Monday, 19 June 2017

I'm pretty sure Jeanswest has photoshopped my face into their latest campaign without my permission? And now they owe me half a million dollars.

Ok so ... apparently I'm in the new Jeanswest ad? Except I don't remember the photoshoot, maybe I was in a drunken blackout at the time except I don't drink? Or I have a doppleganger like Lindsay Lohan in Parent Trap when she was cute and adorable before the drugs took hold?

Call me crazy (ha because I am but that's beside the point lol dot com) ... but is this me? Bottom left hand corner? Complete with stupid pout and finger pose?

The most disturbing thing about this photo is that my phone battery is on a mere ten percent, giving me a high alert panic station ... but let's zoom in, SHALL WE??


It's me I mean who else has such a cauliflower nose? Frankly I want to take the pic to a hairdresser and get my hair done like that because it's kind of awesome but that's not the real issue here. So, Jeanswest ... I'm putting you on notice and issuing you an ultimatum. Prove that that red-haired woman with the tuckshop fat arm kind of squished like that .. is not me. Show me a picture of the model who posed for that photo - but I don't think you can because YOU HAVE APPEARED TO PHOTOSHOP ME INTO THE PICTURE. Thank you to sharp-eyed reader Emma who found this pic on Insta and sent to me. Congratulating me on the photoshoot I never participated in. There's a few things to consider here:

1) I'm giving you free publicity.

2) I have four repeat four lawyers phone numbers in my handy dandy mobile phone because I've been in a LOT of legal issues the past few years but one of those numbers is a shit-hot criminal lawyer in Sydney who I'm pretty sure will take on the case even though last time we spoke I yelled at him and hung up because I am an angry angry woman.

3) The world doesn't like angry angry women. I'm not angry about this I'm finding it quite amusing but come on. You've erased the moles from my face, I've grown those moles for 45 years. You've hurt my moles feelings.

4) My fee for appearing in your ad is half a million dollars. Also I demand the clothes I'm apparently wearing in the pic because I DO like that jumper but did you have to put the pinky finger up to my face like Austin fricken Powers?


5) As well as my half a million dollars fee you owe me another half a million dollars for damages. Ok I'm already damaged but you have allegedly used my likeness without permission.

6) For many years now, my shit has been ripped off - my ideas, my blog posts, etc. A woman from a very well known news outlet once accidentally cc'd me into an email which went a little something like this:

"Follow Eden's blog writing closely, monitor what she writes. Lift her ideas and re-write them as our own." I did reply to this woman who never replied back even though my reply was hilarious because I don't really care especially at the moment I'm just trying to stay alive and hopeful in a hopeless world.

7) Please respond to this website entry by close of business today or you're going to owe me ANOTHER half a million dollars just for the hell of it. And I technically have no business hours because I'm not a business but let's make it 10pm. Ok midnight.

My son Rocco doesn't think this is a pic of me but I do and I've now pulled out the big guns by sending the pics to my mother for verification. My mum knows what's up, she gave birth to that face as well as the rest of my body. So Jeanswest, I've dobbed on you to my mum omg you guys are in so much trouble if you can't prove this isn't me.

Lastly, here's me right now on the morning of 19th June 2017 recreating the dumb pose. Pic taken by my 9yro son who STILL doesn't believe it's me, whose side are you on, ROCCO?!

                                                THE REAL SLIM SHADY

                              THE ALLEGED PHOTOSHOPPED FAKE SLIM SHADY

Nobody puts photoshopped Eden in a corner. Balls in your court, Jeanswest. (Balls lol.) This is not a joke. Eagerly awaiting your response to this utter travesty of justice. (Serious I want money for this shit because I've been threatened with eviction quite a few times this past year and I need cold hard cash. Hard lol.)




Monday, 29 May 2017

"Mum ... can't you just poo your bipolar out?"

My youngest son asked me if I could just poo my bipolar out. I told him if only it were that easy .. because having manic depression is pretty shit. We'd just spent a while talking about our brains, our moods, depression, the vital importance of talking about how we feel to the people who love us. And bipolar - man did we talk about bipolar. As per usual, he had a lot of questions.

"So, it's a disease in your brain?"
"Does that mean I'll get it?"
"When will it stop?"
"But doesn't the tablets you take for it cure you?"
"Didn't hospital fix you?"
"Did Uncle Cam have it, is that why he killed his self?"
"Wow. Uncle Cam killed his self. I thought he was smart."
"Seriously mum when will you finish having the bipolar?"

So many beautifully innocent and curious questions. Such few proper answers. He asked to see the medications I take in the morning so I showed him. He asked if I'd had bipolar my whole life, I said I think so but big major sad things that happen in life can make bipolar worse. He asked if I could just poo it out, oh my god we laughed so hard. How cool would it be if we could just literally expel the shit parts of ourselves? Some people say that having bipolar is one of the best things about them and they wouldn't trade their bipolar even if they could.

I am not one of those people.

Having a diagnosis of bipolar was all, hooray, now we know what's wrong! But that was just the beginning of balancing the meds, mood stabilisers, putting on a shitload of weight, trying so hard to be as capable as what I used to be years ago. It was very, very hard. I don't like it. I don't like feeling the lows, much prefer the highs. When I'm "manic" I talk fast and have all these grandiose ideas - some of which even come to fruition. Bipolar depression is so fucked I can't even be bothered to explain it except for saying it's just fucked. Trying to work out which are my character traits, which are my mental health traits, which are all my other traits ... I can't. It's all mixed into one big trait under a big heading of LOONEY TUNE.

Holding down a job is nigh impossible. Some days I conquer the world, other days I have a shower and eat well and parent well and like Jack Nicholson says, this is as good as it gets.

People with Bipolar 2 have the largest suicide rate of all other mental illnesses. How can I talk about being and feeling suicidal most of my life without worrying that my children will think I don't love them? I can't. I just face each day as they come. They come thick and fast and some days I don't believe all the constant inspirational bullshit platitudes. Some days I just get by, pretending I'm part of the couch and if I don't move then I'm not doing anything bad or wrong I'm just existing and maybe that's good enough? I'm crying as I write this, I cry a lot. Watching people on tv and on social media living seemingly wonderful lives annoys the fucking crap out of me so badly. Tell me your dark, too. Balance it out, perfect people. It's dangerous for us sad and fucked up people to imagine everybody but them has their shit together.

Going in to a psych ward doesn't cut it for me anymore. It's just a daycare for crazy people. I have med check-ups and changes. I see a GP, a professor, a counsellor (sometimes). I've been in big trouble with the law this past few years .. still don't know if was due to bipolar rage or just dealing with shitty people around me who get away with being shitty people. Arseholes be arseholes, Eden. Live and let karma take care of the rest, amirite? So easy for me to not be taken seriously. I've had my mental health been used against me in court proceedings, custody issues - you name it. All of the things. Stigma is alive and well. I hear over 50 million dollars has been recently released to businesses and companies for the oft-spruiked SUICIDE AWARENESS. We're aware of it, so where to from here?

A dear friend of mine recently died and I was pallbearer at his funeral. Didn't even know chicks were allowed to be pallbearers, but we are. I did a magnificent job because I'm strong, inside and out. I carried him along a long driveway past all of the people. I had a straight back but now I want my friend back and life doesn't work that way. The inevitable crash and burn from that has arrived like I knew it would. Bunkering down for a while, taking it easy on myself, blah blah fucken blah. This shit just sucks. I'd pay to not have it but mental health fuckdom is prevalent on both sides of my family so I've won the genetic bonanza of being whatever the hell I am. I will always abhor labels but obviously we need to know what we got so we can work with it. People in developing countries don't have access to medications and help the way I do, guess that makes people like me lucky.

I hate this shit. I hate how it's affected my life so very much. I hate that I got it and most of the time I hate who I am. I'm also very empathetic and real and kind and smart so there's all that.

Here is a very apt and accurate re-enactment of what entering a psych ward is like .. I too have sat there with a doctor while he has literally googled me right there in his office and found my website and become engrossed in it while I'm sitting there all beige on his worn chair, waiting for him to come up with some answers to treat me. It's tricky to be so accomplished and so, so fucked at the same time but some of us have got to do it to make all you big achievers with great lives feel good! Ha. I'm an arsehole but at least I'm an HONEST arsehole.





Suffering from head problems is exactly that - suffering. When I'm good I'm good. When I'm not ... well, I'm not. I'm so very far not.

In conclusion, I will answer any question any of my kids ask me and I pull no punches in my replies because I will not pussyfoot around with such serious shit. And it's very serious. Which is why I do stupid things to make myself and others laugh because life is stupid and dumb and I'm just not that enamoured. I said something to my friend Dan a while back when he was going through a hard time with his chronic back pain. "Mate, one day we'll all be dead. And none of this stuff will matter."

We both agreed that it made us feel better. And it's true. And life is still hard and now Dan is not here but I am here. And so are you.


Tuesday, 9 May 2017

It Didn't Bounce.

I have to write something about it so I cheated and cut-and-pasted a letter I wrote to her. She gave me permission to blog it. I was going to narrate these current weeks but some of these days do not need narrating nor remembering. Most of these days, actually. It's all a blur.

Megan's husband Dan died. Megan is my best friend. Dan was also one of my best friends. We talked so much on the phone, LAUGHING at life and its stupidity and hardness. Laughing. Bukowski said something like "We laugh in the face of death and death shall tremble to take us." Well, death trembled and took our Dan. I could rabbit on about all the things of him and who he was and his most beautiful, beautiful heart. He called me his sister because he called himself my stand-in-bro and I told him the awful parts of me - no judgement. He loved his girls so much and he'll continue to love his girls from wherever he is. I feel him around them, in their house. He's so here, so not here. We kind of can't believe it, the Soul immediately goes into shock mode the instant one of our beloveds die, doesn't it? Survival shock mode, to protect us from the unimaginable truth until little by little, the shock has to gently ease off and we face the horror of it. You know what I'm talking about. Most people on earth have experienced death so far, just at different levels. Two little blonde girls are experiencing death but they're little. It will take a long time for ... everything, really.

Anyway so I love Megan and want to move into the house next door but I have sons in Katoomba who need their mum and that's the only reason I haven't packed up and left the mountains.

So here's the letter - obviously a bit censored for this website because #dark #inappropriate etc. But here's the letter, the letter to my Megan. I don't have hardly any real proper friends thanks to ten schools, being a chameleon my whole life, and my Bipolar-paranoia-weirdness preventing me from getting close to people. But I am very close to Megan and our friendship was no accident. She has literally saved my life twice. Dan checked in with me a lot to make sure I've been ok during the past few years of me being not ok at all far from it. But this is not about me. Funny how people make everything about them when it's not. Oh people, you're so cute and weirdos too.

Tomorrow we will have the funeral that has been planned. Funeral planning is bad. 12-pack toilet paper in lieu of flowers is good. Death lasagna is bad but appreciated. Absconding with Megan to get a mani-pedi despite her protestations is good. Explaining to little girls what a coffin is is bad. Laughing with those same little girls and doing dances in the kitchen singing made-up poo songs is good.

The biggest thing anybody can help with right now is to please chip in to this:

ING DIRECT
Account Name: Daley Education Fund
BSB: 923100
Account number: 312 562 19

Megan's website is Children's Books Daily - click on it and buy like, ten books because she has affiliate links on there. I don't have affiliate links and have been relying on different people to pay my airfares back and forth, oh thank you, people. Swings and roundabouts. Maybe leave her a comment here or on Facebook, especially if you have any tips on how to parent little children when one of their parents die.

Jim Morrison says the future's uncertain, the end is always near. Megan's future is uncertain. Everything is not how it was supposed to go in her life. She has so many good people around her! But no energy-suckers. I'm her bouncer gatekeeper at the moment. I'm anything she needs me to be in any given moment. #chameleon And I will be here for her until the rocking chair days on the front porch when we're old and grey. It's a privilege to get old and grey.



My Megan.                                        1st May 2017


Hey sweetheart. I’m sitting at your kitchen table. It’s 8am and it’s just me and Tyson here. Pretty quiet. Pretty and quiet … you got so many beautiful things. And yes I broke in last night but I swear I didn’t snoop. Just ate an avocado, ripe as. Slept in the girls bedroom. For some reason the bottom mattress was wet - I smelt it, it’s not piss but even if it was I would have slept there anyway because I’m a grot also lazy. I just got the doona down from the top bed and made myself a non-wet mattress sandwich. Tyson slept on the bed too I mean is he even allowed to sleep on beds? It doesn’t matter today if Tyson can sleep on beds or not. He’s my favourite dog, man. Why does he shake though, like is he that actual literally scared and anxious all the time? Poor guyo. I rub his tummy until he stops shaking, we’re pretty tight now, me and him.

It’s a really nice day today. Weather-wise only but still - the sun’s out and it’s only early. Except the galahs annoyed me. Felt like they were laughing - it’s not funny, galahs.

Last night on Facebook my friend posted video of her baby daughter taking her first steps. Insanely cute and the same weekend her bubba walked was the same weekend of the worst weekend of your life and that’s saying something because you’ve had a lot of worst things, same here. And each worst thing we go through we just think ok, so, that’s the worst of the worst that can happen now but now, well, nothing gets worse than this. Worse. Strange word. Hopefully you’ve reached Pinnacle Worst. The next few years are going to be an utter bitch, like you’re in a hot skillet and it’s slippery with butter and no matter how much you try get out you keep sliding back in. I know you and death are very acquainted but not like this, honey.

Not like this. 

Let this be the death of death itself. Let your parents both live to be a hundred, let you find pockets of warm in your hot skillet until one day gradually you’ll realise somebody has finally turned the heat down and you can turn a corner, turn the page. You’ve got so many pages still to turn. I know you will be ok and get through this and go on to live a more peaceful life. You’ve got so much good rich stuff to do that will feed your soul. I know you’ll be ok, even though the world has changed forever and again, in reiteration my bubba .. you have not felt a death like this before. So many years so much history so much love and tears and fighting and laughing and sorrow and frustration and love. You guys loved each other, I saw it and felt it.

Now you’re a window with no N. If you were in Greece you’d probably wear a black shroud for a year. That’s cool. You look great in black.

Small mercies, thank you heaven. You weren’t alone. You were surrounded by your people right there in the same house. Your mum was teaching the girls chinese checkers and you were making some kind of naan situation while I was back at my place eating celery sticks with Rocco. Whose parents are both alive so he’s just going to have to deal with the fact that his mum is going to be spending a whole lot of time in Brisbane. Not just for the next few weeks but on and off for always, now.

Remember we used to laugh about how I had to get better so I was well and strong enough to be there for you when the time came? That time has come and I’m well and strong. Did we know this was going to happen all along, Megan? Is the ends of peoples lives already written in the stars of fate? And who are we to say when a person “should” die. People die. People take their first steps. People eat celery and make naan every single day, all over the world.

Every morning I check the news and hope that some huge catastrophic global event has taken place. The thought soothes me. Maybe Kim Myong Weird Haircut North Korea guy will blow up planet earth soon anyway, put us all out of our misery. But in the meantime, Pud has piano practice and Chickpea goes to school in her way-too-big-uniform with that hat.

Your daughters are my daughters. My favourite beer was Corona and it says on the label “Mi Casa Su Casa” which means my home is your home. I think that’s about 70% true I can’t be sure. A good writer embellishes facts and a good writer narrates horrible weeks after the Worst Has Happened for her best friend she met on the internet. 

The world has only got one equator remember when I was in Africa and thought there was two equators? There’s one - it was a rouge, like something out of a sky-fi movie.

Oh my god the cutest little boy is in a backyard next to yours and he just came out with the massivest stick and shouted “THIS, IS OUR AREA. I DECLARE THIS TO BE OUR AREA AND NOBODY CAN TAKE IT.” And he shoved that stick in the ground like Neil Armstrong and the flag on the moon. Maybe we’re living on the moon and the moon that we think is the moon is actually earth. Ever wonder about the names of things - like, a chair is what we call the sitting down thing. Coffee is this dark liquid we drink. Jupiter is just a planet just like all the other planets but it’s called “Jupiter” because somebody named it Jupiter. It’s just a hunk of rock spinning in space. Humans name things because we need to but there’s some things that can never be named like that terrible awful awful feeling deep in your chest. That has no name. Maybe we’re too scared to name it because we’re too scared to feel it and now you have no say whether you feel it or not.

You and the girls have to come back to your home today. Just the three of you. Blonde trio. You’ll walk around your kitchen and your living room and everything’s the same but nothing will ever be the same again. Only three little ducks came back and that’s one of the most unfairest things I’ve ever known. When I was getting arrested (again) last year, the cops were at my door and the reason was so dumb, so stupid to be arrested for. Roc was in the living room living and I cried to the police saying “This isn’t fair!” And one of the coppers said “Eden, life isn’t fair.” He was the nice cop who walked Rocco across the road and later when I was waiting in the cells I asked the same copper how long it took for Rocco to ask him about his gun. He smiled and said “Before we’d even crossed the road.” Then I asked him if he really believed that life wasn’t fair and he said yes. That’s a pretty big statement, like ALL of life isn’t fair? Well that’s not fair that life’s not fair. 

Whatever the opposite of fair is is where you are darling.

Sorry for breaking in. I didn’t go into your bedroom. I cried a lot but I know that I’m exactly where you need me to be and when I walk outside to your car later when you drive up your driveway I’ll hug you even though you hate hugs but it’ll be a brief hug before I turn all of my attention onto your girls. Be right here for and with them, not even talking about heavy stuff, just my soul next to their souls. Get the textas out so they can colour in my tattoos like they always do At some point I’ll tell them my dad died too .. don’t know if they know that. Chickpea is softer than the hard shell of the small beautiful nut that Pud is. She’s quite mysterious and deep and I already know the look in her eyes. Megan I have a very, very stealthy gentle nutcracker for our Pud.

Your girls are going to be ok.
Your girls are going to be ok.
Your girls are going to be ok.
Your girls are going to be ok.

Hey how cool is it that my computer and phone remembered your wi-fi. I’m a break-and-enter-hacker kind of friend. You know I have a low self-esteem so I’m allowed to say this: I’m so glad you got me. So, so glad you got me. There’s muddy gunk ahead on the road and it’s going to stick to your wheels and stop you in your tracks. I want to buy you a sledgehammer so you can destroy things.

So that’s this morning so far. Now the kids in the backyard are annoying me, one of them is crying. Autocorrect just autocorrected crying to “dying.” At this point I wouldn’t be surprised if one of those kids keel over right next to the stick in the ground and died. Death is everywhere and keeps hunting us down like the worst game of hide-and-seek ever BOO. Stop jumping out of cupboards, DEATH. 

Your avocado was perfectly ripe last night. I ate it with my fingers and the only way I could get to sleep later was to pretend he was still alive.



Wednesday, 26 April 2017

Street Talk: Thelma, The Best Neighbour I Never Had.

So I'm walking outside to put my rubbish in the bins and there's this lady standing at the bins and I was all "Ugh I'm going to have to acknowledge her" and I did, I acknowledged her and said hello. And she said hello. And I can't quite remember how or why we started talking about all the stuff we talked about but she told me her husband had a stroke last month (Rocco was here and watched as he was put into the ambulance and I told him it's rude to stare, come back inside.)

So Thelma tells me she's been living in the same block of flats as me for years but now she's packing up to move and go live with her daughter in Sydney and her husband can't talk, walk ... he's in hospital and may never get his faculties back again.

Faculty: "An inherent mental and physical power."

And I look right into Thelma's beautiful sad sad brown crying eyes and I said "I'm really, really so sorry Thelma. Life is just bullshit. We got to live it but we never know what's going to happen and it sucks. And I'm sorry. And my stepdad died and my brother died and we just get through the days as best we can and one day it'll all be over." And she HUGGED me so, so hard, ignoring all my swear words. And she meant her hug .. you know when somebody really means their hug? She meant it, and I gave her a meant hug back. And we both couldn't believe we'd never met each other before (possibly because I keep my head down and don't acknowledge people) .. and I wished her luck and she walked off.

A few days later I went to the florist and chose one pink tulip because I could only afford one but a flower is a flower, you don't need a whole bunch. One can suffice. Me and Roc knocked on Thelma's door, my lord I do not knock on peoples doors it is a foreign concept. She opened it, when I gave her the tulip she teared up again, apologising for crying and I said don't worry I been crying my whole life ... the Pacific Ocean? All my doing. I cried a whole fucken ocean of tears and I'm not finished yet.

Thelma invited us inside and showed us how her packing was going. Thelma told me she can't believe I gave her a tulip that day because she'd just come from the local hospital to be with her husband who was being transported down to a Sydney hospital and it was a hard day. She asked Rocco what his name is and spoke to him kindly. I love people who talk to my kids properly. She asked me what I did and I told her I was a writer than I got real vague about it because as soon as people google me I usually never hear from them again. Not that I care, but still. I liked her.

Thelma looked around and wanted to give me something back so she gave me this book.


She wrote her name and number in there even though you're not supposed to write on books? I thanked her and said goodbye.

That's not the end. A few days later I came out of my cave because I was fucken depressed as fuck and Thelma's standing there at the bins AGAIN and she told me to come back inside to her flat. So I did. And she gave me her old typewriter and told me to write, write, write. And in that few seconds she was my grandmother who always told me to write and this time, it was my turn to cry. I put the typewriter under my hoodie because I didn't want to get it wet from the rain and hugged her a meant hug and that's probably the last time I'll ever see Thelma.

So Thelma - we both know that's not your real name, your real name is much cooler but I never asked your permission to write about you. I hope you don't mind. I'm sending you a link .. I been writing for a while, online. Welcome to the Shitshow. That typewriter and book is among the most precious gifts anyone has ever given me. It was no accident that we met. I adore you. Good luck in the rest of your life - remember what I said. It's stupid, try not to take it seriously. I'm glad you're living with your daughter in a noisy house filled with your grandchildrens mess and laughter because we all need people and I swear to god you're one hell of a person. This is my Street Talk series which I started in 2013 with the intention of profiling a stranger every week but then my brother killed himself and everything turned to heartdust. I've interviewed then-Prime Minister Julia Gillard at Kirribilli House on the same day I interviewed Honey the Prostitute in Kings Cross. Honey was more interesting but Thelma? You are my favouritest Street Talk ever.

::

PREVIOUS STREET TALKS

1. Noelene the Young
2. Megan the Mouse
3. Harpal the Australian
4. Darren the Artist
5. Jo the Interesting
6. John the Telstra Guy
7. Michael the Photographer
8. Peg the Lady
9. Jeff the Preacher Man
10. Andres the Cobbler
11. Honey the Prostitute
12. Mark the Masseur
13. You the Blog Reader
14. Jo the Podiatrist
15. Casey the Uni Student
16. Dream the Horse and Carriage Driver
17. Tamas the Hungarian Accordionist
18. The Dignified Trolley Ladies
19. Alex With The Studded Hot Pink Belt
20. Leaf The Fallen
21. Bel Of The Library
22. Jay And His Big Issue
23. Emma The Adult Shop Cashier
24. Teena, Saver Of Dogs
25. The Luna Park Face
26. Gary The Missing
27. Kristen at the Elephant Bean Cafe
28. Uncle Paul
29. Jess The Mama
30. The Two People At The Checkout
31. Alfie The Pourer
32. Breaking The Rules With Captain Starlight!
33. The Woman In Line At The Bakery A Few Weekends Ago
34. Dog The Dog
35. Julia Gillard The Person
36. Nancy The Badass
37. Bruce From The Psych Ward
38. Jeremy The Costumeless
39. The Women in the Morgue
40. The Lady Whose Name I Didn't Quite Catch.
41. Eden
42. William the Worldchanger



Wednesday, 12 April 2017

Parunting.


Smoking a fry ciggie at On a Roll

This guy is a modern-day sage. I called him a psychic and straight away he shoots back "No I'm not I'm the big guy!" because he thought I said side-kick. We always talk about what we dreamt the night before. He knows too much about everything just like all my other kids, mistakes were made. Mummybloggers, wait till your babies grow up to teenagers. Completely. Different. Universe.

However this guy is still young. Eight years old, almost nine .. he's the whole reason I started writing online to begin with and I documented his journey as an IVF 4-celled embryo to where he's at today.

                                           Where he's at today.

He's an extraordinary human, young enough for the world not to have fucked him over yet. It's a joy being around him. He makes me look at things differently. Recently he cottoned on to the fact that Uncle Cam left a suicide note. "CAN I READ IT MUM!" .. I said no way mate and he got so pissed off because he likes to know everything. About everything. "Why not? When can I read it? You have to let me read it one day." I told him I would but he's too young right now. He thought for a while and said "Jeez. Uncle Cam killed his self. I thought he was smart."



My mum came up and they bonded so hard it was awesome. He's *so* impressed at her footy tipping skills. And chicken soup. And the rubiks cube she bought him. They text each other, both emoji champions.

                                                         SCALPEL.

Rocco thoughtfully helped out in the doctors surgery yesterday when I got stitches taken out of my shoulder, putting on latex gloves, telling me don't worry it'll only be excruciating for a little while. (Exact words.)


These two are currently splayed on my living room floor watching Ferris Buellers Day Off together. Cousin Morgan is his new bestie and favourite holiday playdate. The three of us are planning on going to the Royal Easter Show tomorrow - I've always been the parent who takes the kids to the big fun places. They've already talked me into going into the haunted house - frankly I'm looking forward to seeing the cake decorating winners #old

                                          Nostrils Riley.

If anybody fucks with any of my kids, I fuck with them. It's my duty. My whole parenting career I've stuck up for all of my children and taught them how to stick up for themselves. I told off a lady in a supermarket once when she refused my stepson a sample yoghurt. I got up close in a bully's face in primary school and told him to lay off my kid or else. I've taught all the boys to be respectful to other people or else. They are. They're caring and empathetic and kind. I did that. Roc tells me all the things I've taught him about life so far and it blows me away how much he remembers. I'm an inappropriate unconventional mother with a penchant for answering my kids questions way too honestly. Can't help it. And kids always find out the truth anyway so I figure I'm just saving time.


We had to get the train to school recently which was basically the best thing that has ever happened to him in his life. He's frustrated he's the youngest but I tell him it's cool he'll be big soon enough, don't wish your days away sweetheart. At parent teacher/interview it was all glowing reports. His teacher is so happy with how he's doing even though he's the youngest in his class. He's excellent with words just like his mumma. (He writes raps with swear words holy shit they are AMAZING.) His first one was about his parents divorce, just wrote it out in five minutes and blew me away. He told the teacher that sometimes he comes to school feeling a lot of emotions and I explained he's had a pretty rough few years. The three of us all agreed he's doing so well.

After the teacher interview he did the pissbolt and his teacher turned and said how lucky Rocco was to have me. She said I was a really aware mother.

Out of all the adjectives in the world she used the word "aware." I thanked her and turned away .. she didn't see me cry.

Chased him down the street to the car trying to beat him but I never can because he ALWAYS wins in a fucking running race. And he always will.


Tuesday, 4 April 2017

We (Still) Don't Need Another Hero.

I checked back to what I was doing on this day exactly five years ago, had to hold my breath ... WINCING, prepared to meet some kind of painful memory. (Painful because it's a painful OR happy memory, if that even makes sense.)

It's not a painful memory, and in the midst of my Big Writing that I'm doing at the moment which I'll share here very soon, I just wanted to put this post up. Because five years ago today I'd just turned forty and found my superpower and was doing this, whereas tonight I'm eating a cheesy crust pizza after getting a huge whack of a skin cancer cut out of my shoulder (FOURTEEN STITCHES) ... and I'm watching my favourite show ever in the entire world. Shameless - my god this show just makes me feel ok and better and normal about my life choices and who I am. I may be crazy but I'm not Monica crazy.

So yes. Entire empires have fallen in five years but that's the thing about fallen empires .. they always get rebuilt. Especially my fallen empires.


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4TH APRIL 2012

We get to these places and the sweat drips down my back and it's uncomfortable and hot and kind of sucky. I have a stance here in Niger ... it's called the Dorky Pigeon-toed Stance. I do it when I am unsure. Like, I'm in Africa??



There is totally Hope here. Thank GOD ... because I was starting to arm myself up with nerves of steel and a metaphorical suit of armour. I can drop that.

I am ok - really. Some of you know me more than I know myself, keep telling me to be careful and protect my heart. (How *does* one protect their heart? Shut it off so it doesn't feel?) My blessed jetlag is saving my arse, giving me a buffer zone of haziness ... last night I skyped my boys which was cool. When I first got here I was all, my boys! How could I leave them how are they oh mah gawwwdd.

When I saw how the children here are living? My boys are FINE, man. They are wearing clean clothes, have clean water, food and friends and love and too many toys. They live like princes. Their cups overfloweth, and I am not worried one shred more about them.

The children here accept things their white western counterparts would not, which is both amazing and sad.

Every day we travel out into the field, watching and learning so, so much about what World Vision actually does here. About a two and a half hour trip each way in a jeep. I'm like ... seriously? But - it's bumpy and uncomfortable! SO worried I was getting sick because my lungs felt congested and my throat sore and dry ... but it's just breathing in all the dust. Africa is in me, like I am in it.
I watch Good deeds, manifested by Good people actually doing the hard work. And other Good people back home in their safe houses, donating and caring. It is all making a difference. I have seen it with my own dusty eyes. We need more help and more Good.

I believe that if you give of yourself in the world - your time, your energy, or of course your money ... the Spirit behind your motive for giving is more powerful than you think. When I see a bum in the street, I always give money. I don't question his motives ... what he does with the money is entirely up to him. (Or her. Being a bum is an equal opportunity employer.) They might be buying booze or drugs with it? So bloody what. I'm not going to stand there, weighing up the pros and frickin' cons. I can spare the gold dollar .. I'm not the one standing there begging. You think that person *likes* standing there asking for money? No. If you can give, you give. It should be some Universal Human law.

Which brings me to other ways you can help. Someone just left a comment saying they had pulled out photos of their two sponsored children and placed them on the fridge, in full view. YES. That.

You can also:

* Start a dialogue with your children about how people struggle in other parts of the world. When you open a dialogue, you open their eyes.

* Give gold coins to bums. Why? Because they are not robbing your house, they are begging instead. Kudos, man.

* Don't waste food.

* Care more. About everything. Wake the hell up, oh beautiful blinkered ones! Life is real!

* Touch feet with people you love.

A couple of years ago in Bali I got the word "redemption" tattooed on my arm. Being here makes me believe in redemption more.  For everyone.








That feet photo is one of my favourite photos I've ever taken. Some ladies were spread out before us on a mat, next to a translator. Their feet were all touching ... they were self-conscious and nervous, so doing this probably made them feel better. LOVE. IT.





I just sat here for TWO HOURS waiting for my video to upload and there was a communication error. Entirely too frustrating .. am having a first world problem in a third world country. Hey ... where's the second world? Did I miss one? AM SO IGNORANT. And all these other pics I wanted to upload aren't working but now I have to rush downstairs to start another Big Day. I keep making the people wait for me, because I am a bumbling, late fool. They are so gracious. Turning forty recently has made me accept that no matter how hard I try, I will never be as organised as most people. I'm down with that.

This BBC article HERE is one of the best written about what's going on in this country. Um, can somebody please read it and email me through some facts about it? Asking for a friend.

Lastly, I begged our World Vision Africa correspondent Adel to please take me to a supermarket so I could buy some junk food. Needed to dive naked into a vat of cheese and bacon balls .... to swim in a sea of doritos and prawn crackers and the carbiest carbs in the land.


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I used my head in this photo, for scale.

Told you I was ok.

PS I purposely kept the tone of this post light. There will be hard-hitting full-on ones coming up soon. Worried that people think I don't take this seriously ... worried about what the people coming to my blog for the first time will think of me. But, if we all worried about what people thought of us, we would be on our guards all the time and not get shit done, not say anything at all.

I'm off to get shit done, in a caring, bumbling, tattooed, redemptive way. Hope you're down with that.



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Sunday, 26 March 2017

We Should All Wear The World Like A Loose Garment But It's Hard When You Keep Getting Dealt The Shittiest Cards In The Universe.

Hi I'm currently working on writing the biggest shit I've ever written in my life but I have to keep stopping because it's so full on even for me. All that's pushed to the side because my friend and her family is today dealing with the most horrific traumatic shit and she's all I can think about. Why do some people go through SO MUCH CRAP in their lives and other people ... well, other people jus don't seem to? I don't understand. Her trauma is so bad but she has to get through and she will because there is no other option. I'll go visit her in a few weeks after the hectic horrendous whirlwind of planning and people and flowers and all of the utter shit that comes with it is over and you're just left with the quiet. I'm the shittest shit of a friend in so many ways but man when trauma/crisis/horrendous life situations crop up for the people I love, I'm so good at helping people through it because I know and understand. Text my mum today .. "I tell you what mum, when our people go through serious shit .. how good are we to be there for them?" My mum came up to stay last week it was so good to see her.

I hate that my kids have a mother with bipolar disorder and I hate that I got diagnosed so late in my life after the mass confusion hell I caused and fuck yeah I'm taking all my meds but guess what it doesn't cure it. I understand so much now, I get the whole Jung/dark side/know yourself stuff but it's a little too late and I wouldn't speak to me either.

Wish I could talk to Carrie Fisher but she's part of the Force now. So today instead of crying for me I'm crying for my best friend and all the tumultuous mess ahead. Why are coffins so expensive when the silver handles are fake silver anyway? Death, like weddings .. are a rort. Waste of money. Easier to be like other cultures and burn our loved ones in a fiery pyre, all majestic-like.

I get through nights that I can't get through. I'm not going anywhere and neither is my gorgeous cookie friend. She's the Felix to my Oscar. Sent her a stupid video text today because I say all the right things to somebody who's going through all the wrong things. Told her I didn't know which one of us holds the Most Fucked Traumatic Shit Family Gold Cup .. it's probably a tie. Which is saying something.

Nevertheless, we all persisted. One day we will all be free. It's Sunday and this binge-watching of Shameless isn't going to watch itself now is it? Some days we're out there conquering the world, some days we sit at home on the couch pretending we're part of the couch because couches don't feel. I'd still prefer to feel than be numb or robotic or asleep like a lot of people. No shade - I'm just woke. I prefer my people woke with a side of fucked and a chaser of custard tart.

Hold on, people who realise you need to hold on. It'll all end eventually, isn't that relieving?

My cookie staunch girl, you been there for me so much these past few years I'm so, so glad I'm here for you now. I'm right here, soon I'll be right there next to you wearing grey hoodies on the couch again. Go to bed your soul is exhausted. You got this, and when you don't ... which you won't .. I got it for you. Watch this shit - you're Yelawolf because obviously I'm Eminem but we both got Proof.

PS LIFE IS SO FUCKING INANE AND CONFUSING AND STUPID.


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