Hoochiemumma

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Hey 2020…Adios, Au revoir, Sayonara

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Welp…. here we are. 2021.

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.


M

Random Ramblings.

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I’ve been a bit quiet on the blogging front. Seems the lady of leisure has not been leisuring. I know. Shock horror! Sometimes the best-laid plans don’t work.


So here is a list of random thoughts and questions as well as a few nuggets of wisdom that I’ve been reminded about or learnt about recently.

1. Firstly, to help you all feel like you’re not the only one slowly going insane, I spent 10 minutes hunting for my sunglasses that were on top of my head. I seriously contemplated a lay down because I am in genuine fear that I may in fact, be losing my sanity.

2. Question: Have I been going IN the outlane and OUT the inlane at our local supermarket? There are no arrows, but I sometimes get the stink eye from some very annoyed large car drivers. Is there an unwritten rule? Advice and debate freely accepted.

3. Organising a get together with like-minded supportive women is the most fabulous therapy ever. Having an agenda is even better!

4. People don’t always have your best interest at heart and simply have nothing better to do than fish for gossip. These people are joy-suckers. Avoid them like the Rona.

5. It’s OK to disappoint someone else before yourself, so saying “no” is necessary as well as refreshing.

6. Doing the hardest thing on the to-do list first thing in the morning makes the day so much brighter. I need to do this more often.

7. Someone gave me a solid and simple piece of advice and let me tell you, it lifted a weight from my shoulders and has helped me jump a hurdle I had made for myself in my own head. Which leads to…..

8. Procrastination isn’t laziness. I spotted this today and yup.. mind blown. Yes yes and yes. I procrastinate a lot and generally… one of these is the reason.

9. Gin is nicer than I had thought it would be and if you have two of them, they make your legs relax. After three it may make your legs do more than just relax. Buyer beware.

10. My youngest child is willing to pay his older sister “a hundred bucks” so that she “won’t tell mum (he) was eating on the lounge” (new lounge… my kids are savages… NO EATING ON THE NEW LOUNGE).

11. Also… my youngest child doesn’t realise that I can hear him without seeing him.

12. Term 4 is always the worst term for parents of school aged children (and teachers too, I imagine). She may be a shorter term but she’s an intense bitch of a thing that needs Valium, with a possible back up of two leg relaxing gins.

13. Letting go of the need to “figure it all out yourself” is a good move. Surrendering to the fact that we all need help is a form of self care and not a weakness. This mantra needs to be repeated by stubborn tarts like myself on a weekly basis.

14. Question: Do conspiracy theorists just believe all of them or can you choose just one or two and go hard and fast. Like, can you believe that 5G is going to kill us all but vaccines are OK, or is it all or nothing? Also when is Pete Evans going to disappear into his own arse and STFU.

15. Everyone should watch Dr David Attenborough’s “A Life On Our Planet”. Everyone. It should be made compulsory viewing in schools. It will either confirm your ethos or challenge the ideas about the way in which you live. It will remind you of our role within a much bigger picture. Either way, it will bring tears. Tissues required.

16. Final question: why is it that going to bed earlier doesn’t make me more pleasant in the morning? Why? A question I’m sure my family would like answered.


On that note… Goodnight!


Until next time.


M

A post about nuthin’…

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analysis blackboard board bubble
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

I got nuthin’. No light bulb moment floating in this head. I’ve run out of juice to produce. I’m all a bit “meh” and I also think the algorithm that allows people to see these posts has died along with my will to wash my windows.
I’ve sat staring at the screen, wanting to write but….nuthin’.
There’s so much I could write about I guess, but who needs to read another persons perspective about Donald Trump? If you want some entertainment though, the brilliant Sarah Cooper is worth following. You can find her here.
Pete Evans is balls to wall crazy.. I could rant about him for pages, but I can’t be bothered. Meh. His comment feeds can be a great source of entertainment if you want to check out his online antics on his Facebook page.
The Black Lives Matter movement has been so so important but I don’t want to dip my toe in that pond. Nor do I want to speak about Victorian’s who need to stop being dickbrains and listen to what the health authorities are telling them. Maybe they’re fans of Pete Evans and are the ones who bought his $15,000 doo-dads to ward off the virus? Spoiler alert. It’s not working.
We’re such a weird bunch, us homosapiens. I don’t understand a lot of human behaviour and sometimes I feel like an outsider looking in trying to figure it out. No, I haven’t gone insane and think that I’m an alien, although that may make sense some days. I just don’t get people. But that’s OK because there are people who I’m sure as eggs don’t get me either. Some of them live in this house and look at me with strange side-eye.
By the way… where does the saying “sure as eggs” come from?
I tell you what I really don’t get…. is the mid 40 memory loss. What’s with that torturous minefield of madness. I thought I was heading down a path of early onset dementia but the lovely ladies of The Hot Flush podcast set me straight. Anything you need to know about the womanly world of changing hormones… plug into this one. Plus they are very entertaining, they jump on their high horses and swear a lot. They are my people.
So as you can see, I sometimes have nothing better to do than listen to podcasts and read about the biggest nut jobs on the planet spruiking their madness for the masses.
Well hasn’t this been an enlightening read for you? This has been a post about nothing… (I feel a title brewing). It’s been complete and utter drivel if you will. Which happens to be the name of one of my other favourite podcasts. Christian Hull makes folding laundry and cooking dinner so much more entertaining. Sometimes a bit on the raunchy raunch side, but if you’re curious about Grindr then you’ll get a lesson or two.
Thanks for reading this far because I just re-read this and it has reinforced that not only am I a woman with questionable memories, but also of questionable skills. Speaking of which, I’m attempting to up my dubious skill level and last week recommitted (for the third time) to a course I enrolled into 4 years ago. Yeah, ummm “self paced” doesn’t really work so well for me. My pace is almost backwards… So I’m off to be enlightened with new knowledge for my memory-less brain. I’m also considering buying a Fitbit, because I seem to like making attempts at things I will probably never commit to.
Sounds like fun….
Meh.
M

A day in the life…

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The social media world has been at it again.

For those who live under the rock next to mine, there has been a 10-day challenge doing the rounds on the Book of Faces. It was a challenge to post a picture every day for 10 days representing a day in the life of being a mum. The photos were to be posted without a single explanation and then you had to nominate somebody to take the challenge with you.

It has been a lovely little stroll down memory lane seeing what some of my Facebook friends shared of their life as a mum. What I noticed though, was that my visual representation of being a mum conjured up something else besides those I was viewing. Sure, I visualised the little squishy baby shots and the family moments, happy holiday snaps, along with the youthful selfies I took with my babies when I was wrinkle-free and had a lot less Hooch in my Mumma.

But because I’m a notorious whinger and like to share an alternative viewpoint, I’ve been trawling the archives and I’ve also collected a few recent images that represent my experience of motherhood.

I can’t stick to the “no explanation” either. There will be commentary.

There may also be poo.

You have been warned…

Here are my top 10 pictures of a day in the life of being a mum.


Ah.. this is where it all begins. A most treasured photo. Also a treasured time when they didn’t answer back or complain about what I gave them for dinner.

Then this happened…. a LOT.

*photo cred – Catherine Leo Photography*

Then it would stop by doing this. I did nine years of this. NINE. I deserve some kind of boob medal surely?

WARNING… POO SHOT.

Dealing with your offspring’s poo doesn’t stop once they are out of nappies.

Laundry. Always odd socks. Boring. Never ending. Enough said.

This is the time our 8 year old rises in the morning to sneak out to the lounge room and watch Netflix. He used to sing and play the piano, so things are looking up.

Total disregard for toothpaste extraction techniques.

It wouldn’t be motherhood without witnessing some WWE action. These are still shots from a video I took. I like to make them re-watch their fights and workshop some ideas for the next round. Good times.

These three spunk rats made me a mum. They have also made me equally bonkers and happy. I’ve cried with pride and cried with frustration. They’ve worried me, worn me out, made me laugh and feel ecstatic all within the same day.

Ah motherhood….‘Tis not for the faint hearted.

Cheers mums.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

M 

 

 

 

February… where’d you come from?

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I seemed to clamber out of the January pool of holiday bliss, bundle our kids off to school and February smacked me in the face. February is upon us.

February 2020.


When I was a little girl I had imagined 2020 to be some kind of supercharged world, unrecognisable to the ’80s in which I was living. I wondered what the world would be like, what I’d be doing, where I’d be living. I had quite exotic thoughts about the future and I defintiely thought we’d be living more of a Jetson-Esque lifestyle with flying cars and robot maids.

To my disappointment, there’s not a single flying car to be seen and the closest we got to a robot maid was that stupid round vacuum thingo that banged into furniture.

Instead, 2020 sees the comeback of the scrunchy and a high waisted jean. There has been a resurgence of bodysuits and a new take on the rah-rah skirt.(less Rah-more skirt). What’s next…blue mascara? One can only hope actually. I loved my blue mascara, with complimentary blue eyeshadow and a touch of pink in the corners for the brave ones.

However, I am determined to tick off some goals in 2020, but 2020 started a month ago.


I’m already behind and I haven’t even started yet.


Let’s face it though. The year really doesn’t “start” until February. Or is that just me?
I don’t even know what January is anymore. I think we need to give up on January because it shouldn’t even count as a month. Nothing productive happens in January. NOTHING. January feels like December’s hang over, and for some of us, the “check liver” light may also be blinking. Also, for the love of all that is good and decent, don’t even think about standing on scales or looking too closely at your bank balance after the month long soirée we call January.

February, on the other hand is a whole other situation.. it feels like it’s GAME ON. February is intense and wildly reminds me of all the crap I promised I’d do throughout 2020 while in the slumber of that stupid week between Christmas and New Year. Somehow the new year seemed such a long way away in that inbetweeny week of the post christmas/pre new year vortex. It’s a time where the dreams that are dreamt can easily become broken promises.

But if you’re like me and have begun to feel the tick-tock of the life clock and want to cross off some bucket list items before you actually ‘kick the bucket’, then I’m feeling ya, or I’m gearing up for a mid-life crisis 🤔.

Either way…February… let’s do it.

M

Forever 67.

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Sorry to anyone over the age of 45, but I’ll be writing about snapchat for a moment…

You know the filter thingo where you can slide to the left and relive the glorious youthful face you used to own in your 20’s, and then slide to the right and see what life has to offer your face in the future? Well, not so long ago, I did that, and what I saw as I slid to the right took my breath away.  Staring right back at me was the image of my mother.

Sometimes when people die, well meaning people say that “they live on in you”. Well, it seems that my mum, who died almost 12 years ago, continues to live on… on my face.

This picture means nothing to those who didn’t know mum, but for those who did… here is “Mel-Rae“. Thanks for freaking me out Snapchat. I’d like to think that I’d sort that hair situation out a little better… but wow.

As a child I used to roll my eyes and die a little on my insides when people told me I looked like my mum. When you’re 12 years old and you get told that you look like your 45 year old mother, it’s a hard pill to swallow. Probably slightly better than being told you look like your father though…

Funnily enough, not that long ago Scarlett was told the same fateful line…”Oh, you look like your mum”. As Scarlett glanced over to me with a look I can only describe as horror, I felt her pain all the way to my inner core. I empathised and apologised for the torment I saw so clearly in her eyes. I knew exactly what she was thinking. “Why do I have to look like you?”

Fair enough, I’m no oil painting, but besides that, even if your mum is the most beautiful woman on the planet, no one wants to look like their mum when they are hitting puberty. Tween-dom is an age when you’re breaking away a little bit from your mum and trying to figure out who you are aside from her. You don’t want to be running around with your mothers face on your head when all you’re trying to do is pretend you don’t even have a mother. Or at least that’s how I felt for a few years, and I’m certain Scarlett feels this way too. Some days I embarrass her by just breathing it seems.

It’s a gift. Tweens are fun.

Now that I’m older and wiser and far from my younger years when I yearned to be an independent “woman of the world”, I’d give anything to be standing next to my mum while some well meaning person told me how much I looked like her.

Especially today… her birthday.

I also hope I inherited more of her traits than just her face. Unfortunately I missed out on her patience and ladylike language.

Good mums are so very special. No matter if you look like them or not…whether they gave birth you…or even if the “mum” in your life isn’t even a mum. Hug them tight.

Thankful for beautiful memories.

Forever 67.

M

 

 

Jingle my bells.

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gold bell on top of brown table
Photo by Jenna Hamra on Pexels.com

I’m usually full of the Christmas joy, but I’m not feeling it this year… like, at all. Someone needs to jingle my bells, cause I am a bit grinchy.  I have even cranked up some Christmas tunes as I type this, to incite some kind of Yule Tide flow. It hasn’t helped because I am now just getting sad that poor old George Michael, rest his soul, gave his heart to that arse-hole who regifted it on boxing day…and I call bullshit that Mariah doesn’t want much for Christmas. Yeah, OK Mariah… I’m sure you’d be happy with me wrapped up under your tree?

Maybe it’s the heat, or our stupid prick of a Prime Minister going on a holiday with his church buddies, while the country he is meant to be leading is literally on fire. Talk about not reading the room Scotty. Maybe it’s a hang-over from Term 4 or the fact that the dog keeps digging up the garden and the cat shit behind my desk again. Apparently, the shower isn’t doing it for her anymore.

One thing that boosted me out of some ‘meh-ness’ was the excitement on Elliot’s face this morning as he was glued to the TV, watching secret camera setups to catch Father Christmas deliver presents. Geez people have a lot of time on their hands, I thought, but bless their Christmas stockings because my baby boy is remaining a solid believer in the Big Fella now that some magical facts have been pumped through his eyes via some random weirdo’s YouTube channel. It may come across as selfish that I want my youngest to keep believing that a white-bearded man in a red suit delivers presents to every house in a single night while flying through the night skies led by reindeers…but I don’t care. I don’t want it to end. I don’t want big kids yet who don’t believe in Father Christmas. Just let me have one believer…please? It really just makes everything more Christmassy and fun and magical, seeing the joy on little people’s faces, and I for one, need some fun and magic right about now.

There will, of course, come a time very soon that the final believer in our house will discover the truth. The truth that Father Christmas, as he knows him, doesn’t exist; that there are no elves at the North Pole; that Rudolph doesn’t pull the sleigh; that Elf on the shelf doesn’t magically move to obscure places by himself; and that Mr Hooch drinks the beer and I eat the biscuit that is lovingly left out on Christmas Eve.

As I write this, I am reminded of a beautiful letter written by Martha Brockencrough to her daughter Lucy in 2009. It’s been around for a while now, so you may have read it, but if you’re like me and clutching onto the last few years of your youngest child’s innocence and wonder, this may trigger an ugly cry…. grab a tissue.

 

Dear Lucy,

Thank you for your letter. You asked a very good question: “Are you Santa?”

I know you’ve wanted the answer to this question for a long time, and I’ve had to give it careful thought to know just what to say.

The answer is no. I am not Santa. There is no one Santa.

I am the person who fills your stockings with presents, though. I also choose and wrap the presents under the tree, the same way my mom did for me, and the same way her mom did for her. (And yes, Daddy helps, too.)

I imagine you will someday do this for your children, and I know you will love seeing them run down the stairs on Christmas morning. You will love seeing them sit under the tree, their small faces lit with Christmas lights.

This won’t make you Santa, though.

Santa is bigger than any person, and his work has gone on longer than any of us have lived. What he does is simple, but it is powerful. He teaches children how to believe in something they can’t see or touch.

It’s a big job, and it’s an important one. Throughout your life, you will need this capacity to believe: in yourself, in your friends, in your talents, and in your family. You’ll also need to believe in things you can’t measure or even hold in your hand. Here, I am talking about love, that great power that will light your life from the inside out, even during its darkest, coldest moments.

Santa is a teacher, and I have been his student, and now you know the secret of how he gets down all those chimneys on Christmas Eve: He has help from all the people whose hearts he’s filled with joy.

With full hearts, people like Daddy and me take our turns helping Santa do a job that would otherwise be impossible.

So, no. I am not Santa. Santa is love and magic and hope and happiness. I’m on his team, and now you are, too.

I love you and I always will.

Mama

 

Well, wouldn’t you know it… I think Martha helped me find some Christmas joy.

Merry Christmas, especially to those loyal few who take the time to read my dribbly little blog which brings me quite a bit of enjoyment as I tap away, sending my thoughts out to nowhere.

May you all find a tonne of love, magic, hope and happiness.

M

 

Ready, set, lift off.

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I did it… threw caution to the wind. I changed my mind many times about whether I should start a blog or not, cause it feels a bit wanky or something, but I figure I’ll be lucky if anyone chooses to read my drivel, so here I am. Plus, I think blogs are dying. I was never very good at keeping up with trends.

I enjoy writing little stories about the quirks of life and finding humour in the everyday mundane. I also like to do a fair bit of whingeing it seems.. mainly about laundry, the children and crappy internet. I’m fairly partial to a feminist rant from time to time and also sharing some other random thoughts that run through my head. I think you’re meant to have a plan when you blog. Like a topic and stick to it. A niche. I think this applies to blogs that have an audience so I’m pretty safe.

Also, this will be a little bit of me left for my kids. Something to read when they’re older, and possibly sue me for.

There’s something to be said for reading words that your parents have written and hearing stories from the past. With both of my parents now dead and gone, I treasure the words left behind. Unfortunately I don’t have many. Mum only really left recipes.. ironically she wasn’t a fan of culinary pursuits. The bits I treasure though are the side notes of changes she made. She wrote those instructions like they were for someone else. I can’t imagine she would have ever forgotten the fact that the slice she made year after year didn’t need the whole packet of coffee biscuits. It’s noted on the side to “leave 4 behind” in the crushing phase, just the same.

My dad certainly had a way with words. He had a colourful palette to say the least, but mostly, he loved a ‘big word’ that no one knew the meaning of and he loved using that word whenever he could. In his hey day he mainly wrote “letters to the editor”, ranting about the misjustice of the latest local topic. He scribbled a few entries in a diary I once found and some fairly funny commentary on the back of old photos, but besides that, the colourful language and big fancy words left when he did.

Just recently though I found, amongst a pile of memorabilia, the last letter my nanna wrote to my mum. On the worn and torn edge of the envelope was written “mums last letter”. My mum had kept this treasured piece, scribed back in 1987. She lovingly tucked it away for safe keeping with newspaper clippings and old documents from a time gone by…… She held onto her mums words, her thoughts, her language. Written words are something to go back to and re read. They’re a gentle reminder of who someone was, what they cared about and their voice can be ‘heard’ just one more time.

Funnily enough in my nanna’s last letter, she whinged about how long it took to get the washing dry and something about needing Aloe Vera cream.

She was also a red head. Maybe apples don’t fall that far from the tree after all.

M