Posts Tagged ‘rabid monkey blogs rank better than mine’

IT’S OFFICIAL! Über -blogger and long-time hero of mine, The Bloggess has formally endorsed my campaign for the title of Best Australian/NZ Weblog in the 2010 Bloggies.

And by “formally endorsed”, I mean she’s posted something about it on flickr.

“How did this happen?” I hear you ask.

Well, a few days ago, I wrote her a series of emails politely requesting her support. And by “politely requesting”, I mean “pathetically begging”. And for the record, I do a very good line in pathetic begging. Don’t believe me? I’ll let you be the judge:


TO:  The Bloggess

Dear Jennie,

I am one of your blogging peers. I, too, am a finalist for the Bloggies. Except, well, if the truth be told, you’re like a finalist for the Bloggies and I’m like a finalist for the distant and possibly inbred cousin of the Bloggies. Yes, I am one of five Australia/New Zealand finalists. It’s a pity there couldn’t be six finalists because then all our region’s bloggers would have had a chance. Yes, I can make jokes, you know.

Anyway, I’m up against some tough competition… Is there some way you could please help further my cause via twitter or your blog? Wouldn’t you like to see the under-dog win? Although I’m loathe to use the term “under-dog” because I’m always worried it means the dog who’s taking it up the arse from the other dog on top of them.

ANYWAY, as a present to you, I am offering you this picture of a porn star I once made out of vegetables with my friend. I’m afraid that parts of her *did* get eaten some months ago – so my threat in the subject title was a little hollow. Although I’m sure part of her is still at the bottom of the compost bin, so I technically could still eat her except I expect that threatening to eat six month old compost won’t exactly spur you into action. But it might. You never know.

Yours sincerely and just an itsy-bitsy bit desperately,



TO: The Bloggess

PS. Did you like how I spelt your name “Jennie”? It’s just incase you were offended by the email and then I could claim it was intended for someone else.

TO: The Bloggess


It’s no wonder Australia never wins wars or anything. We’re fucking hopeless.


FROM: The Bloggess

http://www.flickr.com/photos/thebloggess/4308592975/ For you.


My sincere gratitude goes out to the Bloggess for a) indulging me with her flickr post and b) not alerting the authorities. And also to all my friends and family who have put up with endless rounds of emails begging them to vote for me this past week. I promise it won’t happen again. No, really. 

Please feel free to add your own endorsement in the comments section below and remember to Vote 1 for “Not Drowning, Mothering”  before 31st January 10:PM EST (That’s somewhere-in-America time).

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Stupid thumb. Always in the wrong place when I’m finely chopping ginger. Luckily the thumbnail took the bullet. Didn’t need it anyway. Except that now my thumb is more sensitive than an NDM 36 hours before her period starts and putting on a bandaid apparently requires two fully-operational thumbs and, even once I’ve finally managed to just get it on using my teeth, the bandaid turns out to be no damn substitute for an actual nail. Stupid thumb. Stupid thumbnail. Stupid supersensitive skin under thumbnail. Stupid NDM.

Stupid smoke alarm. Every time I start to fry something on the stove, it goes off. Then I have to run around flinging open doors and windows and searching for the broom so I can stand underneath it, fanning it like it’s some Roman emperor, while my dinner starts to actually burn on the stove top. If the smoke alarm is so damn smart, the least it could do is predict next Saturday’s lotto numbers rather than just the fact that we’ll be eating charcoal again tonight. Stupid self-fulfilling prophetic smoke alarm.

Stupid underwire bras. After seven years of wearing maternity and nursing bras, I finally bought one with a bit of scaffolding-support in the hope it would turn my southbound migrants into something a little more Dolly Parton-esque – but without the wig or the freak-show face. And then, after only a few months, the underwire staged a jail-break and I’m back to wireless. And then I read that a woman’s life was saved because a bullet deflected off the underwire of her bra and I started worrying that someone’s sabotaged my bra on purpose because they Want To Kill Me for doing something simple like setting off the smoke alarm again when the News is On. Stupid murderous husband.

Stupid cat. Who will never eat the actual cat food I put out for him but will regularly jump up on the kitchen table to feast upon peanut butter toast and partially-chewed carrot. And then will walk around crying pathetically as if to say “She never feeeeedddssssss me” just in case the Pet Social Welfare Officer happens to drop by. And when they do drop, I’ll probably end up spending four years in a high-security penitentiary because the council will have suddenly announced a zero tolerance policy when it comes to the ill-treatment of animals. And then I’ll have to spend every day writing to the cat from my prison cell, begging him to retract his statement so I can go home to be a Mother To My Children, but my words will go unheeded because the cat can’t read and instead just pisses on the letters because he’s gotten a bladder infection from eating too much peanut butter toast. Stupid incontinent illiterate cat.

Stupid post. Without a proper ending.

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A letter to the principal of [NAME OMITTED] Primary School.

Dear Brett, 

I had the great pleasure of receiving my very first late pass of the year yesterday morning because I was less than five minutes late in getting my eldest child to school. Thank you so much for bestowing me with this great honour. You have no idea what it means to me.  No, really. You have No. Idea. 

You may be wondering why I’ve enclosed a pair of scissors with this letter. Well, there’s a story behind it, just as there is a story behind my tardiness yesterday morning. And I’d really like to share both with you – if you can take the time out from processing all those late passes, that is. 

On my late pass, I wrote “Sore finger required band-aid” as my reason. But actually that was just the tip of the iceberg – or even, tip of the finger, if you’ll allow the joke. Which I hope you will. Because I would hate to have to fill in any further paperwork if you won’t. 

Anyway, we were on the verge of leaving the house when a skirmish broke out between Mr Justice and The Pixie at the front door, causing Mr Justice to “gravely” injure his finger. Actually, to be fair to The Pixie, I think the finger injury was from a few days ago when he pulled the smallest bit of skin off next to his fingernail but then had forgotten about it until The Pixie had dared to pull his finger (not in the comic way, I’m sorry to say). In any case, he decided that the injury required immediate attention – and if sticky-tape can fix any broken object in the minds of my children, band-aids and hugs can fix any human suffering.

But could I find a band-aid? No, Brett, I could not. I could find plenty of empty band-aid boxes in the toiletries cupboard that, handily, maintain the illusion of us having a plethora of band-aids whenever I do a last-minute stock check before the weekly shopping. But not a single band-aid to be found in any one of those boxes.  

In the meantime, The Pixie tried to climb into the Valco Mobile Home by herself and managed to tip the whole thing over onto herself. And at the very same moment, T. McGee, who had emptied the contents of his freshly-filled drink pot onto the floor, slipped over slap-stick style in the puddle of his own creation. They both started crying loudly, so I had to do a quick visual assessment of them both to make sure no bones were broken. Satisfied that they were still intact, I continued trying to find the band-aid because Mr Justice, too, was crying at this point because his finger “hurt so much”, so then they were all wailing and my mobile phone started ringing and somehow all this wasn’t helping me find the band-aid at all and I started shouting in my Linda-Blair-possessed-by-the-devil voice: “WHY. DON’T. WE. HAVE. ANY. BAND-AI… oh, what’s this?”. And there between two hand-towels was one lone band-aid. Of course it would be there. Where else would it be? 

So I administered first-aid on the (apparently) life-threatening injury, gave hugs to all three children, set the pram to rights, mopped up the slipping hazard, refilled Tiddles’ drinky pot, got everyone’s hats on and them into their appropriate seats and we set off to school – some 8 minutes later than I’d intended. 

And yet, despite all that, I was still less than only 5 minutes late. 

But instead of being able to release my child into the classroom to get an education, I had to do a fifteen point turn with the Valco Mobile Home to go back to the School Office, where I found myself blabbing to the largely-indifferent office staff that all three of my children had eaten breakfast, were fully-dressed, wearing sunscreen, hats and matching shoes and even all of us (me included) had clean underpants on and that I had, in fact, made my son’s “litter-free” lunch at 5:45am that morning and cooked everyone pancakes for breakfast and even put on a load of washing before we left and that it Just. Wasn’t. Fair. But no, none of that in any way nullified the five minute delay and the Late Pass was issued. Rules are rules. Apparently. 

And then, when we finally got back to the classroom, the teacher made a big point of thanking Mr Justice for getting a late pass, but she said his name wrong like it was “Mr Jar-stice” and I yapped “It’s Mr Just-ice!” like one of those pathetic half-rat/half-dog things that live in Paris Hilton’s handbag, and then, as much as one can when manouvering the Valco Mobile Home, swept out of the classroom in a huff. I then spent the rest of the day either ranting about Late Passes to anyone who would listen (not many) or feeling terrible that I’d lost my temper and made a scene in the Office and snarled at the teacher all before the first week of school was even finished.  

And so Brett, we come back to those scissors I’ve enclosed with this letter. Those scissors, my friend, are simply for you and your underlings to Cut. Me. Some. Fucking. Slack. 

Yours sincerely,

The NDM.

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