My Week with no Work emails….

My work server has been down all week which means I’ve had no e-mails; this has resulted in sitting around waiting for the zillion e-mails I generally receive on a daily basis.

While waiting. This is what I have done all week….


Read reviews on magnetic eyelashes……..and purchased.

Purchased 98 multiple patterned toilet rolls.

Designed graffiti, made out of moss, for an outside wall at my house AND went out for a walk and sourced the moss.

Looked online at a Golden Retriever and it’s green pup.

Spent one hour being disappointed that MSN had removed the ‘comments’ section. WHY, WHY?……Then spent five minutes every hour staring aimlessly at the computer wondering why it still wasn’t back on.

Stalked all the partners of my Facebook friends and worked out which ones I would marry if they carked it/got divorced (male and female).  Then Googled ‘could I be bisexual?’.  I then decided that if I ‘was’ to get married…….I would probably have to shave my legs every day.  And that is not going to happen.

Decided that I didn’t want to get married so Googled ‘what is an Applet?’ and ‘What is Rich Media?’….and still have no idea.

I then spent quite a bit of time looking at female Ninja Warriors that have finished the course, thinking, ‘I could do that’ and ‘Put your tits away’.

Then I read the fuss about the deaf Australian Ninja Warier; but MSN comments were still not available, so that wasn’t very interesting, it did, however, link me to the dead Ninja stuntman.  So I read that.

I then remembered to Google my daughters request for a school project that was; ‘What sound does a Unicorn make?’.  I’m still not convinced I have got a result for her.


On Tuesday I spent an hour on line Googling various topics like……..

‘Can my children see ghosts?’

Tara Reid’s new look.

Delta Goodrems advert that got banned because she wasn’t wearing a seat belt.

Pinks ‘Mommy shaming.  BOTH occasions; cooking AND the microwave.

Is Kate pregnant?

And, ‘Louise Minchin suffers embarrassing wardrobe malfunction on BBC Breakfast’. I have no idea who she is and why she was wearing such an ugly dress back to front, but it did prompt me to throw out the exact same dress hanging in my wardrobe.

I then just wrote random comments (clearly not on MSN) saying that I had felt the Avalon earthquake in Potts Point and joined various forums discussing the chance of a tsunami.  The conclusion; lots of people have way too much free time.


By mid week I was a bit more productive and decided to put together a cunning plan to stop my children loving McDonalds so much.  I saved the video of the alive chicks going into the mincer and coming out as pink goo and proudly showed it to the kids in the evening.  My daughter burst into tears and Danger, my son, just laughed and ran around the house pretending to be a chicken.

Googled ‘Is my son a psychopath?’


By Thursday e-mail still wasn’t sorted so I started to communicate via text, phone and messenger.  One customer even Facetimed me without warning.  Which is odd as I really only Facetime people by accident in my bag.  I have no idea if she had worked out that my hair was tied up with a pair of knickers, or if she thought I had gone ‘all 80’s’ with a scrunchy.  It was a lot like talking to my mum on Skype; just reversed on this occasion

I then spent A LOT of time looking at the beauty/travel blogger Amelia Liana’s Instagram account and shouting ‘you photo shopped yourself in!’ and ‘What’s with the pink filter?’ at my lap top.

Her trip to Italy had me in stiches and I really couldn’t work out how she found a couple of Lobsters at Lake Como; until I realised they were a pair of Alohas Sandals.

Made an appointment with the optometrist.


Italy made me reminisce about my own time living there; eating my body weight in Pannacotta, learning how to say ‘Bruschetta’ correctly, driving my own Fiat into other Fiats and buying shit in Auchan.  I also realised that I had been to Ponte Vecchio on quite a few occasions and had absolutely no idea how ‘Amelia’ successfully pulled off a midday picnic like that.

(Come to think of it; where on earth does she purchase designer shoes for her enormous size 12 feet?).


Punto Vecchio in reality looks more like this….(with lots of normal sized feet).


Based on that I needed to find out more on Amelia Liana. Was Gina Liano her secret mum (I’ll let you do the comparison) and how did Amelia manage to photo shop herself onto a private YSL jet to Paris?  Wiki gave me nothing; so I just resorted to just thinking she was just a lucky girl with an outdated balayage and a dog that must spend an inordinate amount of time in kennels………(while she is at home photo shopping herself into Marrakesh).  I concluded that she must have been short of time when photo shopping herself against a pink wall in LA.

Anyway, with enthusiasm I started photo shopping myself and the kids into exotic destinations; believing that I too could have this as a new career and have loads of Insta followers.  I stopped once I photo shopped the kids guinea pig, Squeak, visiting the Taj Mahal.


Pretty realistic.


On Thursday afternoon I decided to pick my son up early from day-care.  He simply shouted ‘McDonalds’ at me and continued to follow my daughter around the house all evening doing his chicken impressions.

Cue tears from my daughter.

And me frantically Googling:

‘Help, my son is a psychopath’ and,

‘How to make Vegan friendly nuggets’.


This morning my work e-mails started to come through. So back to work we go!  I did manage, however, to look at a video on how to neatly fold my undies up into little spring rolls ready to pop into my bag with a tampon.  Sadly, on practising, my nanna knickers looked more like a rolled up sleeping bag smoking a white cigar with a tail.

On a more positive note I do now know that a unicorn sounds like a ‘harpsicord on crack’ or a ‘neigh with tinkling in the background’.

Not sure how my daughter is going to present that at school though…………

Internet Dating – My Three Dates with Mr Mockney; the ‘LibManChild’ – Innit!

Ahhhhh the 40+ year old bachelor that’s never been married or been in a serious relationship. That breed of male that has not had to think about anyone else; other than themselves. Ever.

I must have had rocks in my head when I agreed to go out on a date with ‘The Mockney Lawyer’. If you read my earlier posts you will remember that the ‘Mockney Lawyer’ had been on the scene for a while now. He’d been overseas for about six months ‘finding himself’ and came back to Sydney for three weeks for a quick change of underpants before dashing off to the USA last week for his final ‘personal discovery’.

My sane mind should have told me that any man that needs to go on a ‘self-discovery tour’, at nearly 43, was a bit of a red flag.

Furthermore, his last e-mail before boarding the plane, and turning left, was;

I’m one of life’s lucky people’.

Errrrrrrrrm OK?……….Does your band of merry followers carry your ego and hand you chicken voluvants in the first class lounge?

This, coupled with the fact that most of his overseas trip seemed to have been in Ibiza staying at Ushuaia; an adults only hotel with a day and evening nightclub in the grounds that offers it’s guests on arrival bottled oxygen and an erotic kit, consisting of vibrator and lubricant, meant that I really should have told him to go ‘be lucky’ elsewhere.

club3 club2 club

I actually have no problem with places like Ushuaia, but at 43? I went to places like that when I was in my 20’s and early 30’s.

I’m also still not sure what he was doing with his male friend in a room that looked like this.


Sucking up only oxygen one would hope?


I was, however, quite taken by his e-mails, we had been in regular contact for over three months and he was handsome, witty, humorous and intelligent and he also seemed to ‘get me’. I was curious as to why he hadn’t been snatched up by some other shrewd female.

So, he lands back in Sydney, with, I calculated, possibly four ‘erotic kits’ on his person and I was excited with the prospect of meeting this Mockney fellow and finding out what made him tick. I had actually grown quite fond of him.

And so…….I waited to hear from him…………..and I waited…………..and I waited…………

…………and I waited a little bit more.

……and then even more….

(another red flag one thinks?).

(Maybe he was preoccupied with his multiple erotic kit after having spent 24 hours cooped up at the front of the plane with them?)

Finally he contacted me on FB to simply say ‘hello’. Me, being the sort of straight forward common sense person thought, ‘OK, let’s take this to the next stage and talk’, so I suggested that he called me. The message was ‘seen’; and to my surprise there was no response and again I was waiting, waiting, waiting……..

So……… a moment of frustration, and I would like to think clarity, I wrote ‘chickenshit’, blocked him on FB and turned my phone off – Humph!

Apparently that vexed him. He was angry at being called a chicken shit. So what did he do? Nothing. He sat on his bachelor couch watching his beloved Arsenal play while eating the Walnut Whips I’d politely requested he bring back from the UK.

arsenal walnut-whip

Anyway, we cleared the air and not wanting to get into the finer details, we did eventually catch up when he wasn’t ‘seeing a man about a dog’.

(He was ALWAYS seeing a man about a dog).

Our two dinner dates were surprisingly pleasant; although he did spend a disproportionate amount of time looking at other women and he most certainly enjoyed flashing his Rolex and black Amex. By the second date he felt comfortable enough to tell me that he found me ‘passive aggressive’ and that it jarred his ‘sensitivity’.

I’ve been called a few things in my life, but never ‘passive aggressive’. To be honest I had to tipsily wobble to the posh restaurant toilets to Google the meaning and find out that it meant I was hostile, stubborn and sullen with possible ‘daddy issues’. What a kick in the teeth that was. I always thought I was side splittingly funny with a steak of sarcasm.

It was, however, a pleasant evening, marred only by my supposed aggression.

So, mindful of my new mental illness I agreed on a third date and this time at his home. I considered a snoop around his residence would at least uncover a few mysteries of this totally puzzling bachelor.

This is what I saw:

  • The Morrissey Autobiography. He had apparently spent two days in bed reading it. At university I had always found that anyone keen on Morrissey, or The Smiths, was typically a posh leftie student whose idea of being a rebel was to be late to mum’s Sunday dinner.
  • Photographs on his fridge of Mr Mockney in his late 20’s partying and I quote; ‘time of my life that was, Ibiza, September 1997 with Dave, Mark and Andy etc.’.
  • Nothing in the fridge; unless a bottle of champagne counts as nutrition.
  • A dusty guitar in the bedroom that needed tuning.
  • Bongos.
  • And, the pièce de résistance, some wheels of steel or the ‘one and twos’ twin mixing decks in his front room. These monsters were positioned on a stage and took over a very large section of the room. It was a mini disco.


Me, nervously, ‘shall we have a cup of tea?’, as I sat there anxiously waiting for the four vibrators to make an entrance. At one point I even asked if he could DJ for me. Ha!

Anyway, off he popped to America and I still naively thought there would be ‘some’ communication. He sent one e-mail saying he was thinking of relocating to Austin, Texas to open a record shop. A week later I received a picture of him firing a small gun at a range with the singular comment ‘innit’.

You can imagine I’d had enough by then.

I’m not going to publish the whole e-mail that I sent in reply to his gun photo, but it started like this:

‘This went to my junk mail.

Not sure what you want me to say.

Maybe next time you can aim at your head?

Anyway, I’ve just checked my “things to do” list. Wallpapering the inside of my fridge was right at the top of the list, unfortunately giving a toss about you isn’t there. You want to find yourself? I can tell you exactly where you are; Right up your own arse.’

I then finished it as follows:

‘I’ve attached a little Venn diagram just in case any other the above is unclear, or, if your hangover/ego means that comprehension of the above is impossible.




I do so like using the word Sayonara.

In the aftermath I’ve tried defining that he actually was. He was a complete oxymoron. Mr Mockney was ‘Libman’, a well-read middle class leftie that was well intentioned at times, although rather intense, and this was polarised by his ‘Man Child’ tendances where he was clearly rooted in a particular stage of his life; Still ‘the lad’, up for a pint and permanently engaged in holding middle age at bay.

Anyway, I’m going to call him ‘LibManChild’………….


I’m just gutted that he stuffed his face with my Walnut Whips.


Make Up, Miley Cyrus and ‘That’ Troubled Towel….

My next door neighbour cleaned his house out in August and gave my three year old a Hannah Montana beach towel that belonged to his young daughter. Ironically he gave it to me the day after Miley Cyrus infamously ‘Twerked’ at the MTV awards.miley

We both had a bit of a dry giggle about this.

When my daughter saw the towel she was absolutely thrilled:

‘Ahhhh, look mummy’, she said, ‘a princess’.

‘Certainly darling’, I said…………………(rolling eyes) as I started to cook dinner.

Anyway, yesterday I was cleaning my house and my daughter was suspiciously quiet, and, anyone with children knows that this immediately means they are up to no good.

And she was……………

There she was with my makeup bag in hand, lipstick, nail polish, eyeliner, mascara everywhere.

She had even attempted to apply some make-up to her face.

11 13 14 15 19 20 21

Oh well, it could have been worse, I thought, as I took these photographs.

Then my daughter she did something really strange.  She started doing the Miley Cyrus signature tongue pose!

GT1  3 4 2 miley-cyrus-tongue-nyc-twitter imagesCA0RST15 imagesCAF03EFE


Other than THAT towel my daughter has never seen Miley Cyrus, Hannah Montana or the MTV awards. I have no idea what influenced her to start posing like that.

It’s the towel, it’s the towel!  It’s possessed my child!  My head was screaming!

Anyway, I’m just thankful she didn’t start ‘Twerking’.

The ‘troubled’ towel is now in the bin.

The Joys of Being ‘Shafted’ While Having Botox….

I had Botox done yesterday, I know, I know, vain, but I’m beginning to look like the before and after meth ads; and my ‘dishevelled looks’ are not due to a drug addiction.



That’s not me, but I look worse than that.  Being a sleep deprived single mum with two kids has definitely taken it’s toll.

At the appointment I immediately recognised that ‘Mrs Doctor Botox’ was a peculiar lady but I was willing to ignore this character trait because I had heard ‘she was good’.

On finding out I was a single mum with two small children she cocked her head to one side and said,

‘How do you cope?’

I gave my standard answer, ‘I just do’. Giving the impression of being a strong, independent woman.

In truth, however, what I really wanted to say to her was; ‘What the f*ck do you think I do? Put my kids in a cardboard box with a sandwich when I want my own space? Of course I’m not coping. Please just shut the f*ck up, do your job, please inject the shit out of my forehead so at least I can pretend I look happy and then I can get back to work’.

She gave me one of those self-satisfied smiles and said;

‘I was lucky, I had au pairs’.

I mean, honestly, what can I say to that?

Me, pretending to gush, ‘Oh you were sooooo lucky’

Smiles. Awkward silence.

Anyway, Mrs Doctor Botox told me to lie down and start breathing in the gas. I mean come on, I’ve needed laughing gas to cope with some of the painful little pricks I’ve dated in the past but surely it’s not required for this simple procedure?

It was, however, offered so I sucked that gas down and immediately felt numb and giggly. Niceeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Then, Mrs Doctor Botox did something very strange, while injecting my head she started talking about having a lift installed in her new property, ‘it’s good to have a nice long shaft’, she said, followed by, ‘it’s important that the shaft goes in really nice and deep’.

And….even more bizarre was that each time she said the word ‘shaft’ she emphasized it.


You know those moments in time when you wonder ‘am I dreaming this?’.  At first I wasn’t really sure if it was the gas, but knew it wasn’t.  I really don’t know why I attract them, but I have always been a magnet for nut jobs all my life. When I lived in London, I could guarantee that any mental case on the tube would find me….even if they had boarded the train two carriages down.

Anyway, there’s no results yet.  I understand I have to wait four days for any ‘movement’ so am guessing that by the weekend I’m either going to be looking remarkably ‘fresh’, emerge like Herman Munster with a furrowed brow or have to study lifts so I can go back to Mrs Doctor Botox and actually join in her ‘shaft’ conversation for some follow up work.



I have visions of Mrs Doctor Botox yesterday evening having a cup of tea with her husband;

‘I did that shafting conversation with a new client today’. Gosh I do love talking random shit to a client when they are on the laughing gas’.

‘Slinky Gate’, Boy Wonder and a Broken Taj Mahal Snow Globe….


Boy Wonder, my sons father, has always been socially awkward and a bit ‘peculiar’ when it comes to buying gifts. I put it down to his upbringing.  He told me he grew up with one of those families that ‘don’t do birthdays, Christmas or any celebration, just the occasional ‘tasty treat’ (while rubbing hands with glee).

To top it all, the family don’t drink alcohol, which in itself is fine (everyone to their own), but his mother would proffer ‘Appletise’ and fizzy raspberry water at the dinner table saying, ‘Red or white wine?’.

You can’t fool me with that non-alcoholic rubbish!

‘Mrs Boy Wonder’ was a lovely lady and she had a remarkable fixation with microwave cooking, baking Betty Crocker packet mix ‘tasty treats’ and buying gadgets that do two or more jobs rather than its original purpose.  From what I could see she had never cooked a meal unless it was created in a microwave. I have visions of ‘Mrs Boy Wonder’ nuking the family meals in five minutes flat, knocking back her Appletise, and in giddy excitement spending the rest of the evening rearranging her Dymo labelled Tupperware while her 3 iRobot Roomba 500 Series cleaned the floor.

Anyway, while we were dating (that’s me and Boy Wonder, not me and his mother) I celebrated Valentine’s Day. I say ‘I celebrated’ because I purchased new lingerie, tarted myself up and spent hours looking for the perfect present and card for him.

Unlike my attempts to be romantic, Boy Wonder bought me a slinky, some stickers that smelt of pizza and forgot dinner.  Romantic.

Yes, I repeat, it was a slinky and pizza stickers that look like this………….


‘Slinky Gate’ I call it. That day I knew we were finished.  Then I found out I was pregnant. We split and Boy Wonder is now a father to a little eight month old boy, my son.

Boy Wonder is completely out of his comfort zone being a dad, but he does buy his son some fantastic gifts. I’ve Instagramed them here in an attempt to make them look appealing. I do suspect, however, that most are ‘last minute’ acquisitions.

Trip to Thailand (definitely Bangkok Airport)

  • Thai nail clippers, just what every 6 month old baby needs.


  • Thai elephant snow globe, complete with severed trunk.

ele eleh

Trip to India: (Terminus unknown)

  • Taj Mahal snow globe, minus glittery snow, water or even the plastic casing. (Boy Wonder smashed it in his suitcase).


  • Sparkly sari with glitter attached by ‘Indian spit’. You may have seen the shimmering dust storm in Sydney when it was taken out of my washer?

Here is my son in complete awe of the razor-sharp snow globe in his glittery onesie that was washed with the sari.


I’m not being ungrateful at all and Boy Wonder is not short of cash; of course it helps when you have a family that doesn’t drink alcohol.  In conclusion I suspect Boy Wonders emotional/social cells were probably damaged with all the childhood microwave radiation he received from his mother’s cooking.

Anyway, my son can’t wait for his dads next overseas trip….careful son, don’t cut yourself….


The Mummy and Her Milestone – Yawn….

It was officially Sydney’s last day of winter yesterday and it was a beautiful one, around 26 deg. My weekends are pretty simple really, I try and relax (impossible) and usually take the children to Sydney’s Botanical Gardens where my daughter typically finds a new friend to play with, amuses herself with her kite, feeds the ducks and eels (yes eels) or chases bubbles.

Here she is running up towards the park.


There is a usual cross mix of families that come to these gardens on any given day. I find that the ‘standard’ family (what is standard?) generally do not want to be interrupted by my daughter during their own weekend ‘family time’. I acknowledge and respect that. By default my daughter generally lands up playing with other children of single parents. I am sure that’s because we are both simply grateful for some ‘time out’.

‘Keep running around dear daughter, yes, keep running, faster and faster’.

Yesterday I experienced ‘suburban family visiting the city’. You can spot them from a mile off, lots of food in cling film, Crocs, an overuse of Disney branding, large floral hair accessories and a pram worth more than my car. They were feeding the ducks when my daughter asked if she could play with their children.

The mothers first comment was:

‘How old is your daughter?’
Me, ‘Hello, how are you?  She’s three and a half’.
Her, ‘Oh, Madison-Lee-Jane is three. My daughter is a lot taller than yours and she’s younger. She’s very tall and quite advanced for her age.’
Me, ‘errmmmm, yes’, I said, frowning (I so need botox).

I felt very sad looking at my small ‘challenged’ daughter grinning at me inanely in her cheap $15 dress from China and chocolate all over her face.

I’ve never really understood these ‘milestones’ figuring that should my children not be walking, eating solids, speaking, writing or anything that I/my doctor would consider ‘normal’; then there may be a problem and I’ll flag it appropriately.

Besides my daughter isn’t a midget and I believe she is reaching all the correct milestones.

Anyway, I took a look at the father, he looked like a right wanker. A sweeping statement I know, but I could tell, I’ve dated 80% of them.

His ‘tall’ three year old then threw the ducks bread into the water but it landed on the grass instead. (ha! She’s not that clever afterall). My daughter politely picked it up off the grass and gave it back to her. Wanky Dad snatched it out of his daughters hand and proceeded to throw it, by himself, to the ducks. Selfish prick. His wife, clearly embarrassed (well you married him love, suck it up sunshine, you both have Crocs on), pleaded with him to give a piece of the bread to the kids so they could join in the fun. He eventually relented and gave each child, including my daughter, a piece of bread no larger than 2mm square.

Who did he think he was Mr Bumble from Oliver?

‘Please sir, can I have some more?’.

What a miserable bastard.

Talk about milestones.

I felt like saying to the mother;

‘Your daughter may be taller but your husband is still stuck at the emotional level of an eight year old’.

…………..but I didn’t.

Some days I am very grateful to be by myself.

On another note, it’s Father’s Day today, so I was going to paint a moustache on my face to celebrate.  Unfortunately this doesn’t seem to be required as it appears that I am quite capable of producing one myself naturally these days.

Ho hum….

Internet Dating….The odds and good, but the goods are odd!

With two young children it is near impossible to get out on dates or even meet a partner, and, to be honest it’s the last thing on my mind right now. My hearts really not in it and the thought of having to get ready, find a babysitter, shave my legs and do my hair etc., just for a date,  seems like too much hard work. I do, however, live in hope that I will meet someone eventually and, as most people say, you meet the right person when you are least looking. Problem is, most women seem to meet their husbands at work and, as I work from home, it looks like I’m going to be hooking up with a home invader….

In view of the fact that I am ‘home invader-less’ right now I’ve done a bit of internet dating and a guy through my work also wants to be ‘friends’. The catch is internet dating seems to work on the premise that ‘The odds are good, but the goods are odd’ and the man through work is also the ‘married but she doesn’t understand me and we stay together for the kids sake’ type. Oh yawn. I am most certainly not going there. I have always found it quite strange why anyone would stay together for the sake of the children. It so old school and ‘twin set and pearls’ quaint. I couldn’t think of anything worse than going home and sharing a house, eating dinner with and jumping into bed with someone I secretly disliked.  It would totally stop me from having regular bowel movements.

Anyway, the funny thing is, constipation aside, the more I ignore the internet suitors and the married men, the more they persevere. Today I was contacted by an old married friend on FB, it was 2.30am in the UK, ‘I’m just up late and feeling horny’, he said, ‘Shall we Skype or Snapchat?’. Of course I declined with a ‘get f*cked’ and before I de-friended him I quickly checked out his FB wall.  It’s his wife’s 30th birthday this weekend and she’s expecting a diamond ring from him. When he’s singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to her I’ll try and interrupt it with a ‘Snap Chat’ session. See how much he likes that, wanker.  (There’s also a lump of coal, diamond, constipation joke there too, isn’t there?).

Anyhow, as far as internet dating goes there is currently ‘Boy Woy’ and a promising ‘Mockney Lawyer’ that appears to ‘get me’.

The last ten unsolicited texts from ‘BoyWoy’ ended as follows; ‘I’ve had a few wines…Think I want you’, this was accompanied by a selfie in his bedroom, thankfully clothed, in three quarter length camo cargo pants and way too much hair gel.  Come to think of it; naked may have been an improvement. Yawn.

The last e-mail from the promising hot ‘Mockey Lawyer’ used the word ‘nomenclature’ in it and, I’m going to sound really uneducated here, I didn’t have the faintest idea what he was going on about so had to Wickipedia it. Can you date someone that you have to Wickipedia? Shit, if there’s no internet connection I’ll have to carry a dictionary and thumb through it secretly in the toilet.

More to follow….