Binge

Nothing enthuses us more than the anticipation and excitement of an upcoming event that will give us the pleasure and licence to indulge in a good binge fest. With our mates especially and perhaps at a wedding or event where it is accepted and expected. Where there is plenty of grog and it is free. Bugger the overpriced expensive dinner and the cake. Bring on “cheers”.


I don’t think that we care how much we spend at a pub, club or drinking venue really whilst binge drinking. Its like we have a thousand dollars in our pocket when we walk through the pub doors, and even more after the first three have gone down and it’s like it’s someone else’s. It’s great. I will hum and ha about buying a cool t-shirt I really like or a couple of trays of wheat grass from the markets for good health but will not hesitate about shouting the whole of the GABBA (at an AFL game where the Crows are winning), to a beer or white wine spritzer after I’ve had a couple.


What are responsibilities? The answer is there are none while drinking. I mean there are accountabilities morally and legally which we are all unmistakably aware of while sober but once we have had too many, our responsibilities and good sense leave us as we are replaced by the drinking monster. I don’t buy that whole I was too drunk to know excuse either. We KNOW. We just don’t CARE. Why? Because we are the bravest souls on the earth when we are drunk on happy juice. Once I left my poor dog in the car for 4 hours while having a binge fiesta with a friend at a pub. I hadn’t planned to and I love my dog almost as much as my partner and child but I was driving home from somewhere when I got this text from a friend to pop into the Albion Wine bar for ‘one’ drink. I did. Four hours later, I had to find another friend who could come get my dog and me and drive us home. Bad girl. The guilt comes out in the hangover like the anxiety bug and that can be penance enough because that guilt is unbelievably full on.


It’s part of Australia’s culture to binge drink. People who are able to consume large amounts of alcohol are held in high regard by their mates. Except in Amish circles I think, but whatever. They’re not supposed to have a web site either because it’s ‘modern’. The challenge, “I can drink you under the table” helps to egg us on. People are proud of that ability. Binge drinking and getting drunk to a point of complete loss of control is not only accepted but encouraged; it is passed off by us as just "being Australian" and is seen as a perfectly normal cultural practice rather than as a problem.


What is a problem is beer goggles.Waking up the next morning with that thing in your bed or in your memory makes you swear off grog til the end of time. ( Note to self, look up: How to avoid trapped arm whiles cuddling in bed ). You feel like saying “Where’s that good looking piece I brought home? And who the hell are you?” and it could mean either of you? You become someone else while pissed. You are funny, first of all, smart as all get the fuck out and gorgeous. You can dance well and while on the dance floor you realise you had never noticed this before, why are’nt you on, ‘So you think you can dance?’, similarly for ‘Idol’ when performing Karaoke, singing love ballads from the 80’s and always, without fail, ‘New York, New York’. Yeah start spreading that news! One you can really belt out because you are that good and people will love it. ‘You light up my life’ is another belter and don’t you hate the other drunk arsehole who gets on before you and sings ‘Evie’. It’s 12 and a half fucking minutes long.


Biggest lie while drinking? “Okay, but just one.” Second biggest, “Must have been something I ate,” And on a hangover, “I’m not hung over I’m just tired. I think I have a bug.” No, you have a hangover darling after consuming 14 beers and seven vodka cruisers, actually. Accept it. You got drunk, you pay. Take it on board. Have a Red Bull, a bacon sandwich, a saus and egg Muffin, and a pizza for lunch (pepperoni and cheese, extra cheese, extra pepperoni) and then later, a serve of fish and chips. Grease, grease, spew. It won’t help at all, neither will the 4 two litre bottles of coke, lemonade and sars but you think it will and you’ll be right tomorrow.


That first hour of waking after a big night is horrid. Paralleled of course with the wake at 2.30am if you have had just enough that night or after the afternoon drinky fest but not the coma amount. There is that foggy, sick, anxious feeling in your head and it is asking you very slowly one thing at a time,


“What the hell happened to me?”


“Oh yeah, got drunk.”


“Jesus, did I say or do anything embarassing?”


“Nah. All good. Head hurts though and I’m parched.”


“The singing was a bit embarassing.”


“Dancing wasn’t good either.”


“Why the hell did I push that woman in the loos?”


Now, although you haven’t opened your eyes yet you start to frown.


“Shit, because I made a pass at her boyfriend. Fuck. That’s bad.”


“God, anything else?”


“I fell down. Now that is embarassing. And I ripped my jeans. Fuck.”


“God, anything else?”


Then your eyes dart open as quick as greased lightening and you look urgently to your left and there he is. A balding hairy ape with a bushmans beard. And who turned the Fucking sun on and up to full beam?…where’s the dimmer? The DIMMER?


“Morning beautiful,” it says as you feel the vomit rise in your throat. And as you run to the bathroom down the longest corridor erected since the romans built Pompeii, you feel the pain and look down at the scraped and bloodied knees you thought were cute and amusing last night and worst of all so did the new man in your bed. And as you heave back black bacardi and coke into the porcelain pony, all you are thinking about is how the hell you are going to get him out of your house. Is it hideously rude to recommend he do Egg McMuffin solo three blocks over. And do you care?


What never fails to amaze me with binge drinking, is that you do all these stupid things, drink drive, cheat, punch people, fall down, eat kebabs at 3.30am in the morning and feel really, really bad the next day and yet go back and do it again soon after. Some people can even do it the very next night if a function warrants it. Hell, I have in my younger day. In fact for my friends and I it used to start Thursday nights, then Friday night, Saturday night of course, you wouldn’t be caught dead at home on a Saturday night – loser, and it would end at a Sunday pub sesh. The thing is if I eat a piece of chicken loaf that is off and it makes me crook. I never do that again. If I have oysters and I throw up just once even, I don’t go there again. I stopped drinking coffee after 12 noon six years ago because once I had a coffee in the afternoon and it made me feel slightly queasy. But with binge drinking, as sick as we get on occasion, even alcohol poisoning in some instances for some, we keep doing it, we even look forward to it. Every weekend sometimes. We have the understanding that at least one day over the weekend we will have a hang over or at least be seedy. It is a given and it is accepted. To me that means the hangover for most of us is worth the feeling and effects alcohol gives us. I know someone who doesn’t ever drink more than two drinks at any sitting. I asked him once if he didn’t like the taste and he said that he did, he liked it a lot, so I asked him why he never got drunk and he told me he did once and didn’t like the feeling, the lack of control. That’s what most of us like about it, I told him.


Many of us don’t know a life away from binge drinking. I always wondered what people who didn’t drink did with their time. Obviously they are a different sort of loaded, that’s a given but I used to wonder if they get bored with life. I asked a friend of my partners once. She never drank more than one or two drinks at any given show and always drove everyone else home, which while handy was also mystifying to me. She had been drunk a few times so it’s not like she was against it or anything but she said she was, as the old adage goes, ‘high on life’. I laughed.

“Yeah that’s bullshit. What’s the real reason?”



Feel like a drink?

The Hairdresser

Something about a male colleague sitting opposite me at work looked a little bit different to me one morning. When I say ‘a little’ I mean a smidgen, a morsel, a diminutive amount, a minuscule difference even, - it was hardly visible. I am the most unobservant person ever so I had no idea what it was that was not the same about him on that day but eventually he turned to me in his swivel chair and said in his very pommy accent, “Ad an ‘aircut last night.”


“Oh. Thought so,” I said. So that was it. Yay, move on. I turned back to my budget report.


“Yeah, I finally thought I’d do something different. Get outa my comfort zone.”


“Really?” What the fuck was he on? What different? It was a little bit sticky outy at the back. That was all.


“Cost me a little bit more than a hundred too.”


“A hundred? You mean bucks? or Lifesavers?”


“Yes. Well $139 actually.”


“Fuck me. For a boys hair cut? Was that Australian dollars?”


“They conned me into buying ‘air product.”


“Product? How much product? Fucking hell Martin. That’s girls haircut prices, at Joh Baileys. Was it Joh? Was he even there? Did he have that lippy stuff on?”


“Doesn’t it look any good?”


“Well yes it looks good but I hardly noticed, I mean you’ve got short, straight hair Martin.”


“You said ‘thought so’, like you ‘ad noticed earlier.”


“Well it was a little bit sticky outy at the back. That’s what I’d noticed.”


“Yeah I got ripped off. I know. Who am I kiddin’”


“Aaah yeah. Oh well.”


“Interesting ‘airdresser though.”


“Conversationally?”


“No, the place. It was like a fancy, specialised airdressers.”


“Gourmet?”


“Yeah.”


“No wonder it was pricey.”


“I was offered a boutique beer and a meal.”


“A meal?”


“Well I say meal but it was a minimalistic plate of lemony tuna and rainbow orzo salad….but on a cracker.”


“Jeez. Orzo?”


“Risotto. A teaspoon of it.”


“Hmmm posh. Décor?”


“All white would you believe? Everything.”


“I do. White, you say. Even the floor?”


“Basins, everything.”


“Messy for a floor though. All those dark hair colours. Even the ginga’s hair.”


“Maybe they should just cut Albino hair.”


“I think so, that would be fitting, while playing the white album. Now what was this product Martin?”


“Well there were two recommended.”


“Of course. And you purchased both and what were they?”


“Men Pure-Formance Pomade at the low, low discount price of $47..”


“Oh my God. Pomade? What is that? Did they make that up?”


“Well it helps mold & style and gives a rich, spicy & refreshing aroma with citrus & organic essential oils of spearmint and...” he reeled out a little derisively.


“Whatever. So handy. You can eat it if you ever have an empty fridge at home.”


“The other one was Tigi something catwalk spritz and shine.”


“For models?”


“I got ripped.”


“Oh baby, did you.”


What is happening to the local hairdressers? They are a new world which possibly gives them licence to charge people exorbitant prices, even men who have in the past seemed to duck out of paying little more than $10 or $15 bucks for a haircut and bryl. My hairdresser offers boutique beverages too. There is even a list to choose from. Forget tea and coffee or a glass of cool tap water. These trendy Uber cool salons are high art. What I hate about the chain hairdresser though is the mandatory amount of money a particular hairdresser is required to make to stay employed. A hairdresser needs to be a sales person now as well as cutting good hair, washing hair without digging up people’s scalps with their fingernails and the best at mundane pointless chat. Even though we don’t really listen to much of that because we are enjoying the free head massage. Its just noise to fill up the void.


My dad gave me a voucher for Christmas for a chain hair salon and I went along with delight. There is nothing better than the feeling of a good haircut. Even though some people regard the hairdresser with fear akin to the trepidation of one visiting a dentist. Me I love it. They can’t really fuck up curly hair too dreadfully. When I sat down to wait in front of the mirror with my junk mag and stunning cape on I just expected to sit back, tell her what I wanted and let the process begin. Instead, I was given a clipboard with paper work to fill out. What the? I am only happy to do that at the doctors for the first time because of health issues and what not. The hairdresser does not need to know whether I consider my hair to be dry or oily, washed often enough or what my true dreams are of future hair wear. Wash it, cut the bits off, dry it and let me pay and leave. It took me 20 minutes to fill the official procedure out. It took me less time to do my will. I didn’t want to mention that I have a usual hairdresser and won’t be back, therefore didn’t need to complete the hairdresser red tape because I wanted a decent cut and for them to think I might make this a regular gig. I know that is dishonest, but so is selling an older lady of approximately 75 years of age a $45 bottle of product for her purple hair. It is fucking obviously glossy enough!


Based on the report I’d completed she deciphered from my chicken scratchings (oh well done) that I needed an oil treatment and two particular products that would leave my hair looking like I just walked out of a salon every day. I wonder if anyone would want that look anyway. It’s like over done wedding hair on occasion. Bulbous Bouffant. I have done the run to my car from the salon in the past before anyone I knew saw me, embarrassed at the ‘hair dressed’ look. I usually re do the whole thing as soon as I’m in the car with the aid of the rear view mirror.


I told the hairdresser that I was okay for product, that I had in fact tried every product for curly hair ever created and had found one I was happy with at a reasonable price. But the sell didn’t stop. She also showed me the product packaging, the stats, a hair test, a sniff.


“You could eat it couldn’t you? It smells that good.”

“Oh yes”, I said, “Serve it to me on a plate.”

Eventually I said I was sorry, I couldn’t afford to buy anything at this visit and she sullenly ignored me for the rest of the appointment and snipped and chipped at my hair willy nilly. It looked fucking awful but I was delighted to pull from my wallet my voucher and get the hell out knowing I would not be back ever because I don’t want to be hassled at an already expensive venue. People want to relax at the hairdresser. It’s supposed to be like a pamper session. No longer it seems.

Hair Newz

Small Pink Things: Part I

A friend asked me to be in a wedding for the upteenth time and while I certainly have bridesmaid experience I gave the wedding a miss. I sent a good present though and that at least calmed the bride. She really couldn’t fathom why on earth I would turn down such a good offer to be bridesmaid for the 12th time but composed herself when her next-door neighbour agreed to do it. So I went to the David Jones gift registry to buy something that would alleviate my guilt at declining both my bridesmaid obligation and attendance as wedding guest. It used to be white goods and wine glasses but now it’s all stainless steel and man that shit is expensive, especially when purchasing solo. Anyway the great thing is that if I’m asked again in the near future to go to a wedding I will have a partner to go halves in the gift. Certainly not the blind date even though he wasn’t from a Wes Craven movie but because finally Todd got his shit together!


My friend Gwen, started talking about having children very soon after the wedding. Sometimes I feel some girls are programmed from an early age to marry and breed before they even really experience life. This seems rarer these days though. It’s all about one thing. Biological clock. Tick, tick, tick. It can all get pretty fucking loud.


It has been interesting watching friends go through the whole trying to get pregnant thing (not literally of course), pregnancy tests, great results, miscarriage, one that sticks and the emotional roller coaster the whole thing creates. It never ends. From conception to death, yours preferably, that is one fairly important screw you are having.


Gwen was quite concerned about her life changing, which of course it did, immensely. She knew that down deep inside but persisted in asking people who have children whether or not that is true.


“Oh shit, yes,” they told her, “life will never be the same.”


“Bugger,” she said.


“No really. Never. Never, ever, ever, ever.”


“Right yes. Think I’ve grasped that. Thanks for your input (asshole),” she murmured, dry reaching.


Some just laughed hysterically at her and wandered away.


I just watched this and whispered to her, “told you.” Because it was amusing for me and because I was also jealous of the fact that she had a small child inside of her that will some day be calling her ‘Mummy’ (and much later ‘bitch’ and ‘mother fucker ‘in its teenage years).


I think Gwen had a very small, I’d even go so far to say teeny, denial problem about it arriving. I had been asking her for the last month or two of her pregnancy if they had any baby stuff yet and if they had prepared the nursery (I knew they bloody hadn’t because I was there quite a lot) and the answer of course was ‘no’ to both questions but when the nursery issue was raised she mumbled something like,


“We’re just putting it in the study”.


“Ahh right. What study?” I ask because I know they haven’t got one.


“Top of the stairs,” she says.


“That’s not a study. That’s the top of the stairs. There are no walls, just a computer and the bathroom. It’s a landing.”


“Proximity of the bathroom’s important.”


“You’re ambulant. Getting to the bathroom will not be a problem.”


“Good to be close for leakages.”


“What leakages? C’mon,” I say, “just make a nursery in one of the three bedrooms you have.”


“Nah.”


“A small one, with just a miniature frieze of tiny blue bunnies or something?” I beg, because this child will be my Godchild and I don’t want a Godchild of mine being placed willy-nilly on a cold hard brown tiled floor next to a desk and a scary stairwell.


Then I recall that this is the girl whose wedding I was bridesmaid in where we picked out her wedding dress in 30 minutes and she used to sit back, talk about it now and then while leafing slowly and very infrequently through reception venue brochures, just a wee three months before the wedding.


The hardest thing for her after she fell preggers was the lack of social invitations. Most of their friends like a drink or two and didn’t consider often inviting a pregnant woman who can’t drink, although she made for a pretty good driver so got a flag when it suited transport arrangements. She worried that their societal position would look like a black void after giving birth and having an extra attachment that may or may not lie quietly at dinner and can’t really go to the pub with them. It was all very scary to her.

Small Pink Things Part II

I had a couple of other friends pregnant at around the same time. One knew the sex of her baby and its name but she called it the ‘small pink thing’. I sent her an SMS one day when she was a week late, on some latest findings about encouraging labour. It was recommended she consume large quantities of raspberry leaf in either tea or tablet form. She sent me an SMS back just a mere couple of hours later telling me she was force feeding herself tonnes of raspberry leaf so she would have the ripest cervix ever to help bring that baby out NOW. She had, had enough of it being in there.

The other friend who conceived for the first time discovered she was having triplets. It blew everybody away especially her husband who wasn’t sure he wanted one at all. She went shopping for a triplet pram not long after and was shocked to discover they sold at a modest price of $1500. That’s mental. That is a flight to Los Angeles.

For some reason I always naively assumed that when pregnant the desire for drinks and cigarettes instantly goes. Maybe for some it does but two of my friends who were pregnant had always been party kind of people who have always liked a few adult bevvies and puffs. Occasionally we heard coming out of their mouths,

“God, I’d kill for a nice cool Jim Beam and a cigarette.”

“Give me succour. I need wine and I want to inhale some fags.”

“When this thing is out of me,” they say.

“What?” I retorted, “You’ll have two drinks and want to go home, or fall over whichever comes first.”

They both commented that they wished they could carry a small heated baby bag or even an incubator with them and just pop the baby out of their womb at will at social gatherings and put it back in after the evening is over.

“We could market this?” they said.

“It’s a great invention.”

Course it is girls. I’ve noticed more than one disturbed thought process in both of them and forgetful, lose the car, lose a bag, leave the dog tied up outside the shop a kilometre away. Or forget you brought a bag to the movies and report it stolen from home to the police.

It’s the actual birth stories that I hate hearing. Apart from tales of drugs and tearing, the most common thing I hear about is when the woman screams in a primal fashion at her husband, without any sign of love whatsoever,

“I hate your guts you bastard,” and then screams at the doctor, “GET that fucking thing out of me,” as if it were not her small child being delivered but some alien creature that had crawled on in there of its own free will and is now clinging onto her uterus walls for dear life. It can probably hear her and is terrified to come out and is already calling her bitch or motherfucker.

All I can say is ouch. And who is the woman who tells people it’s like shelling peas. It has to be just one woman because I’ve only ever heard it once. She was one of the world’s earliest politicians trying to encourage a population increase and she was a bloody liar I think. Can’t wait to do it myself!

Now the hardest role for us as visitors to the new baby in the hospital is to say how cute it is when in actual fact it is the most unsightly hideous monkey child looking thing you have ever laid eyes on and ever hope to again. And you have to say convincingly, “Oh how gorgeous, oh he’s just lovely, lovely.”

You just know when walking out of there that the first thing that you and your partner will say to each other is, “Jesus, what THE HELL was that?”

But you have to goo and gah in all the right places because the parents think he is beautiful (and love is blind) and they feel they have done a bloody marvellous thing here (and they have, although it really is just a lucky root) and it is just not visitor etiquette to say what you really think. You also know that it will be your turn one day and that your baby will be absolutely gorgeous. On a positive note I have actually seen ugly babies turn out okay when it loses its monkey fur and gets a normal colour happening.

Don’t the mothers look different when you go in and see them in hospital? It’s their eyes. They are so wide and alarmed looking and you just know that it is the last time for a while that you will see this mothers eyes as open as this. I think it has something to do with the fact that everyone on earth has seen your bits with extras and the actuality that that small thing came out of that, well, really little thing.

I’ve got a couple of friends who are trying to get pregnant at the moment and are having a bit of trouble. Could be something to do with the fact that they are lesbians. They are actually on a program where once per month one of the girls goes to a clinic and gets a shot of sperm and then they wait and see.

Small Pink things - Final

My lesbian friends have chosen this particular sperm very carefully. They choose by genetics, looks and intelligence. It’s all very stressful for them as it is with any couple when they realise they have not conceived every month. The positive thing though for them is when one of the girls decides that they are no longer going to try, or unable to conceive for whatever reason, then the other one is able to have a go. The whole same sex couple-parenting thing has a lot more implications than heterosexual couples. Like any other couple they want children badly. They wonder if it is selfish because the child’s life will be different from other children’s lives. Two parents though might be better than just one parent and there are stacks of single parents out there. People in heterosexual relationships have children all the time and often bring those kids into dysfunctional, unhappy and even abusive relationships. But society seems to accept this more readily somehow. Buggered if I know why.


Kids are so beautiful when they belong to someone else. You can give them back and talk and whinge about them without any guilt whatsoever. But then sometimes when I hold my best friends little one (and life did change oh so very much for her) I imagine how it must feel to have your own and then I want one desperately, until I am shopping next time and a small childs head spins around 360 degrees and green stuff comes from its mouth. Then I laugh my arse off because I am glad it isn’t me with that crying, stomping child. I also enjoy the fact that I am able to get in my car without a pram, toys, big baby bag and Wiggles CD’s whenever I like. I can sleep in, stay up late, drink and eat garlic and it has no impact on anybody else except perhaps my partner. The thing about being childless is you really have no idea what so ever. It’s true I guess that you don’t miss what you don’t have but I think the wonder of it remains with you possibly forever until dementia and then its freedom from any regrets or cares of any sort I presume.


Gwen says quite often to me now while talking to me seriously with baby sick on her shoulder and thinking that, that is perfectly normal (and it is for her), that I have to have a baby, I absolutely must there is no if’s about it. She tells me it is a truly amazing experience that while extremely life changing wouldn’t be changed by her for a minute. Except perhaps after a row of sleepless nights and days, endless nappies, crying for utterly no reason, not eating, equipment needed on any given journey even a quick trip to the shop and being trapped in the home without adult conversation. She hates it when I say to her things like, “Why don’t you just sleep when he does?” it seems the most logical thing in the world to me yet she is staring at me in that inane way she does when I have said something entirely ridiculous or obtuse. She also hates it when he cries and I say,” Oh just let him cry, it’s called controlled crying,” or “here give him to me, I’ll settle him.” She hates it because she of course has attempted all of these suggestions a million times. She has even tried standing on her head on the deck railing beating the tune of ‘popcorn’ on her chest and it has not worked. She has read every single book written and internet article about babies and their darling cutsy qualities and it is still not working because they have minds of their own and they are still pissed at being out of the womb. It’s payback.


Life changes for the friends of people with children. It’s selfish of the breeders really. We don’t go out to dinner with them as much, if ever, we eat in with them (Hmmm riveting) or at Sizzler (fucking yum - NOT). We don’t go drinking with them much anymore and if we do it at all, it is with one of the parents only and there is a curfew. There is still a curfew even if both of them can come out, because of the sitter and hangovers and late nights with children are like a weekend in the army.


Another friend of mine’s baby boy is nine months old or so and is starting to crawl. It seems to be a hard stage. My best mate says every stage is hard and while wishing to get to the next stage all the time she has guilt over the fact that she is wishing her son’s life away and terror because she has also seen evidence of the hmmm, ‘joy’ of the next stage. I continually remind her that that will never end for her. Ever.


Conversations these days are completely dissimilar between us now. When in any group situation my best friend and I used to frequently put our heads together and yap about crap. Like our own prearranged little tea party. Now she heads straight for the parents and I head straight for those who are not. It’s natural that conversation would centre on common threads and having a child can set people miles apart no matter how close you are. You just can’t compare and really people with kids just don’t get the whole dog comparison.


Sometimes when I am listening to a story about a friend’s child I try to fit in and say something back like,


“Yeah that’s like my dog Karchi. She sounds like an old man when she sleeps too.”


And she’s like, “Yeah, Uh Huh. Anyway he really worries me when he rolls onto his face in his cot.”


“Yeah right. Same.”


It’s no wonder that the groups separate though because you don’t really get a full conversation with people who have children if the kids are present. There’s too much watching to do and prodding and tugging on Mum sleeves by the darling tikes.


Half way through most conversations they have to stop and say,” hold on. Lukas. Stop eating mud. Right now where were we?”


“I was just telling you about my appendectomy last week.”


“Right, oh God hold on. Lukas pull your pants up. UP, I said.”


“So how’s work?”


“What?”


And there is never any eye contact anymore because they are watching Lukas’ every move and they are asking the wrong questions because they have no idea about what you had been talking about in the first place and simply know that they have to ask something to show they can still hold adult conversation and are interested in your life. A conversation between two or more parents is just hideous. It’s really rapid pulp fiction.


The work thing though is what Mums seem to care least about after giving birth. Work is part of the old life. It seems an interesting transformation from striving to develop a profession after putting in the hard yards at Uni and getting that degree that will help enhance a career. Then doing that climb up the ladder in any given field after sucking cock or whatever because most of us do start at the bottom, then having a baby pop out mid run can see an abrupt halt to it all. During pregnancy you hear the odd defiant pre-baby whinge about having to take time off to have a baby therefore delaying that vocational process. There is the determined, dogged statement about only having a small amount of time off work after the birth because, “my career is still important to me.” What actually happens is they get home with that bundle of joy, get through the first hellish three months and realise there is no way they want to miss any of those beautiful developmental milestones their bundle of joy is reaching on a regular basis. One little smile on that gorgeous baby’s face is all it takes. Then it’s what career? “I’m a Housewife. That is a career.”


So much more than that seems to change though. A regular conversation about music and television is alien to both parties. I was talking to a friend with child about a band that I had seen called ‘Placebo’ and was met with a blank stare. If I told her it was a band who sang, “Hot potato, hot potato” or “Wake up, Jeff,” I know she’d know who I was talking about. Igglepiggle, Tombliboos, Makka-Pakka and Upsey-daisy is top television viewing now and far surpasses any of the Law and Orders or Spicks and Specs.


Parents ask what we have been doing and you wonder what could compare with stories of your own child, but really they desperately want to know I think because it seems like normal life and they need to live vicariously through you now while milk is spurting out of nipples and nappy’s dot clothes lines like semaphore flags or pile up in bins outside. After a while you find common ground of sorts and chat about a little of both worlds, or generally have two distinct conversations and don’t give a shit if you understand each other, the coffee’s good!

Facebook Mums

Facebook Mums present a totally new way of mothering if you ask me...not that you are but still, its something I've noticed. And as a Facebook Mum myself I'm never surprised when I log in first thing in the morning or really at anytime through the day and see my 'friends' who I know are mothers with small, kindy or primary school aged children, "online" too. I see the profile comments while placing my own next to my name, "Hmmm 5 am start, good sleep in" (and they mean it) or "not enough wine in the world to cope with the terrible two's". What are we doing? How are we able to spend the time checking out our friends commentary, photos and status' with small children? ABC kids? Sleep time?

Back in the day, non facebook mothers used to clean and cook, groom the dog, make themselves presentable for their man (well in the 50's anyway), they cooked onions to make the house smell inviting, grabbed the husbands pipe and slippers as he walked through the door and lipsticked and perfumed up for him...a bit different these days thank God, the internet age is upon us well and truly, although I don't know if this is an ideal arrangement. Prior to Facebook I would only get on the computer when my daughter slept. Now I have a lap top and it is on all day and I constantly check facebook and in particular my facebook games. I know I am not alone in this which kind of makes it worse yet widely understandable and even acceptable in terms of others opinions.There are a million of these games on facebook. My choice of online game is FarmVille and also Mousehunt but I have also played Mafia wars and tried lots of other games...they are addictive, time consuming yet fun! Games are also more interesting than some of the facebook mums comments on their childs bowel movements etc.

Unfortunately I am guilty of the frequent comment to my daughter, "hold on baby, I'm harvesting." When my partner comes home and asks what we did today, my child says, "Mummy harvesting,"....not good. Not good at all. So I've made a rule about gaming. Only after she is in bed or at child care or out with my partner...no longer at other times because an application should never, ever come before my child or my relationship for that matter. My partner will not lose a wife to facebook.

Facebook has become a forum for mum's (and others) to state anything fairly uninteresting about their children's behaviour and/or bodily functions. Why do I care that a friend's kid 2,000 kilometres away from me has a snotty nose this morning...I also don't give a shit about every cutsey comment a friend's child utters...I don't think it is necessarily cute. What has become of us? Some people tell the world too much stuff, its embarrassing, its boring, its humiliating...and in saying all that, I am so guilty of it myself sometimes, because it's cathartic and it helps to read that others are going through something similar. There's nothing like an emotional purge to make us feel better. Its cleansing. It's a tool for the normally unheard.

Whatever we call it, snoop book, bitch book, lamebook, gamebook, facebook, it's here for a while and its up to facebook mums to rememeber that kids come first. If you are worrying about withering crops...you can purchase unwither!! The same can't be said for our children.

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Women on Facebook...not just the young