“Can you just not be here?” were the words launched out of my almost 15 year old daughter’s mouth as she requested a “friend” come over in the school holidays. (And when I write “friend”, yes the boy variety friend).
“Don’t talk rot” I said. “I’m not embarrassing, and I promise I will never do anything to embarrass you.”
The 18 year old, who has only just got his keys back on a part time basis due to being, well, an 18 year old, chimes in with “YOU… not embarrassing? YEAH RIGHT! You have a blog and now a podcast. My friends torture me with it and play it to me. They’ve single handedly upped your listener ratings.”
Thanks Fellas. We’ll be sure to give you a special mention on the next episode. 😜
It seems that it doesn’t matter what you do, what you wear or say, what car you drive, what job you have or how much money you have in the bank, it’s a right of passage that you embarrass your children just by sharing the same air as them, their peers, or anyone they are trying to impress. Even the coolest Hollywood stars have cringing teens at home.
I get where they are coming from because I have vivid memories of pretending that I didn’t have parents because “everyone else’s parents were cool and my parents were cringey”. Ugh, why did my mother wear peach coloured pants and dad wore long socks with shorts. Why was my dad so loud and talked too much. Why couldn’t mum just, I dunno, not be so mumsy. These were all questions whirling around in my head as a young girl, longing to be like my hair twin, orphan Annie. I gotta say, who doesn’t want their own millionaire Daddy Warbucks and Punjab?
One day, I have no doubt that the kids won’t find me so embarrassing. They might even look back and smile as they read these words or listen to the recordings of The 40’s Project . It’ll happen. But in the mean time, I’ll keep being the most embarrassing mother in the entire world, because that’s how much I love them.
Today is Cystic Fibrosis awareness day and I just can’t seem to let it pass without writing or sharing or giving it some recognition because for years I thought this stupid disease would change our family forever. I thought it would take our son away. I thought that he might not reach adulthood. Crazy thoughts? In hindsight yes, but at the time it was very real.
18 years ago, life for kids with CF looked a lot different than it does now. Being born in 2005 with CF certainly held more hope than previous years, and the prognosis was definitely getting better and better as time went on, but for new parents it was hard to see any light at the end of the tunnel.
I vividly remember carting my precious baby around the Women’s and Children’s Hospital, side-eyeing the skinny young teenagers I’d see who were muffling coughs with hunched shoulders. During those early years, there were some familiar teenage faces who would be strolling the hallways and riding the elevators. I never knew them by name, but I knew that these were “CF’ers” and I was staring at my baby’s future.
We continually hoped that he would be one of the “lucky ones”, the ones who hardly went to hospital and barely caught a cold. There doesn’t seem to be much rhyme or reason as to who gets chosen to be a “lucky one”. It’s pot luck in a pretty shitty competition.
As I clutched my son, literally and figuratively, through the early months, I honestly thought that our life, especially my son’s life would be dictated by this disease in the most horrible ways. I also thought that I would never be able to leave him or be away from him, that I could never go back to work, have a hobby, an anything. So overwhelming was the prospect of what this disease could do, I was crippled with fear of the future.
But as it does, time marched on, and my deluded thoughts and anxiety for the future settled, while we rode the roller coaster of CF. We navigated our way through some pretty hectic kid juggling phases and at times, some worrying moments but amongst that, life trotted along beautifully. In the background though, there was a cloud – a cloud that hovered without us ever knowing when it was going to rain. It was unpredictable – sometimes it was a brief sprinking shower and other times a lightning storm. A lot of the time it caught us by surprise.
Fast forward to 2022 – A magic little pill called Trikafta finally became available for people living with CF in Australia. I was cautious in my excitement and didn’t want to pin all of my hopes on it, while I simultaneously pinned all of my hopes on it.
Luckily for us, this little pill turned out to be pretty magic. It’s been just over 12 months since Mac started Trikafta and it’s been just over 12 months since he’s needed antibiotics. The cloud seems to have lifted a bit. It’s still there, but it seems to be a fair weather cloud these days and the future looks very different than it did before.
In saying all of this, Trikafta isn’t a cure for CF. Mac has definitely drawn the long straw when it comes to having such a fabulous improvement taking this medication. Some people with CF don’t have the right genotype to take Trikafta and some can’t take it due to rare side effects. For others, it’s simply a case of it just not working as well for them.
So until a cure for CF is found, I’ll continue to do my annual awareness shout-outs. I’ll keep wishing for the same thing each year as I blow out my birthday candles as well as cross my fingers that CF will one day mean Cure Found.
It’s funny, growing up I don’t remember there ever being too much of a ta-doo about Mother’s Day. My mum wasn’t much for making a ta-doo about anything really. Understated and modest, she was the kind of woman that on reflection, did herself an injustice – sometimes a ta-doo is needed.
So why, since her death so many years ago, do I find Mother’s Day unsettling? I’m definitely not alone, many people do – there are those like me, whose mothers have died, or those who wish their mothers were dead. There are those who long to be a mother as well as those who have lost children.
Maybe it’s because Mother’s Day falls at seeding time on the farm, when it’s all systems go and Mr Hooch is nary to be seen, let alone help the kids coordinate a ta-doo?
Maybe it’s Covid that reared it’s ugly head and left me rendered useless for the best part of this week?
Maybe it’s the expectation of a harmonious, sunshiny, love filled day where the children magically morph into intuitive little cherub-like angels who want nothing more than to pamper and glorify their giver of life?
Maybe it’s the Mother’s Day hype that’s splashed around the online and offline world?
Maybe it’s nothing? Maybe it’s everything?
Never-the-less, I’m not able to to spend the day with my mum, send her a card or give her a call, but what I can do, is thank the women who have filled the gaps and have been the mother-figures and friends I’ve needed.
So thank you to the listeners – the ones who debriefed, picked apart and overanalysed with me; the ones who have “kept shit real” and made me laugh when times were tough; the fixer-uppers; the crazy ones; the thoughtful ones; the dependable “always there” ones; the ride and die ones; the older ones who have trekked the path of life ahead of me and shown me where the pot-holes are; the younger ones who keep me on my toes: the wise ones; the ones who have challenged me; the ones who make me a better me. A special mention must go to my mother-in-law – a generous spirit with gold standard Grannying and even better sausage rolls.
I want to especially thank the ones who every year, without fail, acknowledge my mum on Mother’s Day. The ones who still speak her name, who check in, call and remind me that they know being a motherless mother on Mother’s Day can sometimes be a bitter-sweet pill to swallow.
So thank you to my “mums” for filling the void in the most beautiful ways.
My husband and I became parents almost 18 years ago. We have an emerging adult in our house. In a week and a half, our eldest child can legally drink a beer, vote, and essentially tell us to rack off. Will he? I doubt it, because he is still in school and doesn’t have a job. So Ner.
But, here’s the clincher. I think he wants to break up with me. Mia Freedman wrote a beautiful piece about the long and slow breakup she experienced with her firstborn son. It’s a tear-jerker and rings true for so many of us as we watch our children grow, change and break away from the mother-bond that brought them to adulthood. She points out some similarities from an emotional speech by Jay Pritchett, the ‘dad’ played by Ed O’Neill on Modern Family.
He tells us how we are gifted a beautiful baby and we fall in love them, and then before we know it, that baby is gone – but it’s ok because in its place is a toddler – a little person with the greatest laugh on earth. Then one day the toddler is gone, and in its place is a little kid who asks all sorts of questions as they navigate the world around them. And this continues on and on, but you never get the chance to miss them because there is always a new kid to take the place of the old. That is, until they grow up. Then in what seems like one single moment, all of those kids you fell in love with, walk out of the door at the same time.
Oh for the love of God, make me stop crying. Damn you Jay and Mia with your heart-wrenching rendition of the gloriously bittersweet moments that parenting brings us as we launch our offspring into the big wide world.
Essentially, our job is now done. We have become redundant. As kids grow up, we have less and less influence on them which means we have to cram a lot of shit into their heads by the time they’re about 10 or we’re all screwed – no pressure but.
The studies prove that peer groups for teenagers are much more important than anyone else in their lives. How’s that for a thought? Your sons boof head mate has more influence on him than you do. Awesome. No wonder teenage kids get themselves into all sorts of trouble.
As sad as all of this sounds, it’s just part of our human experience isn’t it? Our kids need to break away and grow because who wants a useless lump of a human who can’t look after themselves and needs care from their parents until they’re 45? Not me!
*Note to the young readers – DO NOT fall in love and marry one of these people.
Speaking of love… one day your baby will find it and you will no longer be the epicentre of their world. There’s a theory that when a group of people laugh, you search for the eyes of the person you feel closest to. So when your child finds love, sorry to break it to you, but you will no longer be the one that their eyes search for. You won’t be the centre of their world anymore. How fucked up is that? NO ONE EVER TELLS YOU THIS WHEN YOU HAVE A BABY.
In consolation, you’ll be the head cheerleader on the sidelines of their life, hoping like hell that you didn’t screw them up with your dubious parenting skills and that they have remembered the fun holiday in Queensland and not the time you got so mad at them that you slammed the door and broke the glass.
So here’s cheers to being a parent of an adult. I hope my nearly adult son knows how much he’s loved. I hope he knows how much he was wanted and I hope he knows that my eyes will always be there for him when he laughs.
I am furious. Filled with rage and ready to punch some dicks.
Fuck you selfish bastard men with your stupid big dick energy and the backing of other bastard men. You wanna know why women get so angry and are then hated even more? There are a million reasons, mainly starting with you. Men. Yeah, that’s right. But not all men. Let me explain.
There was once a girl who fell in love. It was a beautiful love story until it wasn’t. Like almost half of the marriages in Australia, it ended.
And here is where the story gets ugly because here is where money talks. Power, money, and big dick energy. The patriarchy at its best, throwing around the idea that women who have taken on a more traditional role in the family aren’t worth much money, so when it comes to a settlement, don’t you be thinking you’re getting much, cause it’s not yours it’s HIS. He does all the work after all, who do you think you are?
Here’s where it gets tricky right?
The unpaid labour of raising multiple children, therefore having the capacity to only work part-time is just, well, according to some, tough tits … you chose it. And how about the role of supporting said husband who works full time – plus some, essentially tipping the parenting tasks 80-20 her way? According to some, that’s what you signed up for. You knew what you were getting into when you got married – tough tits love. What about taking a role within the business? Well that’s just simply being supportive of your husband and you SHOULD do something to be part of what keeps the food on the table, otherwise, you’re just a selfish bitch. Doesn’t matter if the business isn’t of interest to you though. Tough tits love. You knew the gig. Don’t be thinking you can just change your mind either. Suck it up.
You may wonder who I am referring to as I write this. I am referring to me, you, and EVERY WOMAN who finds herself, either by choice or not, in a position where they are financially disadvantaged because they took on a role HER HUSBAND NEEDED AND WAS HAPPY FOR HER TO HAVE because it served his purpose and his own gain.
So what’s the answer? It’s been a question on everyone’s lips for decades.
How do women gain more currency and value in our society? Sure, we’ve come a long way since being burnt at the stake, but some days, in rural Australia, it doesn’t feel all that long ago.
As usual, the responsibility is thrown back in women’s faces. How many times have we read about “raising good men”? I agree with this statement, but again, the majority of children’s main carers are mothers which means it’s another job we have on the list filed under ‘unpaid tasks’. Sure, just pop down “smash the patriarchy” on the note pad darl – I’ll sort it out in between the grocery shopping and dropping the kids at sports practice.
Until there is a major shift in valuing the role that women have in holding this whole shit show together, we will forever be belting our heads against a brick wall. I’d love to point out to some men who just don’t get it, that most of us worked full-time and had jobs, careers, and a life before we married and took on the role of raising a family, supporting a partner, and doing all the ‘unpaid’ tasks that we have gifted our partners to not even have to THINK about, let alone do. So let me tell you something, going to work every day, working full time, working overtime and weekends, is far easier than doing the unpaid tasks that keep the world turning. Most women agree that the most challenging role in their life has been mothering. Mothering YOUR children, mothering YOUR future, mothering THE WHOLE FUCKING WORLD’S FUTURE.
So how do you put a monetary value on something that means the world? It’s a difficult task. Any figure is quite frankly an insult. We all know the world would fall apart if it wasn’t for the unpaid labour of women. I balk at the idea that we need to infiltrate “the man’s world and show them we are just as good”. We’ve been fucking glorious forever. We don’t need to change who we are or pressure ourselves or our daughters to be something ‘other’ so that we can be equal. We need all the same opportunities and choices that men have but what we NEED is to have those choices valued if they happen to fall into a more traditional role.
On that note, I’ll just be over here holding the world together… what do you do?
I’m Freeeeeeeeeeee. We had “the covid”, “the spicy throat”, “Rona”, “the lurgy of all lurgy’s”. Somehow my husband didn’t get it. I have no idea how he has avoided it. Maybe the rum has preserved his organs? I dunno what it is, but he thinks he’s superman right now.
I should be jumping for joy like most other people do when they reach the end of their isolation period…so why am I a little sad to have to go out and face the world again?
I’ll tell you why. Cause I’m an introvert who does a lot of extroverted things. And by introvert, I don’t mean shy, although I can be extremely shy in some social situations. I think I also inherited my mothers affliction of perhaps coming off as conceited when really we would just like to quietly die, rather than make small talk to someone we don’t know. I literally run out of shit to say. My brain goes blank and I stand like a mute moron hoping like hell I’m not standing next to another weird introverted mute moron. It’s awkward. Just ask your introverted friends. They’ll know what I’m taking about. If you’re wondering who your introverted friends are, they’re the ones who don’t answer the phone if they don’t know who it is, or even sometimes when they DO know who it is. Ffs. Just text…we like that.
So my isolation period has ended and here I am in a shopping centre. My most hated place on earth. If Hell exits, the sign on the door would say “Westfield”. I’m here biding my time while our 16 year old son finishes the course to get his L plates for his motorbike. Let’s not even go there…. That is a whole blog of its own. At least when he goes past my front window popping a mono, while his father says “oh geez, don’t look Hooch but that was a REALLY good one”, he will break his neck legally.
To sooth the pain of being in Westfield Hell, I’ve headed straight to the nail salon. I’m sitting here tapping away writing this while uncomfortable balls from the massage chair swirl their way up and down my back and give my ample arse a little jiggle. It’s meant to feel good. I feel a little violated. Meanwhile a tiny little lady scrapes the goop out of my toenails and attempts to debride the thick layer of crusty skin that resides on my heels. God bless these ladies who deal with the ugliness of old lady feet. Like most women though, I only shave my legs for the lady who does my toes. You’re welcome.
So it is back to business. Life carries on and I have to join it again, Goddammit. The calendar is filling up with the rescheduled appointments and all of the things that were put on hold for a couple of weeks.
At least I’ll have nice looking feet as I jump back into this thing we call life.
I saw this posted on Facebook recently and it got me thinking about how I feel about it. I don’t know the author but it’s been shared a bunch of times and clearly people have strong feelings about it.
My views on things have definitely changed as I’ve gotten older. I’ve learnt that there are a lot more “grey” answers than “black and white” ones, especially when dealing with humans. At the same time, “I get it”. I’m not as passionately angry about it as this dude, but “I get it”. I don’t like my tax paying money going towards “bludgers” either.
Mind you, who is this guy anyway to categorise and determine “bludger” status?
Is he the President of the Bludger Society?
Like most of us I’ve been guilty of making judgement calls only to discover later that what I saw from the outside wasn’t the reality. I remember wondering why the lady who seems totally fine doesn’t have a job or even volunteer? I later discovered that she has a serious mental illness that she doesn’t have displayed on her forehead for everyone to see. Just getting her kids ready for school while ignoring the auditory hallucinations would be a task in itself. For those who wouldn’t know that, I rekon she would be seen as a “bludger”.
I accept that in the world in which we live there are arseholes. People can simply be arseholes. Does it mean we (as a society) have to be arseholes too? I don’t think so.
Thankfully we have developed into a civilised society where we no longer behead people or burn them at the stake for being less than an ideal human. We instead house them in jails and provide them a basic living wage to survive. It’s says more about us than them.
This doesn’t take away from the fact that people have to take personal responsibility for their lives and there will always be the whingers of the world who can’t get out of their own way.
If there’s one thing I can guarantee the people who feel ripped off by those who have been on long term unemployment benefits is that they’re not living on easy street. They’ll probably never go on an overseas holiday, they’ll never have status in their community; they’ll probably never own a home let alone one in a decent suburb and they’ll have to drive a bomb of a car that breaks down regularly. They won’t be able to buy their kids the gifts they want at Christmas time and they’ll second guess calling an ambulance because they don’t have cover. And just for good measure, they will be reminded of their status within their community on a regular basis. Don’t worry, most feel shit about themselves even if it appears from the outside they are kicking back without a care in the world. Reminder: Defensive behaviour is people trying to protect themselves.
However, I agree that people should be trying to do “something” to work their way towards employment, self improvement or being an active member of the community.
It’s not so much the problem at hand I disagree with but the solutions suggested.
This is a nuanced problem which needs a nuanced response.
Sentences like…
“Don’t earn enough money? Get another job” or “educate yourself” is as helpful as telling a person with depression to “just smile”.
It can end up being a perpetual self feeding problem. Without a leg up to get a leg out a lot of people can find themselves trapped inside the mouse wheel.
Plus, the idea of passing a drug test to get benefits is ludicrous. The argument above indicates that he thinks the majority of people on unemployment benefits are using drugs, so let’s cost that out shall we? The money saved from “catching” the drug users on Centrelink would surely negate the cost it would incur to test them all.
And if that rule came into play, who would do the testing? Centrelink personnel? Employment consultants? (umm. No thanks)
Would all people receiving unemployment benefits have to make a doctor’s appt every fortnight and take away appointment times from sick people? What about those on disability pensions or aged care pensions who are drug dependent.. do we cut them off too? Or is it ok for them to use tax payers money for their drug of choice but not for the unemployed. Maybe drug testing is only for the ones that are in the “bludger” category, not the ones who are just “normal” unemployed people. *Refer to the Bludger Society President above.
If their payment is cut off what would they have to do to get it back again?
Do they have to do another test in a couple days and they’re good to go?
What about people who will continually fail to pass these tests because they’re addicts? What then? Where do they go? (Besides the obvious-rehab where it’s often more than one attempt to be on the road to recovery). Under this rule they would have no money to pay their rent or buy food. What would you do if you had no money to pay rent and buy food?
Logic says some people would turn to crime and we would see the crime rate rise. In turn, this would put extra pressure on the legal system as well as having more people with a criminal conviction which would make it even harder to get employment . People could become homeless and displaced (another negative for employment). To top it off their children could end up being taken away into foster care, a system which is already struggling. So all in all it could mean that the cost for the taxpayer would increase.
So what’s the answer? I don’t bloody know… I write a blog for a hobby for God’s sake, what would I know?
What I do know is that a punitive response isn’t always the best way. And just as a side note, if you think it’s only “bludgers” who take drugs, think again my friends. It’s rife and apparently quite cool to snort a bit of Charlie on the weekend by apparently “well respected community people”.
There are a million different reasons which need a million different solutions to this complex social issue. The problems I can see include a struggling health system, drug culture, housing affordability, education, generational unemployment, parenting skills, the increase in mental health issues. The answer is not as simple as “get a job”. I wish it was.
In my confusion and internal debate about where I sit with this, I have come to the conclusion that I simply feel empathy for arseholes too, and I’m not sad about that. After all, I doubt the homeless guy I slipped a fiver to the other day dreamt as a little boy that he would be sitting outside of a shopping centre begging for money. He probably wanted to be a Fireman or a AFL footballer.
I’m not religious, but “there for grace of God go I”.
I’m sitting on our couch on Sunday night, which is now the early hours of Monday morning. I’m watching my little boy sleep, in between hurling his ringer up and wriggling around with the pain that comes with gastro. I’m poised with a bucket, tissues, Powerade, Spray & Wipe and hand gel. I’m contemplating a hazmat suit.
It’s gonna be a long night.
I apologise in advance for the fact that Mr Spewmanti was at basketball, two birthday parties and bingo over the weekend. He likes to get around. 🥴
I read a quote once that said having a child means you now watch your heart walk around outside of your body.
It’s corny but true.
In between wiping up spew and rubbing Elliot’s forehead, I’m reminded of all the women I know who are riding or have ridden the wave of motherhood when mothering is brutal, and I’m not talking about a sleepless night with a case of gastro.
Brutal is when your heart can be tearing apart and you wonder how the hell you’re going to get through what lies ahead. Somehow we muster up a kind of “super mother power”. We’re like Wonder Woman spinning into all of her glory while we chant “we ain’t got no time for that shit.”
Tonight I’m thinking of my beautiful friend who is currently sitting a bedside vigil in ICU with her son who was in a horrific car accident.
Tonight I’m thinking of a local mum who is preparing a memorial service for her son who was tragically taken in an accident on the way home from school.
Tonight I’m thinking of the mums I know whose children have been diagnosed with chronic illness.
Tonight I’m thinking of a friend whose teenager is trying to find himself and his identity.
Tonight I’m thinking of the mums I know who have lost children to cancer and the mum who has only recently found out.
Tonight I’m thinking of a friend who helped her child navigate his way through addiction.
Tonight I’m thinking of another whose child has been diagnosed with Autism.
Tonight I’m thinking of the mum whose daughter cries herself to sleep because she doesn’t think her body is the right shape.
I’m also thinking of the mums who are just having a crappy time for no other reason than that life can just suck giant turds sometimes.
Motherhood isn’t for the faint hearted. It also takes a tribe to keep us sane.
I’m lucky to have a circle of amazing women in my world. They’re the ones who have lifted me up when things in my world get a little sketchy. They check in, send a message, call for a quick chat that turns into hours of world problem solving. They lend a hand, make me laugh and have my back. They’re real, they’re raw and they don’t pretend to be anything but who they are. They’re all fabulous for many different reasons. They accept me and my foibles and teach me a lot.
So to all of the mums out there who are catching spew in buckets, researching teen behaviour, driving kids to appointments, wiping away tears, sitting by a hospital bed praying or simply managing to get the kids off to school on time without losing your mind….
You’re amazing.
Mums are incredible.
Don’t let anyone tell you anything else.
Disclaimer *Yes, dads are incredible too, but this blog is called Hoochiemumma not Hoochiepapa 😉.
If there is a word to describe our break away, it would be blue. Blue sky, blue ocean, blue beaches….every shade of blue you can imagine….from turquoise to navy.
There is definitely something to be said about the beaches along the Eyre Peninsula. There is also something to be said about their sand dunes too. I had mainly swear words to say and prayers of a quick death as I dug deep to haul my ample self over them.
Now we are experiencing a different kind of blue….the “Holiday Blues”.
It’s a real thing. I saw it with my own eyes as I farewelled our friends from our coastal oasis as they headed back to the drudgery of responsibility and life in the “real world”.
Now it’s our turn.
I’m not a fan of this. I am quite attune to the holiday vibe.
The whole concept of caravan and camping still boggles me a bit though. I don’t know why I like it because essentially we pick up our family, scrunch them into the car to drive 6 hours while they moan about having sore bums. We plonk them down to live in a space no larger than an average lounge room, tell them all to HAVE FUN AND LOVE EACH OTHER BECAUSE WE ARE ON HOLIDAYS AND “MAKING MEMORIES”, GODDAMMIT.
Added to this is that we have neighbours in a caravan park and “parenting quietly”, without a garnish of word parsley is preferable.
Sometimes a tough ask.
It’s also a lot of effort to set up a teeny tiny house on wheels. There is still cooking and washing to do, with the added bonus of having to walk the trail to the ablution block to share the ritual of sitting on a toot next to complete strangers while listening to each other take a poo.
Ah…. the serenity.
Despite this, we, and many others love to getaway in a caravan.
Everyone has settled into their “caravan set up jobs” too. I’m plumbing/electrical, tables and chairs. Trent is anything to do with spatial awareness, knots/ropes, tent construction and lifting heavy shit. The kids become the apprentices and like a well oiled machine we are sitting in a deck chair before we know it.
However this doesn’t happen before the most important job is done.
Backing. In. The. Caravan.
Trent is the backer.
I am the finger pointer and yeller of “whoa”.
I don’t like this job. I don’t like it at all.
Usually Trent and I are on the same page when it comes to lots of things.
Hand signals is NOT one of them.
I secretly love watching couples “help” each other back into caravan blocks. I’m certain there are divorce proceedings happening right now which states “irreconcilable differences mainly due to backing caravans and erecting annexes”.
These tasks are not for the faint hearted or the shakey marriage. These tasks can make you question what you ever saw in your partner in the first place.
Luckily for this trip our friends were already there so I made myself scarce and magically the men just made the van backing happen with hardly a word spoken. There must be a secret man code of hand signals that I know nothing about.
So now that we are home, the reality of life has bestowed itself upon our sad hearts and given us a case of the holiday blues.
We’ve picked up the list of all the things we stacked into the “stuff it, we’ll do it when we get back” file. The mental load is repacking itself into the recesses of our brains and life will ramp back up to “as per usual” before we know it.
But I guess this is what makes us want more. This is the magic of the holiday getaway. We press pause on the day to day drudgery and give ourselves permission to relax and do things we wouldn’t normally do. If our whole life was like this, what would we have to look forward to?
Happy Holidays to you all, and may the Blues be quick and painless.
For those of you who don’t get an opportunity to go on a holiday at all…..even to a caravan park to poo with strangers, I’m sorry. I hope you can sneak in some moments of holiday-ness and at least find some time to read a book in the sun or take an afternoon nap. On the plus side, day drinking isn’t frowned upon either when on holiday, so pour a gin with your cornflakes and call it a trip 👍🏻
I’m not going to recap 2020. We were all there……We all watched on in horror as Australia was on fire, we locked ourselves away from Covid and started adopting the MOST ANNOYING PHRASES. If I hear “in these uncertain times” or “the new normal” one more time I may burst. Give me the over-use of #blessed any day.
We also got sucked into the world of Tiger King. We saw George Pell walk free and George Floyd die. Harry and Meghan broke away from the Royal Family and the supermarkets ran out of toilet paper. This was all before May.
Most people I’ve talked to seem to agree that 2020 was a weird time warp. It’s managed to be the longest time I’ve spent saying how fast the year is going. Or maybe it’s the shortest time I spent saying how long the year has been?
For some people it wasn’t such a bad year because they got to spend more time at home with their partner, saw their kids more, realised they could work from the kitchen table, didn’t go out and waste money on unnecessary stuff, slowed down and reflected on their life.
For others it was a living hell because they got to spend more time at home with their partner, saw their kids more, realised they could work from the kitchen table, didn’t go out and waste money on unnecessary stuff, slowed down and reflected on their life.
As it’s been said before, we’re all in the same storm, however some of us are in a luxury cruiser and some of us are in a canoe.
On reflection, 2020 may have been better spent in the canoe… it may have been a safer option. #Rubyprincesshasalottoanswerfor
Nothing much made sense in 2020. Donald Trump in particular, so it’s fairly fitting that it seems we’ve been sucked into a blackhole where time has been warped and aliens are eating the brains out of a fairly large proportion of the human population. This proportion are also known as conspiracy theorists.
I love and hate conspiracy theorists in equal portions. They are bat-shit bonkers but so entertaining. I’ve always found it fascinating how we all tick differently, so every now and then I head down the rabbit hole of the nonsensical wankery to wade around in the sess pool of theories of the uneducated and misled.
I choose to keep getting my news and information from the *shock horror* mainstream ABC rather than from Dave the Zombie Slayer Star Child, hater of the Government who lives on the Gold Coast sprouting an education from the “University of Hard Knock’s”. BUT if Dave’s theories turn out to be correct, I’ll be the first to shake his alien hand and declare myself a bone-fide follower and book my spot at Pete Evans next dinner party.
All in all, 2020 definitely wasn’t the year anyone had in mind was it?
But is any year really the one we have in mind?
So my wishes for 2021 is that we can all enjoy the moment, because if Dave from the Goldy is right we’re about to be microchipped and killed by 5G.
Blessings to you all in these unprecedented times. May 2021 be the first sequel that outshines the shit show.
