Posts Tagged ‘scratching around your anal region for material for your blog’

I regard my friend Mzzz E as one of my most effective ‘channels to market’  when it comes to my good works as an international trendsetter. After all, when I first briefed her about ‘Awks Giraffe‘, it took less than a week for one of her supercool friends to be using it on Facebook. Yes, Facebook.

So I couldn’t wait to pitch a new trend I’d been working on to her when we caught up the other day.

“I’ve got this idea, right?” I began. “I’m thinking of doing a ‘What’s HOT and what’s NOT list for Christmas’.”

“Tell me about it,” Mzzz E said, all ears.

“Well, because everything I write as being HOT, I end up then dissing anyway and anything that I write as NOT kind of becomes hot simply because I, the NDM, am writing about it… I thought I should morph the two terms so it becomes what is H’NOT this Christmas,” I concluded, triumphantly.

“What?” Mzzzz E said.

“H’NOT!” I repeated, with gusto.

“… And?” Mzzzz E said.

“It’s neither HOT nor NOT. It’s H’NOT!” I repeated again, widening my smile to the point of almost cracking my face in two.

She just looked blankly back at me. At that moment, I swear I could hear a tree falling alone in a forest.

To be honest, I must admit I felt hurt and a little confused. I mean, c’mon people!  She was an instant adopter of ‘Awks Giraffe’ but wasn’t going to touch ‘H’NOT’? The mind boggled. H’NOT was so…. so…. H’NOT!

The topic of conversation swiftly changed and any attempts to put H’NOT back on the table were swiftly dismissed by the obviously discerning Mzzz E. Eventually, I let it go.

Then, yesterday morning, after an hour of sitting at my computer trying to work out what the hell I could write about this week, I burst out of my room, all smiles.

“I’ve got it!” I said to my husband. “I’m going to blog about ‘H’NOT’! And how Mzzz E refused to board the H’NOT train! And how that’s all her mistake because that there train’s an express to the stars, baby!”

[Which, now I think about it, probably makes it more a rocket ship than a train, but somehow, saying Mzzz E was refusing to board the H’NOT rocket ship doesn’t sound as good.]

“You’re really scratching around for material at this time of year, aren’t you?” my husband responded, shaking his head.

“That in its very self is so H’NOT, it’s not funny,” I replied.



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A lot of people say to me “There must be a way to make for you to make some money out of this global phenomenon known as ‘Not Drowning, Mothering'”. And I laugh gaily at the idea that some guy in Paris occasionally reading my blog makes it global. Because it so totally does. And as for “phenomenon”, you could argue that what has recently squirted out of my children’s bottoms is a phenomenon, so yes, “global phenomenon” this blog must surely be. 

But how to make money from it? Getting advertisers on board my site seems near impossible since Huggies won’t touch me because I drink too much and Smirnoff won’t touch me either because I drink too much and all while in charge of small children, no less. And in any case, I could end up like The Bloggess and have to advertise “coochy shaving cream” (True story. See her post entitled “It’s like a cross between being insulted and entertained. I’m insultained.“). Knowing my luck, I’d end up having to do some contractually-obliged and oh-so-casual product placement in my posts (“A lot of people say to me ‘How do you get your coochy so smooth?’…”).

So, other than using this site as a platform to auction off my vital organs, I really couldn’t think of a way of capitalising on Brand NDM. But then a passing comment by regular contributor The Lion Tamer about the nature of the Incredibly Pathetic Crying Lady’s costume got me thinking… The next thing I knew, I had stepped into the heady world of custom merchandising and, after a few hours of pissing about in PhotoShop, had sketched out some initial ideas. Here they are:

The Incredibly Pathetic Crying Lady Action figure!


Okay, okay, so her waist is about as thick as my arm and I've got Buckley's chance of walking in those heels - but what's the point of having an alter-ego if you don't get to look Shit Hot?

The NDM Novelty T-shirt Range

“Because if it ain’t worth saying on a t-shirt, it ain’t worth saying”.


Top Tip: Spice your look up with fresh food stains!


For the record, late passes are best eaten pre-salted with tears.


It's funny how just putting it on a t-shirt makes it true.


"Team Aniston" and "Team Jolie" t-shirts are soooooo 2005.

The NDM Apron Range

For the Happy and Not-So-Happy Homemaker in your life… 


As the Viscomte de Blah Blah Blah said in "Dangerous Liaisons": It's beyond my control.


Because too much is never enough


A Mr NDM Concept. He told me: "You can wear while cooking, and I can wear it when I'm a bit queasy after the pub"

The NDM Home Library

Like my five posts a week doesn’t give people enough to read already…

All Amazing True Stories!

All Amazing True Stories!


Not quite an accurate depiction of my family since we stopped cross-dressing Tiddles shortly before he turned 2. But still...


So there you go. Now, if I can just put these pictures in a PowerPoint presentation and add some animated bullet points, I’ll have myself a marketing plan… And once I’ve got myself a marketing plan, I can start doing complex financial modeling (and that) and maybe even knock up a few charts in Excel. Then I can present those charts to the bank and make them give me Free Money. Free, I tells ya! Well, free for at least for 30 years, but by then it will be my children’s problem…

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When I was a child, the state I lived in turned 150. A Year of Celebrations and Wonder was kicked off with a big New Year’s Eve concert where “Fat Cat”, “Percy Penguin” and “Rolf Harris” headlined. And then Prince Charles planted a tree! Reports vary but it is generally agreed that someone somewhere stayed up til at least midnight revelling and may even have opened a second longneck of Swan Lager. They don’t call it the State of Excitement for nothing. 

And so “150” has always been Very Significant Number to me and, since this is my 150th post and I totally forgot to do anything special for my 100th post, here are some more special numbers…

Number of days since I started blogging = 192

Number of hits I’ve had since I started blogging = 20,073

Average number of hits per day = 104.54

Frequency which my readership-of-three would have had to hit refresh on their browser to achieve that average and thus keep my spirits buoyant = 34.84 times per day or 1.45 times per hour over a 24 hour period. 

Number of times I would think that I, personally, would be able to refresh my browser every hour if I truly ruly loved someone = 60

Number of comments that I’ve received on my blog = 1014

Number of comments excluding hate mail = 7

Number of times I’ve gratuitously mentioned “lactating asian babes”= 7 (including this one – notice the correlation with comments?)

Number of stuffed bears that I’ve gotten drunk = 1

Number of love-heart shaped cakes I’ve made = 7

Number of days I’ve actually owned the love-heart shaped tin that made those cakes = 8

Number of boob cakes I’ve ended up decorating because of all this pressure from people coming to my blogsite to find instructions on how to decorate a boob cake =  2 (or a pair) 

Number of posts I’ve written while completely rat-arsed drunk on cheap fizz = 0

Number of posts people have suspected that I’ve written while completely rat-arsed drunk on cheap fizz = 150

Number of places my technorati rating has risen since I last moaned about it =  748,092 (I’m ranked 672,523 now. Yep, I’m bloggin’ with the Big Boys now)

Number of people who have officially subscribed to my blog = 21

Number of people who have subscribed to my blog who aren’t a blood relative or have done it under duress because I know where they live = 9

Number of lonely whiskies my husband claims to have sobbed into while I stayed up late at night writing = 150 

Number of actual whiskies my husband has enjoyed while he has stayed up late at night listening to Tom Waits = 450 

Number of further significant numbers that I can come up with for this “Night of Night” post = 0

And without further ado, heeerrrrrrrrre’s Fat Cat!



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Recently, I completely lost my writing mojo. How I lost it, I’m not quite sure. I expect that it was through the same kind of carelessness that caused The Pixie to lose all her clothing and suddenly be standing nude in the kitchen – when I asked her what had happened, she said “Because I was wobbling so much.” Anyway, whatever the reason, I had lost that mojo and could not find it anywhere – not even down the back of the couch where almost everything else that I’ve ever lost seems to end up hiding (my virginity, patience and temper excepted). 

So what does an NDM without her mojo do? Not much it turns out, except stare blankly at her screen and then publish a few “back-up” posts that had been languishing away in the Drafts folder instead of freshly-brewed material. But when the back-up material runs out and there are only a few odd posts left with titles like “Fez At Breakfast” and no body material, then what? THEN WHAT?

My good friend KT tried to snap me out of it. “What are we going to do about this?” she asked. 

I replied that I didn’t know. But then I suddenly thought how, at our upcoming mothers’ night out, I might just get Very Drunk Indeed and run down the street naked singing show tunes and surely that would be blog-worthy and get my writerly juices flowing. And I felt this little frisson, like how an evil genius must feel when they’ve just come up with their Ultimate Plan for World Domination. Or even how the Mild-Mannered Lawyer must have felt when she laid the foundations for the Cake Off (see “We’ve got Ourselves a Cake-Off”)

Luckily for everyone, KT quickly diverted me from that particular course of action. “Why don’t you just prepare a game of ‘Truth or Dare’ for everyone to play. Maybe writing some questions will help get the mojo back.”

Okay. So I started writing some “Truth” questions. But after about ten minutes, all I had was:

Which Beverley Hills 90120 character do you think you are?

If you had to snog one of the Wiggles, which one would it be?

Did “Sesame Street” jump the shark when Mr Snuffleupagus became visible to everyone or when Elmo started to do the talk-show circuit?

Which Corey: Hart, Haim or Feldman?

So, you think you can dance?

Yep, it was definitely a Mojo No Show. 

I moved onto the “Dares”: 

Cook a meal that all three of my children will eat that doesn’t include chips.

Toot this recorder in my ear for as long as you can and as loudly as you can and Suffer. The. Consequences. 

Try writing better questions for this game. Go on. You try do it and see how much you like it. 

See? The mojo has gone the way of the missing socks of the house, ne’er to be found again. 

But maybe, just maybe, this is my chance to reinvent myself Madonna-style, perhaps even start wearing a flat-cap and marry a Mockney Geezer, only to end it all in a very public and very bitter divorce and go out with someone 16 years my junior instead. Tasty! It’s so nice to know that, even I’m not able to write anything half-decent ever again, that I have Options. 

In the meantime, if anyone finds my Mojo, could you please send it back to NDM Central as soon as you can? For one thing, its return will ensure I never mention my nudity and flowing juices in the same sentence again. And that’s got to be a good thing. Surely. 

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The other day, I was expressing some mild frustration at my flatlining readership figures by ranting and raving (somewhat like a rabid monkey), when my aunt Care Bear – a much nobler creature than I – gently interrupted me by saying “But isn’t the whole point of your blog to have a creative outlet and not just take part in some online popularity contest?” 

“Um, yes, it’s about the joy of writing, most certainly,” I replied. “But… but… but I want to be everyone’s favourite, too!!!!”

There. I went and said it.

The truth was that those rabid monkey blogs (which rate higher than mine on technorati) got me so het up with all their simian gags and bad spelling, and yet people can’t get enough of them. And don’t get me started about the chunk of cheese that has more than 5000 followers on “twitter” and god knows how many people logging onto its blog site every day. Granted, it’s a very talented chunk of cheese. But still! It’s cheese, people.

Anyway, it’s no point comparing myself to them. They’re in a different league from me altogether. But what was it about my blog that stopped the readership figures from growing? Was it that my readership quickly tired of me, left and then got replaced by three new people? Or was it that my readership-of-three flatly refused to share me with anyone else (“NDM, my precioussssssss, we don’t like those other bad tricksy readerssssss”)? Or was it just that I kept rehashing my jokes (such as the Gollum one)?

Whatever the reason, I was determined to do something about it. Since coming up with fresh or interesting material just seems like too much hard work, I started signing up to things that all the Big Time bloggers use, such as “Technorati” and “FeedBurner”. And pretty soon there I was, activating FeedBurner’s email subscription service and then merrily subscribing to my own blog to see if the thing worked. And lo! Half a day later, I had the utter thrill of receiving an email update from myself (the resulting frisson was a little like flushing the toilet before you rise) and felt that, surely, my star was now going to rise and those subscriptions would come rolling in. 

HOWEVER, the next time I went to FeedBurner, this is what it told me:


Zero subscriptions? Not even my own? Hang on a minute… Could it be that, even though I tricksily used another email address and everything, FeedBurner knew it was really just me in disguise and therefore won’t count it as a real subscription? OR could it be that I actually have hundreds – perhaps thousands – of subscribers and FeedBurners has been instructed to hide them from from me?

And who, you may be asking, would instruct such a thing? Well, let’s just say I think that the folk from Google might have been on the phone to FeedBurner, since Google recently bought FeedBurner and now FeedBurner is Google’s bitch. And let’s face it, Google are all too aware of what a sad sorry little person I am. Not only do they know that I have – one more than one occasion – googled the term “Google” because I had nothing else meaningful to do with my life (as previously confessed in another post), but that I regularly google such terms as:

“bacon bra”

blow job Big Brother

dark chocolate Incas

do the boys ever sing in the Venga Boys?

esther head trapped bleak house

excessive itchy bottom at night only

moo milk man milk

stalker pathological obsession

“Today Tonight” shocking expose house slum

thing at the bottom of the fridge

“you wouldn’t shit in your neighbour’s hat”

So knowing all of this and guessing what I might be capable of, Google probably thinks the only course of action is to break my spirit and stop me from blogging. It’s the only way I can explain why FeedBurner would show that I have no subscribers.

But I’m not going to let Google win. Oh no, not I. You see Google might be a mighty search engine and all but I, too, am a force to be reckoned with. I have access to such tools as “The Secret” website (which I had to find using google, unfortunately) and Photoshop and thus am able to change FeedBurner’s so-called Feedstat graphics into a positive affirmation, helping me utilise the Law of Attraction and “empowering me to live a life of joy”:


So it has been photoshopped and so it shall come to pass…

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Sometimes listening to people recounting conversations they’ve had with their children is a little like listening to them recounting their dreams. I always want to stay interested and listen to all the little details but … (*yawn*)… 

And yet, at the risk of starting to sound like I’m writing in to “That’s Life!” magazine (you have to love that exclamation mark in its title – the enthusiasm! the excitement! the hysteria!!), I’d like to present three of the gems I’ve recently collected from the mouths of babes (not talking vomit or choking hazards here, folks). Of course there is no actual thematic link between these three gems except that they all involve children – and not even necessarily my children at that. 

Filler post? Because I got up at 3am yesterday to watch the Inauguration and I still haven’t recovered?

You bet, baby. You bet!


I recently had the pleasure of hearing Mr Justice’s account of why one of the textas had been left overnight without its lid on:

“It’s all [Pixie’s] fault. I saw her playing with the texta in Hot Shot Land and she didn’t put the lid back on. And she made me brain-washed so I couldn’t put the lid back on either.”

Uh, okay.


“It would be so great if all the world were Cadbury’s,” announced Mr Justice’s friend the Calrissian.

“Well then, I could eat your arm,” I pointed out, despite myself. That ad campaign where all the world is made of chocolate, including the people, gets me riled. There’s a chocolate boy who eats the hair of the person blocking their view of the cinema screen and everyone laughs. Ho, ho, ho. So funny. But what if he’d not stopped at the hair and started eating the other person’s brains… Suddenly, no-one’s laughing anymore, right? Particularly the person who’s brains are being eaten. 

“Everyone would be Cadbury’s except my friends and cousins,” the Calrissian mused, after some thought on the matter and not because I’d just shared the brain-eating scenario with him – that would be Irresponsible.  “[Mr Justice] could eat you and his brother and sister could eat their dad.”

“But if [Mr Justice] ate me, then who would wash his clothes and make his lunches?” I asked, secretly angling for some kind of recognition for the hard work I do. 

“He would be okay because he’d have all your money,” was the Calrissian’s quick response, obviously a member of the “user pays” generation. 

I got a bit desperate at this point in the conversation and appealed to my silent son. “You’d miss me, though, wouldn’t you [Mr Justice]?”

Mr Justice merely shrugged. After all, we’re talking chocolate here. 


A friend’s son asked her how to spell certain swear-words – not so that he could use them but just so he could recognise them. After some thought, my friend agreed, especially when she realised that the words he was asking about didn’t get much more offensive than “bloody hell” and “fart”. After compiling a list that resembled more the 1950s Australian City Gent than the bad mo’ fo’ pimp-brother coming at you from the streets, he skipped off happily, only to return a few minutes later.

“Oh, and mum…” he said. “How do you spell fuck-face?”

Uh… okay. 


Now wasn’t that just hil-ar-ious? After all this History-in-the-Making, Winds-of-Change, Ding Dong the Double-Ya’s Dead excitement, wasn’t that just the ticket? Well, obviously, after my recent lack of sleep, I thought so – particularly since I got to use the word “fuck-face”. I wonder if the editors of “That’s Life!” magazine will feel the same when they receive my submission, though. Perhaps I should just send in some petrified vomit sliced up in perfect choking hazard-sized chunks instead. Just a thought.

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I almost jumped out of my seat with excitement when my cousin L-Beer recently told me about her mothers’ group. It was just as well I didn’t, as I was in a moving vehicle at the time and we all know that jumping out of one of those seats either leads to grave injury or, at the very least, being issued an official warning by a passing policeman. 

You see, L-Beer lives in the Eastern Suburbs of Another City – an area famed for  its New Mothers working off their baby fat two days after the birth by doing “pramercise” along the esplanade and frequenting solariums with creche facilities. So when I caught up with my beloved cousin at her parent’s house recently, I asked her about her mother’s group, thoroughly expecting that her description would make me clench my fat lily-white fists in not-so-silent rage. However that’s not what happened at all. If anything, those pudgy white fists o’ mine were punchin’ the air when she was done.  

Firstly, she reassured me that her mothers’ group was nothing like the horror stories I’d heard (and no doubt bored her with in that bombastic way of mine) and that she’d fallen in with a great bunch of girls. And to prove the point, she went on to tell me about how, on the first night they went out together, they went around the table each sharing with the group what they’d done BC (Before Children). I think I might have stifled a yawn at this stage of her story, expecting that they’d all revealed themselves to be PR reps for footballer’s wives or professional Brand Advocats for Prada. But no! One of them – somewhat reluctantly – admitted to the group that she was a Psychic. 

“Oh, oh, oh!” I exclaimed, perking up immediately.”Does she ever say stuff like ‘Let’s not meet at the park next Thursday because I sense rain…’ or are you ever tempted to ring her up with those day-to-day parenting dilemmas like ‘Should  I put Baby C down for a nap at home now and be late for my lunch date or should I run the risk of her not sleeping in the car and be on time?’ or even ask her what the hell to make for dinner tonight? Or… or… or…”

I might have gone on (and on) with that oh-so-amusing tangent, except L-Beer told me to Stop Right There, Sister-Girlfriend-Cousin-Whatever because the Psychic wasn’t the night’s biggest “reveal”. That came from an even more unassuming woman who owned up to being a Dominatrix.

“Aarrrrggghhh!” I shouted, literally beside myself with excitement by now. “Does she dress her baby in leather onesies? I can bet there’s one household where the Naughty Spot’s not just a chair in the corner but a room with chains and spikes and…. Oooh, does she ever say stuff like ‘Spare the rod, spoil the child’? Do you think she ever threatens anyone with the whip?? Hmmmm, I guess you could count on her children being extremely well-behaved. And… and… and…”

I started groping around in my handbag for my pen and paper to  a) write some of this Comedy Gold down before I totally forgot it and b) to get L-Beer to sign some kind of release form to allow me to use it on my blog. 

“Wowzers!” I enthused, looking up from my notebook temporarily and noting the rather bemused and possibly frightened look on L-Beer’s face. “This blog post is writing itself!”

As it turned out, the blog didn’t exactly write itself and as usual I’ve had to “write it in fits and starts… with small children dangling off me like christmas decorations” (just to somewhat tragically quote myself – see “The NDM Guide to Blogging“).  And doesn’t it just show? But I love it how, just when I think I’ve come to the end of my bloggin’ road, I have a conversation like that one or the cat walks in with a mouse in his mouth or the children get possessed by the devil at the local shopping centre or the Love Bus turns a 3 hour trip into an 8 hour one by breaking down in the middle of nowhere (that post is still to come), and lo! I’m back in Bloggin’ Business, baby.

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