Posts Tagged ‘open letter’

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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