of dry cat food a day without complaint. You receive the same PLUS two sachets of ‘wet food’, which costs more per gram than most fancy-pants French cheeses, and yet you never quit your bitchin’. WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM? If I served all your meals to you dressed in a gimp suit made entirely rubber and let you bite the crap out of me, would that make you satisfied? Would it? WOULD IT? Well, it ain’t gonna happen, Cat. It ain’t gonna happen.


Your loving owner,


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Dear 2009,

There’s no way to put this gently: it’s over between us.

Look, it’s not you, it’s me. I’ve moved on. To another year – 2010 is his name. He’s promised me a brand new decade, two kids at school, the occasional sleep-in and the perfect pair of red shoes to turn 40 in. Oh, and (somewhat inexplicably) a sequel to ‘Wall Street’ in which Michael Douglas will look eerily younger than he did in the 1987 original.  Still, that’s more than you ever gave me.

Sure, we’ve had a lot of good times, a lot of laughs. For one thing, you were the year in which I introduced the world to concepts such as Welfington (City of Dreams), The Ninja Administrator and The NDM Children’s Vomit Scale, as well as the term Faux-a-constricta for grass snakes which think they’re much harder than they really are. Oh, and a car game which requires children to shout “BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!” and sing a ‘Dead or Alive’ song Every. Five. Minutes.

You also saw me imagine a dance-off with an opposing gang of kindergarten mums in the Presbyterian Church carpark, flash my tits at a group of mothers at the local dance school, make a tit of myself at a school fundraiser and come up with my own range of NDM merchandise (mostly to cover my tits).

But we had some bad times, too. Let’s face it, this year I raged endlessly against the school’s late pass system, almost got myself incarcerated because of an illiterate cat, and found myself shamelessly harassing Flight CentreAustralian Cosmopolitan and Mia Freedman before finally selling out all together by pimping my children to a current affairs program of ill-repute.

You also saw me bid farewell to my years of childbearing by posting photos of my maternity bras on the internet and get diagnosed with osteoarthritis while my son did the chicken dance in the background. And you made my children vomit a lot – like a lot a lot. Anyone care to remember “Go Vomit On The Mountain“? Didn’t think so.

Is it any wonder I’ve had enough of you?

Anyway, 2010 calls me. I go to him.

Yours no longer,


PS. Happy New Year, everyone.

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