I heard a man remark the other day that if he was a woman he would never go out because he would just stay at home and stare at his own boobs all day. Such witticisms intrigue me. Why are men so obsessed with hunks of latent milk ducts and what makes them think that the sight of our own would fill us with narcisstic desire resulting in agoraphobia?

And there’s more. Why do men, who want everything else on our bodies to be small and toned, become incoherent at the sight of big fat bulges on our chests? And even more perplexing, how do they disassociate being breastfed with...well imitating it in the bedroom? (Now that I have written that last sentence I feel all perverted and unclean. Abort! Abort!)

Of course I understand that they play their part for we women in, shall we say, switching on the ignition key at the rally, but aside from enjoying watching our motors rev up and the connections to what’s under the bonnet, why do men fantasise about our headlights?

Such questions arose when I was trying rather unsuccessfully to feed my formerly large, hungry infant son. The breastfeeding Nazis at the clinic had talked me into persevering despite the fact that the milk rash, weight loss and screaming was turning my gorgeous baby into an angry red sultana. Nevertheless, I shackled myself even more firmly to an unhealthy dose of motherly guilt and took to the task of pumping. There really is nothing unsexier in the universe than this task. For those uninformed, breast pumping is the act of clasping a plastic contraption to a sore, leaky boob and literally milking oneself. Needless to say, all illusions of dignity are milked out simultaneously. Hormonal, sleep deprived women don’t care at the time. They are driven forth by the slowly rising line of milk, triumphant in their success and eager to show their husbands their handiwork. My husband tried desperately to avoid looking, watching the ceiling with interest and making encouraging grunting noises until at last he had to say it: ‘If you make me look at that we may never have sex again.’

Ah but we did, as second son clearly proves, which brings me back to my conundrum: how is this possible? Didn’t the hellish dairy stage repulse him from all things boob for life?

No. Apparently the pull of the teats does not destroy the pull of the tits. Fathers, despite having witnessed such devastating lust killer activities, recover. Fully. Because they truly don’t care: they like them. They like them big and bouncy, champagne glass sized, pointy, round, real, fake, in sweaters, flannel PJ’s, singlets, bras and his old t-shirts. They just like them. Ask any hetero man what they think of boobs and nine time out of ten that's all you'll get: 'Like 'em.’ And if you follow up with ‘But why?’ your most likely response will be: ‘Don’t know. Just do.’

They want the backside firm and the boozies soft, (a physical impossibility without surgery I might just have to interject here), just two warm pillows to rest their weary male heads and all is well in the world. And we don’t really mind do we girls? It’s nice to have some kind of power in a still male dominated world. Sure, they usually get to start wars and dictate the global finances, but when it comes to the driver’s seat, who has control of the wheel when a big boobed jogger runs past in a crop top eh? We do! Don’t tell me there aren’t wives of millionaires and pollies out there donning the old push up bra to get their scheming way!

Boob power: the ability to render an articulate, intelligent opponent into a glazed eyed minion. It’s no small feat really is it? Especially if it’s no small teat. They seem to like the overgrown, busting out type, in fact the more cleavage the more leverage we girls seem to be able to wield. Take Wonder Woman as our leading example. Forget her deadly, projectile tiara and kinky bracelets, Wonder Woman’s real lasso of truth lay in her wonder bosoms pointing at the hapless bad dude who immediately turned into a dribbling mess. Most of you guys out there wouldn’t have noticed that bit. You were too busy staring at her wonder bosoms and turning into a dribbling mess. Am I wrong? Let’s examine a few more boobily empowered women of our time then shall we?

Boobily empowered woman #1: Pamela Anderson. This renowned ‘bimbo’ has made squillions as a dodgy actress due to squeezing her inflated chest into a miniscule red cozzie and running along the beach in slow mo. And we can clearly see why. Have you ever seen a man utter a clear sentence when the opening sequence to Baywatch comes on? Great time to tell hubby you just spent $300 on a pair of boots. Anticipated response: ‘Huh? Yep. Nine o’clock I think. Run Pammy. Run like the wind.’

Boobily empowered woman #2: Dolly Parton: Islands in the stream of men’s attention right there. She’s got both kinds: country and western boobies. Most men I know have never even noticed she wears an outrageous assortment of wigs. They’ve never looked above her chest and now that I’ve mentioned it, probably still won’t.

Boobily empowered woman #3: Jamie Lee Curtis. Hubby will never recover from that scene in Trading Places. Never. Can only manage the word ‘hot’ when her name is mentioned. Stop daydreaming boys- focus! Only two paragraphs to go.

Boobily empowered woman #4: Farrah Fawcett: You know the poster I mean. Turning on the fan that chilly afternoon sold a squillion copies. Remind me to stand a bit longer in the frozen vege aisle next time I go shopping. Might actually get served faster at the deli.

Ah yes boobies, tits, bosoms, norks, bazookas, knockers, love muffins...a breast by any name would still just be a teat, but somehow, for men, they are so much more. They are instant, mind altering and brain sucking entities; magical, happy places where they long to frolic. And for we women, they allow us a bit of respite from the pressure to be perfect because, at the end of the neckline, it’s the one place on our bodies where we are encouraged to be fat.

All power to the bosom for that!

 

As an Australian woman I am romantically handicapped. This is not to say I don’t crave romance, on the contrary, I just don’t understand what it actually is. It seems to have something to do with chocolates in heart shaped boxes, love notes on your pillow, men on bended knee and loads of diamonds. No wonder I am clueless. The only stuff that comes in boxes in my house is cereal, the things left on my pillow need to be washed off, men on bended knee in my life have usually just fallen over and most of my ‘diamonds’ have been pasted on in China.  But is this true for all Australian women? Have we been romantically ripped off by the hopelessly unromantic?

The only romance we witnessed as kids consisted of Dad making mum a cup of tea during the cricket ads and putting the squid on her hook when we went fishing. In fact most dads I grew up around seemed somewhat confused and annoyed by all things romantic.  The early tell-tale signs that Aussie men weren’t too keen on romance were revealed to me on Sunday nights when the Golden Years of Hollywood came on and Dad rolled his eyes at Bill ‘carrying on. Just get on with the damn film already!’ Happy days if it was John Wayne shooting all the baddies, but extreme eye rolling if it was a romantic musical. (Unless it had a good war bit thrown in. My brothers and Dad always enjoyed the ‘escaping from the Nazis’ bit in the Sound of Music. Almost made up for all the bloody singing. Almost.)

Oh the audible sighs when Doris Day or Julie Andrews drifted off with the violins, the endless groans if Gene Kelly ‘pranced around’ with that ‘flipping flaming umbrella’ and the stomping off to the kitchen that could be witnessed if some ‘prawn’ put on a tux and began to roar on in an operatic voice about the many glorious attributes of his true love. I can feel all of you males out there nodding sympathetically and shaking your heads over such foolishness. Who could possibly enjoy it?

Women that’s who, (and maybe a few not so hetero guys). Not that we really understood why at the time, but I now recognise it was the pure starvation for romance that led us to actually enjoy such saccharine offerings. True, they often had oiled down hair and were usually at least twenty years older than the leading lady, but the Golden boys weren’t afraid to profess their love. On the contrary, they seemed quite set on singing it to strangely nonplussed strangers on trams, serenading fellow sailors on a warship and tapping it out with their six brothers on a hay cart.

Three ways to get punched in seventies Australia right there.

All the glitz and glamour of Hollywood heart-throbbing didn’t cut it down at the milk bar. If an interested bloke jumped on the counter and started warbling that love is a many splendid thing to Shazza near the Space Invaders, he was highly likely to have an Icee poured down his Wranglers.

 So were our boys culturally indoctrinated not to romance, or were they all romantically incompetent due to chance? Of course often they were just lacking in talent and unable to dance. Or sing. But surely as teenagers, when the fires were burning hot, they understood the value of flowery flattery? Perhaps they did, but by then we girls had become culturally cynical ourselves. A guy that sang The Most Beautiful Girl in the World and flung himself about the restaurant was obviously either mental, tripping or gay. Aussie men just didn’t do that. In fact we were fairly certain nobody around the world did either, except maybe a few holiday makers in Amsterdam, but we decided to travel the globe and investigate for ourselves. Did true romance actually exist?

Italian men called you Bella on the streets and a few other enthusiastic things with much waving of their hands which was a bit nice. (They also pinched your bum everywhere you went which wasn’t so nice but still. Starving woman here.) French men even made smoking look romantic as they smouldered against ancient walls, painting pictures and handing out the odd flower from nearby carts. And let’s face it, a French man can make anything sound beautiful to a hapless Aussie girl. He could be telling you that he sat on a banana on the bus or that his cat has worms and we would translate it as ‘I am unbelievably sexy and gorgeous. It doesn’t matter what I am saying because you are so lucky to be listening to my delicious accent.’ Audible sigh.

American men didn’t actually tap-dance up and down the street but they did seem to want to pay for everything which was a bit disconcerting. In Australia saying yes to a bourbon and coke was a big decision to make. It meant you had to talk to a guy for at least half an hour and were in the first stages of saying yes to a potential taxi grope. In the good old U.S.A. men bought you a drink and walked away. What the? Don’t you want to chat me up? Somehow I gave quite a few American guys the wrong impression. Apparently asking that question and being from downunder translated awkwardly.

By the time Irishmen had twirled us about and Jamaicans had made us free cocktails we were beginning to realise how alarmingly low our romantic expectations actually were. All of this flattery and free alcohol was going to our heads. Arriving back home we were ready to be treated a little differently but alas Aussie men didn’t seem keen on changing their accents, buying us expensive drinks, dancing with us all night then politely going away. And an even stranger phenomenon was becoming apparent: we rather liked them this way. Australian guys may not know their poets from their footy stats but there is something rather nice about their honesty.

It may not come wrapped in a heart shaped box but when we starving girls finally get a cup of tea and a kiss on the cheek during the cricket ads from our fella, it seems our dads knew a thing or two after all.

It's probably not romantic on a world scale, but I’m pretty sure that’s amore.

I remember the horror of learning about sex, long before hormones ever hit and before I had bits that could find the whole idea appealing. Surely that girl whispering in my ear in the playground was lying! Only I knew somehow she wasn’t.
L was already shaving her legs, wearing peppermint lip gloss and smoking candy cigarettes on frosty mornings, and was therefore ‘the girl in the know’ in year 4.
Of course the hormones eventually rolled in and I found myself inexplicably desperate to hold hands with a certain boy at the roller rink and maybe score a GI cordial flavoured kiss behind the curtains, but I never had the birds and the bees talk with my mum. NO WAY! Although to her credit she did try:

‘So do you know that...’

‘Yes.’

‘And you realise that..’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you need me to buy...’

‘No.’

But I did. At first my elder sisters were sent discreetly to the shops to purchase a training bra which I prayed would go under the radar and well out of notice of my three brothers. But alas, embarrassment had clung to me from an early age and wasn’t about to let this opportunity to shine pass on by. One of my well meaning sisters was so thrilled that I was reaching my milestones that when I put on the confusing contraption and slunk into the family room under three t-shirts and a jumper she walked across, hugged me tight and sobbed:

‘And now you are a woman!’

My brothers stared perplexed, wondering how such a thing had come to pass, and started to ask ‘But why...?’ as I darted back to my room and hid under the bed, resolving I would buy all necessities from my own pocket money forthwith.

Easier said than done.

Nothing was more terrifying to a thirteen year old girl than a chemist counter. Nothing. Grabbing the first box I could find I would wait until there was a lull in pensioners buying laxatives and dart forward, wishing the damn woman would stop smiling at me understandingly and give me my change before any of my brothers friends walked by. And of course it didn’t end there.

Thirteen year old girls had to figure out a lot of confusing things when their hormones hit. We would look at the pictures in Dolly magazine and pretend we had it all sussed to our friends but when we went home and hid in the bathroom many a minor disaster ensued. For a start, the instructions in the previously purchased box were woefully uninformative and there was NO WAY I was asking anyone how to do...ummm...that. Secondly, shaving your legs was really, really hard. Kneecaps don’t respond well to your Dad’s blunt razor. Thirdly, having boobs was embarrassing when you were still trying to play football and climb trees with your brothers and their friends and everything had begun to jiggle in a mortifying way. Even wearing two training bras didn’t help. Fourthly I couldn’t seem to master anything to do with my face or hair. I was a fuzzy wuzzy mess.

It was no use. I had to ask my mum and sisters for help.

Easier said than done.

It was my timing really. Every time I decided to ask them after dinner I had to get through dinner, by which time Mum would have noticed one of my failed attempts at womanhood and exclaimed in horror one of the following:

‘Good Lord! Have you been trying to shave your legs?’ Everyone looks at said bleeding appendages with several Band Aids falling off.

‘What on earth have you done to your eyebrows?’ Everyone stares at half eyebrows in confusion.

‘I can’t find any of my lemons. Why is your hair all sticky?’ Hey, it was supposed to create lovely summer highlights.

‘Have you got vomit on your neck?’ Oatmeal. It was oatmeal. Supposed to give a radiant complexion!

‘Why have the dozen eggs I bought yesterday all been eaten?’ OK it was me. I was on the Israeli egg diet.

Yes I was clueless. My poor mother and sisters were forced to step in and I finally gave. Soon I learned how to master grooming and secret women’s bathroom business. By the time I was fifteen I had even graduated to underwire bras and high heels. But sex was another story.

Easier said than done.

For a start, being Catholic, I knew that if I had sex I was going to be cursed for all eternity. But burning in hell was the least of my worries. No-one seemed to want me! I had perfectly groomed eyebrows, puffy hair, wired up boobs and smooth legs, what could possibly be missing?

Well for one thing there were a few too many Wagon Wheels rounding out my new curves, in fact I was beginning to resemble one at the time. And there may have been something potentially unsexy about fluro t-shirts, Madonna belts and flary skirts but hey, I was shall we say, keen. Extremely keen. All those Mills and Boons had fired my imagination and I wanted to be, well, wanted.

Finally one night an older boy with a few drinks under his belt spied me at a party and didn’t seem to object to my tie-died denim dress and soon I was the recipient of my first pash. Funny how one can analyse it to the cows come home but it isn’t until one finally kisses someone that one truly understand the shudders in ones udders. This was something I was going to like! Unfortunately not all guys had the pashing skills of that first older man (he was all of eighteen!). There was the windmill, (think round and round and round), the thruster, (think gag and gag and gag), the wiggler (what the..?), the face licker (think just plain gross) and the accidental nostril poker (woops!). Please note I am still just talking about kissing here. Ahem.

The years wore on and the bases moved up, and down, and I learned  a thing or two about sex:

1.       Some guys have got it and some guys think they have got it. Enough said.

2.       If he is a bad kisser don’t let it go downhill from there.

3.       Enthusiasm doesn’t always = skill, however skill + enthusiasm= infinity.

4.       Sometimes you are not in love, you are in lust. And vice versa.

5.       If he hasn’t called after three weeks, said he would memorise your number in his heart (!) or said ‘if it is meant to be we’ll just find each other’ you have just experienced a one night stand. If he does call after three weeks he just needs a date to piss off his ex-girlfriend at a party.

6.       Hook-ups decrease in value according to Cinderella time, aka: Post midnight: Phew- I found you! Post 2 a.m. Umm- yeah why not. 3 a.m. I am wearing rosé coloured glasses. Giggle. Post 4 a.m. Cab pash- woops. Post 6 a.m. He who shall not be phoning.

Sex turned out be...well easier said than done. Or done easier than said. Or not done. Or not said. Because if I let him, or he let me, or we let each other, or not, it was all horribly, deliciously, dreadfully, thrillingly an angst ridden, heart breaking, mind blowing, tragically wonderful business.

No wonder my mother couldn’t explain it. Even if I had let her.

I know a song that will get on your nerves, get on your nerves, get on your nerves...

I am sitting in the car hurtling along the freeway at 120kms an hour, white knuckled and trying not to register the fact that one foul movement will send my family face-first through the windscreen at the same speed. One foul movement immediately ensues as hubby screws up his face and winds down the window with a very loud:

 ‘Phoooaarrr! Who did that?’

A loud giggly argument erupts in the back seat about who dealt it and who smelt it and whether or not someone has been eating dead rats and, as I languish in the putrid atmosphere even freeway wind cannot dispell, I am forced to drift off into female land.
I wonder if I will look weird wearing those monkey pajamas in front of everyone tonight. Did I remember to pack face mask cream? Will the sight of me walking around late at night in monkey pajamas and face mask cream scare small children?

‘Mummm! He’s making me smell his finger!’

Mind you I am somewhat in shock that we are on our way. There were moments back there I felt we weren’t going to make it as the ‘holiday essentials’ formed a mountain next to the car that seemed to tremble in terror beneath its loom, the giant pile forming its very own crap eclipse. Exasperated, muttering hubby may have had a point as he performed the mathematical miracle of squeezing it all into one boot and limited foot space, (hey kids, let’s play travelling on the eskies!).

No, we were surely never leaving. Not when eldest son insisted on bringing his kite, his boogie board, his blow up shark and his totem tennis set. And not when youngest son wanted to bring his bed. And not when hubby decided to pack his own stuff after the car was packed and we were all sitting in it melting, then got distracted by fixing his fishing rod for twenty minutes. And especially when hubby finally started the engine then paused to suggest he should really mow the lawn before we left, which nearly resulted in the family holiday being held at the divorce courts.

Of course the irony is that when we unpack the holiday when we get home, we will realise that we actually only used a tiny fraction of what we took. That the kids only needed their boards and a couple of pairs of shorts to survive a week at the beach and hubby only needed a few t-shirts and a beer cooler.  And apparently I only needed my hat, cozzie and flowy beach thingy, not the five dresses, two jumpers, seven sarongs and pair of jeans (!) after all. And definitely not the high heels. Who knew?

I find it hard to fathom how my parents ever packed six children and all of our holiday paraphernalia into a Valiant station wagon back in the seventies. I suppose it helped that we three little ones sat in the back amongst the bags playing games, seat belt-less and rolling about on every corner. And desperate to find ways to pass the time; cards, jacks, (marbles was a bit tricky), but by far the favourite past-time was making up songs about Dad.

'Dad called someone rotten cow
There's nothing else to sing
Dad beeped his horn
There's nothing else to sing
Now Dad's really mad
There's nothing else to sing...'

Hey, you had to make your own entertainment back then. No i-pods and DVD players in the old Val. The back window didn't even open! (Talk about noxious gases.)
Think the Brady Bunch goes to the Grand Canyon and you'll get the general idea, only with more fighting and less singing talent.
But there is one thing about family road trips that hasn't changed to this day: the craving for junk food. And so the chant begins:

‘We want McDonald’s, we want McDonalds...’

No. We are not having Maccas. I dieted for seven weeks to pass for a female human on the beach this holiday. OK maybe we are. Hubby seems quite excited about the idea of a multi cow sandwich. But no fries! I’ll just eat a few of his...

I spend the next ten minutes trying to enjoy my bottle of water and getting my hands smacked as I attempt to steal hubby’s fries until he puts them in a rude place I can’t go near in front of the children. Ahem.

The scenery flies by as we all relax into some classic Midnight Oil and I find myself in a place without a postcard, sixteen years old and fancy free, jumping off the rocks into the ocean and gazing besottedly at my holiday crush...yawn.

‘I need to poo!’

Right. One forgets just how disgusting roadside toilets really are as we coax red faced and busting youngest into a prison like building and onto one of those stinky bottomless pit numbers that eldest has told him contain snakes. Poo covered ones.

Finally we are back on the road and this time I really do doze off into happy fantasy land until we reach our equally sleepy coastal town and immediately get lost. Apparently giving directions with your eyes closed is annoying to the driver.

There is much excitement as our hosts proudly show off the accommodation, then listen patiently as we babble like the stressed out city people we are, until the alcohol infuses our bloodstream and we chemically reach their chilled out holiday mode level. I fall asleep in my clothes. So much for the monkey pajamas.

Of course family holidays are not the beach baking holidays of old. The next week is packed with smearing suncream on frustratingly wriggling children, watching anxiously as they get dumped in the surf, buying them way too many ice creams, drinking too much on the verandah with the adults when the day is finally done then waking up and doing it all again with a slight hangover.
But somehow the nature soaks in as we parents pause, mid-lug, pack horsing across the sand, and notice the colour of the water is still as blue as it was back when we burned that midnight oil. Back when sunburn was cool and the only things we took to the beach were coconut oil, a radio and a pack of ciggies.

The beach eventually weaves its magic, even on we jaded, exhausted ones. Wriggly sunscreen torture becomes a game, the sight of the snotty dumped child is suddenly funny, I start buying myself ice creams (diet shmiet) and the drinking every night? Hey I’m on holidays. (Insert wink here).

Driving into our street at the end of it all I find myself laughing at the horrible smell eminating from the back seat, laughing at the location of hubby's lollies (ah the ever optimistic male) and most of all laughing at the woman who left. The woman who straightens her hair every morning and uses hair spray. (Loving the holiday hat. I wonder if I could get away with wearing it to work?). The woman who packed jeans for a beach holiday and pretends she isn't really eating the fries.
The woman I will undoubtably be again within a few days.

But while I am this rare version of me, the post holiday chilled out chick, I give you this advice oh stressy one:

It doesn’t matter how many things you try to pack into that car that is your life, you only really need the basics: a bit of clothing, the odd convenient bottomless pit, and the ability to still laugh at noxious smells in packed cars...with the occassional ice cream thrown in. And a few of those fermented midnight oils don’t hurt either.

Ah places without postcards. Sorry you're leaving. Come back soon.

Forget presents, cards, carols and Santa, when it comes to Christmas the only thing I’m interested in is the calendar...social calendar that is. My tummy flutters in sweet anticipation as those big black Texta crosses bring me ever closer to the season to get nice and jolly.

All things party appeal to my leonine personality: alcohol, dancing, singing, flashing light earrings, alcohol, party dresses, cheese platters, big Santa cowboy hats, alcohol...it’s all there, wrapped up in a big tinselly ribbon and culminating in the cop out that is New Years Eve. Perhaps it’s the Catholic in me, but I love the absolution that comes with that final countdown; ‘out with the old, in with the new’, all is forgiven because there is a new number now. All those hang-ups are so last year!

What more could a Christmas wench want? Because I am a wench I fear. If this were the 1800’s I would undoubtedly be a barmaid in one of those white puffy blouses and velvet bustiers, singing sea shanties down out the pub and kicking up my jigging feet. But I like to think it isn’t my fault you see, for apparently I was cursed beneath an August star sign. All behaviour can be traced to the unfortunate circumstances of my birth, because, as can clearly be witnessed during the party season, dancing on tables isn’t everyone’s natural cup of eggnog. I hate to generalize the world’s population into 12 categories, but I cannot help finding a certain echo of truth when examining the zodiacal response to all things social, especially because it renders me clear of all irresponsibility.

Based on astrology, a typical scene may play out thusly:

The party will often be held at a fun-loving Gemini’s house who took several weeks to decide whether or not to have it. They usually gravitate towards other Geminis and make for an entertaining bunch on the dance floor as they attempt to dance and shout gossip to eachother at the same time. They seem to have this have this whole siamese twin thing going on. An incestuous lot, the Geminis. Eventually a cool Capricorn will saunter over and just turn the music up.
Somebody finally managed to get the Cancerians out of their homes, and they are busy discussing everything they have read on the internet this year. Beware: conspiracy theories abound! It's a wonder they ever leave their houses at all what with the pending alien invasions. They are drinking with one hand and trying to control the unpredictable Scorpios with the other, (one of which is popping pills and making up odd little rhymes, the other introducing her spirit guides to the ever sceptical Taureans).  
Aries male is trying to impress the no-nonsense Sagittarian with his sporting prowess, aka he is doing one-armed push-ups and she is telling him he is doing them incorrectly to torture him. Now they are thumb wrestling. This might end up being the party pash couple after all, unless the sexy and mysterious Pisces makes his play. It's all a bit fishy the way he seems so interested in her wart removal operation. 
The Aquarian walks in laughing at his own jokes, and greets every single person like a benevolent king returning from war. He grabs a wedge of expensive cheese from the trays being passed around by the Virgos as they sail by in a cloud of silver jewellery and gourmet delight. We won't be seeing them for a while; they'll be sequestering themselves in white wine and washing up activities for quite some time. You'll always find the Virgos in the kitchen at parties! Somebody asks the Librans to change the music so there is a lull for a while as they sort through CD's in confusion and try to make up their over-balancing minds, which is where we Leos unfortunately take over.

One of several things can happen here. We will either:

1.       Get out the musical instruments (!)

2.       Make a really over the top speech and end up crying because party season only happens once a year (actually that is just my thing I think)

3.       Make everyone play embarrassing games which will end up just being us making fools of ourselves

4.       Suggest daring escapades such as moonlight swimming, smoking cigars in a tree or rooftop vodka shots, which ends up with one of us falling into, over or off something (once again, usually me)

Hey, it’s not as if I don’t recognise how offensive we must be to some of the more reserved, conservative members of the zodiacal family. On more than one occasion a snide comment or two has been thrown in my direction due to my Leo-ness:  ‘Put your boobs away!’ (I have no clothes that don’t accentuate breasts. As explained, I am a wench), ‘flirting with the boys as usual?’ (ummm…yes?), ‘God- are you crying again? What now?’ (I pray in advance for non-crisis weeks when parties are looming), ‘Typical centre of attention Leo wants to sit in prominent place’ (no seats left because I am too busy talking/flirting?), ‘Typical centre of attention Leo is dancing like a stripper/making a dramatic toast/singing loudly/hogging the music/too drunk!’ (…yes. Point being?)

Ah the curse of the lion. It is not as if we have any control over it: we must party, we must drink, we must dance and we must behave outrageously. Anything less is torturous. Many’s the time I have made a personal pact with myself that I will be a timid, ladylike wallflower, wear pearls, sip lemonade and be the designated driver, only to wake up in my makeup on the hostess's couch the next day, empty glass next to me, a lurk of embarrassments pending. Oh God, what horrors will BFF reveal when I call?

·         So you found your phone then. How about your stockings/shoes? (Brilliant, now I have to go home in a cab in an evening dress and bare feet.)

·         Do you remember what you said to (ex-boyfriend)?

·         M. took a video of you dancing to Beyonce. I think he posted it on Facebook.

·         You fell out of the tree. (That explains why my mouth tastes like cigars).

·         I can’t believe you told (hostess) that you think her husband is sexy...wow that might be embarrassing this morning.

·         You sang Hopelessly Devoted to You on the kareoke machine four times. They turned it off.

·         T. said you are too emotional. You cried.

There is no use in trying to deny what is written in the stars. I am a lion, the king of the party animals. I am destined to roam the room and drink the jungle juice, roar loudly and pass out under a tree with the other lions. It is my zodiacal destiny. Therefore none of it is our fault. (No wonder Leo’s tend to believe in astrology).

Not that all of this makes us feel completely vindicated. We are also supposed to be the most up-yourself star sign, which is a bit rough. I mean, just because when we find out another person is a Leo we tend to congratulate them, doesn’t mean we are big love-me-do’s. Humph. And just because we egotistically blame all of our egotistical behavior on our egotistical star sign proves nothing.

Egotistical? Me?  I may just have to vent my outrage by writing an article all about myself…on my own blog site…with pictures of myself on it…

Curses.

Once upon a time there was a little girl who longed to be the disco queen, so much so that she entered the forbidden sanctuary of her elder sister’s bedroom to steal the royal garbs she would need for such a noble undertaking. Thus attired in enormous cork heels, a swathe of blue eyeshadow and a thrice wrapped-around skirt, she set forth to the magical land of the lounge.

Here, in this brown and orange throne room, she fought valiantly through her fathers Nana Mouskouri and Bing Crosby collection to seek the holy grail that would elevate her status to queen until at last, she found it. The gods of Swedish disco smiled their benevolence beneath their matching hats as she placed the sacred disc upon the turntable, turned off the lights and waited for the transformation to take place. 

 And behold, she was queen. The greatest of all queens in the land of little girls in the 70’s.

She was…the dancing queen.

 As you can probably gather, I had a rather gigantic childhood obsession with ABBA. (Apologies for purists. My computer lacks the technology to reverse the first B.) Nothing, absolutely nothing, was as precious as my two sided ABBA collector cards, my ABBA knee high socks and my iron on transfer ABBA t-shirt. Except ABBA's own floor length pussy cat numbers that turned into mini skirts at the flick of their dancing hands. Sigh.

My childhood BFF had curly brown hair and I was blonde, so naturally we assumed we were destined to ascend their throne one day and become the next queens of groovy harmonious song. Twirling about in the dark, we envisaged our Leif Garret lookalike princes would one day come to whisk us away in their white VW’s, (everyone was bananas about Herbie at the time), and we would live a life of glitter balls and sequins. We even had our name picked out: Beautiful Ladies Of Black, or BLOB for short. Ah yes, a marketers dream.

But as the years rolled by, we dancing queens were forced to admit that perhaps we had been viewing our futures through soft focus lenses. We had to deny our passionate love for Swedish song and pretend to prefer the music of our prospective princes, who had begun to sprout rats tails and looked less and less like Leif everyday.

Am I ever gonna see your face again
No way, get @#@@>, #@>@ off!!

Charming indeed. But beggars can’t be princesses without the prince (or so we assumed), so we bopped along in their Cortinas and got very political about:

a)      whether Bon Scott was better than ‘the new guy’,

b)      who L. Ron Hubbard was (and why he couldn’t save your life), and

c)       the sure fact that  Aussie music rocked and all other bands in the world were crap…with the exception of the Violent Femmes. We also pretended to understand why the latter were blistering in the sun. Didn’t Americans have zinc cream? (Note: zinc cream, for the uninformed, was a thick pasty white substance Aussies smeared on their noses and lips in the seventies to avoid sunburn. Very sexy look when worn with thongs and stubbies. It graduated to fluro status in the eighties then tragically disappeared off the fashion radar.)

Of course, all of this eyelash battering over music was for one sole purpose: take me somewhere I can dance! I am the dancing queen, I must twirl in that euphoria…don’t you understand?

But of course they couldn’t possibly. According to our potential princes, only gay men (of whom I was eternally jealous) enjoyed dancing to disco. No ABBA, Village People, Duran Duran or even Madonna for the good old Aussie bloke. Dancing queens were just that. And if we wanted a date on Saturday night, we either went to parties and watched the boys head bang to Chisel or, if particularly fortunate, snuck in under-age and saw a pub band. (Ah Brad Shepherd, you were my guru in those tight leather pants and paisley shirts.)

But there was an exception, an event both compulsory and deliciously disco orientated that everyone attended, mostly due to the late night pash potential: the school dance. Our musty old hall was transformed by a traffic light machine and plastic chairs as the gelled up DJ turned his table and took we girls back…back to the joy of queendom. Of course we didn’t dare request ABBA for fear of being publically stoned, (speaking of which, there was already a row of those fellas munching on Twisties with their sunnies on against the wall), but we were free to request as much daggy, dancey Top 40, one hit wonders as we liked! It was the only place where such a thing was socially acceptable, mostly because all of the songs the boys liked were never available in the DJ’s milk crates of records, although some of the sunglassed ones occasionally found some Bob Marley. No, with the exception of ‘that Radiators song that shall not be named’ (sung very loudly by half intoxicated boys down the back), school dance music was ruled by the girls, and if the boys wanted that ten o’clock pash they had to pay the price by doing the very princely thing of asking us to dance.

Needless to say not a great deal of us got lucky. It seemed that potential princes would rather slay dragons (aka drink flagons) than face the dreaded fate of mumbling a polite question then moving from side to side in front of their sniggering mates.

But at least we had the music! Jessies Girl, Turning Japanese, 8675309, Kids in America, Blue Monday, Like a Virgin, Centrefold, Hungry Like the Woof, Boys Don’t Cry, Hold Me Now, Our Lips Are Sealed…song after song of pure bliss.

Yes, school dances were the royal highlight of our teenage lives until we hit the real world and found the joy of night clubs and live music, a fleeting period of blurry fun that melded into house parties, 21st’s, engagements, weddings then christenings. These days, apart from the occasional decade birthday and other scary milestone events (school reunions etc), most of we dancing queens have resorted to getting a bit too enthusiastic during pass the parcel at our kids parties.

Recently BFF and I decided enough was enough. We were going dancing baby! So we left our hubbies behind and ventured out to the local scene. Our first stops were the pubs which consisted of:

a)      the shiny new family version (if I wanted whinging kids I would have stayed home!),

b)      the local (live music= one fifty year old man screaming Bon Jovi in front of some very seedy teenagers who looked as if they’d been enjoying a Twistie or two), and

c)       the ‘old’ pub which was filled with people who were…well, old.

So we ventured on to the RSL which had lots of dancing…rock and roll style. Man those sixty somethings have got the moves! But sadly, we don’t.

And so, after much debating and out of sheer desperation, we made our way to the local nightclub. The good news was they asked us for ID! The bad news was we were too old. They almost refused us entry but somehow we wheedled our way in and headed straight for the dance floor. Ah success! Disco balls, coloured lights, smoke machines…it was all here! If only they would play a song that didn’t sound like a rapidly beeping heart moniter we’d be set.

Two hours later we realized every song sounded like a rapidly beeping heart moniter. And it was no exaggeration to say we were old enough to be the mothers of the majority of the clientele who had just finished their HSC. Admittedly a bad week to go, but still. We made our kebaby way home, lamenting that our dancing days were over. The queens were dead, long live the prospect of eternal serfdom as working housewives.

But wait…what was that song on the radio Mr. Cabbie?

Friday night and the lights are low
Looking out for a place to go

Half an hour later, as we danced about her lounge room and giggled our way through every line of every song on The Best of ABBA, we agreed that dancing queens never die, they just lose their glitter balls.

But they can always dance, they can always jive and when they are, wherever they are, they’re always having the time of their lives.

Preface: please note that this article may contain traces of Catholic jargon and oodles of Catholic guilt. I apologise for this profusely in advance and ask that you refer to the italic translations provided in the footnotes if confused. Sorry. Thank-you. Sorry again.

I was sacked as an altar girl. I would love to declare this was because we white robed ones got caught smoking in the sacristy, skulled the sacramental wine or flashed fish-netted stockings beneath the cassocks, but alas I suspect it was simply because our parish wasn’t ready for we girls on the altar. The official line was that the Pope had said we were forbidden to place our female feet on holy ground, but I suspect the truth was our parish priest was still recovering from the hideousness of liturgical dancing and Easter mimes. Sadly we were sacked for being too daggy.

That’s really saying something for a Catholic.

Ah yes, we were rule benders, we Catholics of a certain age. Following the trend laid down by the peace-loving bearded generation before us, we were heaven-bent on revolutionising the liturgy and dazzling the masses in Mass with our irresistible youthful enthusiasm. If only we’d known then that motivating the talentless to perform was an ill-fated business there would be far less cringe file in our memory stores today. But to understand how such things could occur you need to have some inkling into the world of the nun.

As all Catholic school children in the seventies and eighties knew, there were certain categories of nun as follows:

1. Sister Sweet: these poor sisters, usually pulled from their quiet lives of prayer and flung into substitution teaching for a day, were woefully ill-suited to the task and usually sat somewhat flummoxed as the naughtier boys played up endlessly. Attempts to control us by asking who our favourite saints were met with such answers as ‘Saint Augusto of the Sewers Canal’.
2. Sister Scary: Catholic guilt alert has made me backspace all comments here. Sorry. Still scared.
3. Sister Ancient: these old dears trailed past in floor length habits, muttering the Rosary and smiling absently at us all. Harmless and sweet, although a bit freaky in a Miss Haversham sense.
4. Sister Groovy: my personal favourite. This habit-less nun (oh the shock of those shorn heads!) loved everything about music and was usually tone deaf, which was a fantastic combination for those of us wanting to get out of Sister Scarys maths class badly enough to sing in the choir. My year was so keen the entire Year six class volunteered to play guitar in mass even though only two of us could actually play. Ah the sweet, sweet music when twenty five kids invented their own chords. ‘Dance then, wherever you may be, I am the Lord of the dance said He...’

Obviously the Sister Groovy nuns had been inspired by that top 40 surprise celebrity ‘rock star’ Sister Janet. For those of you unfamiliar, here is her Number 1 hit. (Warning: dag alert is so ferociously high in this film clip you may need a stiff drink first): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bd4iJkNCaZ8&feature=related

Catholic music. It was the highlight of my churchy life, especially when my brother replaced every first letter of every word with ‘b’ for comedic effect. ‘Buns bof bod bere bis boly bird...’

Everything was funnier in mass, mainly because you were strictly forbidden to laugh. Not even when the parish juvenile delinquent was made altar boy to straighten him out and he sat up there scratching his bum in big fluffy slippers, contorting his face at me and mouthing all the priests’ words, and dropped the gong down the marble steps on a weekly basis. And not even when my best friend turned to me during the Eucharistic prayer with her necklace squishing her nose and whispered she was ‘Talking to a Stranger’. And not even when my brothers said ‘damn glad to meet ya’, then ‘he was damn glad to meet ya’ instead of ‘peace be with you’. Not even then.

My favourite part of Sunday was always getting out the church doors and letting all that pent up laughter out. Ah yes, post mass high. That euphoric feeling that came with travelling back to my neighbourhood in a convoy of combies (referred to as Vatican Hill due to the copious amount of Catholics all living there with their multiple children) and having a big Sunday lunch. We were always starving due to pre-Communion fasting. I never understood why Jesus would care if He landed on a full or empty stomach. He was still headed for the canals of my digestive system regardless.

Thinking such things gave me fodder for Confession, something I had to constantly be on the lookout for. Bless me Father for I have sinned. I thought disrespectfully about ingesting our Lord and I think I accidently bit Him trying to peel him off the roof of my mouth. Yes that was a good one. The priest liked original sins, being somewhat sceptical of the old ‘I told a lie and was rude to my mother’ routine. One had to be careful to walk the fine line between being believable, yet not sinning too extremely. Fortunately sins were ear-marked for levels of penance. There was your everyday, ‘I ate a lolly from my sisters goody-bag’ type sin, which earned you about two Hail Mary’s and lolly compensation to said sister. Then there was the ‘I lied to my mother about going to the library to study when I actually went to the milk bar and had a brain freeze competition drinking Icees with my girlfriends’ type sin, which earned you about ten Hail Mary’s and an apology to said mother. Then there were the biggies that would probably result in legal prosecution if confessed to the police, but Catholic law states what goes on confessional tour stays on confessional tour. Fortunately I never needed that kind of absolution, but I imagine those kinds of mortal sins required about a thousand Hail Marys and eternal damnation. Hefty.

I didn’t seem to notice that the Catholic life was different from the rest of the world until high school. It never occurred to me that dressing in a miniature wedding dress on my First Holy Communion Day was probably a weird thing to do in the eyes of the non-Catholic. I certainly hadn’t anticipated that being locked in an all girls convent school with it’s bad guitar playing, knee high brown socks and long pleated tunics would affect my romantic life, but I see now how cleverly the powers that prayed were when it came to scheming about preserving our virginity.

Catholic school girls ruled alright. But not in the cool, sexy way we aspired to by the time puberty hit, and we were allowed to fraternize at last with the mysterious opposite sex in the darkened halls of school dances. Alas, we did not rule in the ways that mattered. How could we compete with the short skirts, little white socks and unbound hair of our free, state school sisters?  What hope had we at train stations, unbraiding our hair, pushing down our socks and tucking up our tunics into our waist bands? Inevitably Sister Scary would arrive and inflict a public ‘spot- inspection’, running her ruler along our skirts to ensure we had granny undies and down our backs to ensure we had regulation bras. But there was a loop-hole these power brokers had over-looked, for it was the very guilt we carried that made Catholic school girls a rather appealing prospect for horny school boys. The cluier ones amongst them soon figured out that Catholic girls might not go all the way, but they sure apologised for it enthusiastically.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this article. It took many, many hours as I backspaced about two thousand words. If you see a woman about town with very sore looking knees, muttering as she walks about and looking a bit wild eyed, that’s just me saying four million Hail Mary’s in penance.

Sorry.

****************************************************   

Footnotes:

Sacristy: Secret priests chambers

Sacramental wine: blessed wine held in secret priests chambers

Cassocks: Jesus style dresses worn with long tassley thingys and slippers

Liturgical dancing: prancing about on the altar with ribbons on sticks to holy songs, interspersed with dramatic poses

Habit: Long Mary-like drapery on nuns heads.

Mary: Jesus’ mum who inspired the habit of habits.

First Holy Communion Day: the coming of age event of Catholic childhood, aka the first time you can have the little wafers of bread and sips from the communal goblet of desert wine. Exciting stuff for eight year olds! You may even get a Lamb of God cake in the shape of an actual sheep. My BFF did. So jealous.

Confession: Telling a man you call father who isn’t your father all your secrets and being punished for it

Sin: things you are not allowed to do that put little black marks on your soul that cannot be removed without penance

Penance: magical black dot removers in the form of Hail Marys

Hail Marys: special prayers to Jesus’ Mum

Damnation: what might happen to me for writing this article

Virginity (Catholic interpretation): the most precious, important thing you can own and your only bargaining tool if you want to marry a nice Catholic boy

Catholic boys: a species whose single goal in life is to steal your virginity

Guilt: Catholic.

They look innocent enough, these lycra clad fitness freaks with their non-tuckshop triceps and gravity defying bum muscles. So supportive and understanding as I splutter my lame excuses and sign the ‘get a new bottom’ line. But deep down on some level we both know I am actually signing a contract of guilt driven excruciating pain. While my brain may be logically pleased at my decisive, sensible course of action against wobbly bits, my body is beginning to tremble in memory of the ill-fated ‘last time’. Misjudging the speed on the treadmill and flying horizontally across the cardio area was not my finest moment.

It was the usual horror story that led me here; a predictably woeful shopping expedition that flicked the desperation switch and led to these extreme measures. This particular episode involved a skinny girlfriend, jean shopping and a shared change room. (Ah the horror of seeing Coney Island reflections outside of Luna Park!)

Believe me, I have tried everything else. But walking has led to being chased by a poodle, falling over a step and chipping my elbow and being flashed at by a man lurking in the bushes. I had to give up contact sport because being clumsy and competitive is too dangerous a combination. Swimming is out because the public pool is shut down (and I hate it. All that chlorinated wee? Gross.) And my only true sporting love of roller-skating was sadly taken from me earlier in life because it went out of fashion. I am still in shock over that. Pretending I was Olivia in Xanadu gave me so much joy. Then she went all 'physical' on us and cut off her long tresses and threw away the skates. Sniff. Just because it was somehow considered 'daggy'.
Cliff Richard, it’s all your fault. See here for the damning proof:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sn9mLnKmPco
So here I am, suddenly bereft of my bouncy new friend and thrown into the air conditioned sweat pit that is to become my torture chamber. The first thing I notice is that there is a woman wearing an enormous t-shirt staring at me in confusion. Then I realize the entire wall is covered in mirrors and I am standing stupidly looking at myself. The second thing I notice is that I am the only one with a Sponge Bob towel. The third thing I notice is that I am also the only one without equipment in front of me. So I scuttle over and pick up some plates, a bar, a step, some step tower thingy’s, a rubber mat and some bar clips and attempt to haul them to the back of the room to my special spot up against the wall and behind a pole. But alas some other newbie is already lurking there! I am tempted to fight her for it with my pole Yoda-style when the very helpful instructor invites me to the front on her microphone. Right in front. Face to face with a seventeen year old enthusiast who wouldn’t know her nipples from a bottle teat. No babies came out of that tummy. The fourth thing I notice is that I am very weirdly thinking about the instructors nipples. Probably because it is freezing in here and the sports bra, gym top, singlet and t-shirt I am wearing is failing to keep my boozies warm. Why have they set the air-con on arctic?

Suddenly there is no time to think about anything as the music blares and I am eye to eye with this girl, squatting like I’m doing the Haka and in all probability pulling the same facial expressions. About a million squats, lunges, bicep curls, tricep something-a-rathers and impossible upward rowing jerks above my head later, she announces that the ‘warm-up’ is over.

Yay. I am going to die.

By the end of ‘abs’ I have decided four things:

1.      Clocks move backwards in this dungeon

2.      Somebody should turn the air-con up. It’s boiling in here!

3.      The man on my left should not be allowed to wear shorts. Leg lifts were unpleasantly informative, and

4.      I should have used the bar clips. That plate that fell off seemed to really injure the woman behind me. And I don’t think my joke helped. Hey, O.H.S. at the G.Y.M. was kind of funny wasn’t it?


Perhaps ‘Pump’ isn’t my thing. The next day I turn up for ‘Step’, unfortunately late again and even more unfortunately up the front. Again. Step up, step down. Hey I can do this. Step up, step down, step over and back. Right. Step up, step down, step over and back, twist, turn, reverse and tap. Did she say…? Step up, step down, step over and back, twist, turn, reverse and tap, skip over and clap, jog to the front, starburst and tap…what the? Starburst? Mmm I like those. I’m hungry. Oh God everyone behind me is getting put off because I’m doing it backwards. Concentrate. Step up, step back…fall over.

Lying on the ground with my head on the next persons step I realize two things:

1.      No-one else is laughing and I can’t seem to stop. I wish BFF was here.

2.      My ankle really hurts but I am pretending it doesn’t because injuring yourself by falling off a 20cm plastic step is really tragic. Even for me.


The next day I drag BFF along with me to ‘Zumba’, hailed as ‘just like going to a Brazilian party!’ by the girl behind the desk who looks like she hasn’t had a cocktail in her life. And doesn’t seem to understand the term ‘Brazilian party’ sounds a bit perverted. Ouch.

Within thirty seconds I recognize the fatal flaw in this plan. Ah, lack of co-ordination, my old nemesis. We stumble upon one another again.

At least BFF is here and there is someone present to giggle with when that older lady lets one go and we all avoid exercising in that corner. (I don’t care what anyone says, farts are funny.)

The next day is ‘aero-box’. That sounds promising. No co-ordination necessary there! Why is the instructor eyeing me dubiously? And why are there so many men? Oh God no. I used to go to school with that guy. Hide.

Choose a partner? I quickly gravitate towards the only other woman my age, avoiding eye contact with rubber band girls and the men, and we begin to punch and weave. This is kind of fun. Then we do sprints. This is not fun. It’s like being chased by the poodle all over again, only this time in human form. Then we line up in rows and do high punches with everyone in the room in turns. Why oh why did I choose to wear a singlet today? Major boob wobble is not the way you want to run into an old school friend. Hello, how are you? My boozies are still alive and well, how about you?

I then notice going to the gym is making me think about my boobs way too much.

Next we do elbow blocks and unfortunately I elbow my fellow mum in the head. I don’t think she wants to be my partner anymore.

The next day I have my appointment with the personal trainer. Finally! This is it. The answer to all my exercising woes. The first thing I notice is that he is really, really hot. The second thing I notice is that he is really, really nice. This is going to be great! I’ll do anything for my delicious PT, drool. I am going to be so fit!

‘To start with, let’s go for a little run.’ Yes sir!

Ten minutes later I am huffing and puffing, but still trying to smile at him and nod and not sound so much like an asthmatic labrador. Then he makes me do lunges and squats. Hey at least the plate didn’t fall off this time. (I wouldn’t want to damage him.) Then he makes me do sit ups. Okay. No need to yell. Then he makes me do all sorts of painful contortions on a giant ball. Easy for you to demonstrate, twenty-something man in full possession of a pelvic floor. Then he tries to make me do tricep dips. Still with the yelling. I don’t think I like him much anymore. Mr Perfect is a sadist. Then he does the unforgiveable. He drops the ‘f word’.

‘Come on! You need to work harder if you want to burn your fat!’

The next day I decide to cancel my gym contract and get fit on my own. In retrospect, I realize my personal bastard probably actually said ‘burn fat’ not your fat, but I don’t care. I’d rather be chased by poodles, fall over steps and get flashed at by strangers in the great outdoors than in a gym.

I may even invest in some roller skates with some nice rainbow wheels and get wired for sound. Spandex and leg warmers anyone? Dynamite.

I'm not exactly mother of the year. The best part of my baking seems to be licking the beaters, I never bother soaking off texta stains or magic brushing tissue fluff and I sometimes forego reading them bedtime stories for my glass of red because I couldn't be stuffed standing up. And if there were surveillance cameras in my house there may be evidence of me pushing crap under the lounge and feeding them two minute noodles for dinner when I'm entertaining friends, (okay afternoon drinks with BFF on the verandah. Shhh.)

I guess the signs of 'bad mother alert' were there from the beginning. I knew it wasn’t the best idea to dress my baby boy in frilly pink that day just to see if I really wanted a girl, and I probably could have seen the signs when his kindi Mothers Day poster/drawing simply said ‘My mum turns on good TV shows’. And I now recognise that stomping out with an empty suitcase was a fairly childish way to retaliate to my toddler’s window jumping tantrum, (I only realised because he stood next to me staring at the locked bedroom door I thought he was still behind), but recently it has to be said that I have finally crossed the line.

I’ve started to enjoy shooting them.

In my defence, this didn’t happen overnight. I’ve been worn down gradually:

·         the ‘I am Spiderman’ incident that saw the youngest end up with two arm operations

·         a certain son getting caught standing and weeing off the wash basins on the first day of primary school

·         their backyard pooing experiment (don’t ask)

·         pushing the emergency stop button on a crowded escalator

·         the ‘hilarious’ hiding incident in K-mart

·         ‘Mum I ate a lizard, but don’t worry I threw it up and the dog ate it’

·         SBD fart competitions in mass

·         two guilty chocolate smeared faces swearing solemnly they didn’t eat the fundraiser Easter eggs

·         the two year old chewing the toilet brush

·         breathing fog onto the car windows and writing ‘poo’

·         and of course the everyday destruction of everything we own (indoor football lamp smashing, standing on and thus breaking the toilet, creating a snot and crayon collage on the playroom wall, carving noughts and crosses into the table with knife and fork then eating with their hands, etc.)

Of course I hear your collectively unspoken comment that perhaps all of the above list is more 'bad mother alert' than licence to shoot naughty children, however I should probably state at this point that it is laser, not homicide.

And I am no longer taking any blame.

You heard me old lady who fell over on the escalator! Motherhood guilt is over for me. I quit. I resign I tell you! School holidays has revealed a momentous fact to me, something I’m sure my inner child has been screaming for years but has only recently been heard over the whinging and whining of parental self reproach in my mind:

I’m really just a kid too.

I know, I know. I’m a pretty old kid. But something happened to me in the darkened caverns of laser tag a few days ago that caused an epiphany. A revelation if you will.

I was really just there to keep an eye on things, granted free entry by the understanding fellow mum behind the counter who suggested I go in and watch over my little aspiring soldiers just in case they got freaked out by the dark/smoke/noise/enormous teenagers shooting them with lasers.

‘And while you’re at it, wear a vest...and here’s a gun.’

It was dark. And smokey. And noisy. And a bit freaky when an enormous teenager ran past me and shot me with a laser, causing my vest to vibrate a little shockingly.

Then I laughed. And it was on.

Hiding behind walls, running, ducking, creeping. Giggling with the kids as we came up and ambushed the enemy, then turned and shot each other. At times it reminded me of playing wars in the bush with my brothers when I was young. At other times I was transported back by the music, smoke and strobes to the roller-disco days of childhood. Back before I worried about tax and nappies and mortgages and parenting. Back when the challenges of life were not to get shot by stick guns, perform a three sixty on a skate board and make a Sunnyboy last the whole of lunch time. Back when the Muppets were the undisputed kings of comedy, video had just begun to kill the radio star and Grease was the only movie that mattered. Back when endless Summers turned the soles of your feet into small straps of leather.

Back when we did things for one reason only: fun.

I was no longer Mum. I wasn’t even a woman. I was just invisible in the dark and having an adventure (that didn’t involve alcohol or sex!).

I was a kid. Correction: I am a kid.

You see I think men remember this fact better than we women. My husband can often be seen shooting plastic darts, rolling on the carpet with the footy and playing marathon games of Halo, (sometimes even with the kids). 

But I have been taking this real life game of Monopoly way too seriously. While he scoots about in the little racing car (or fantasizes about it by watching Top Gear), buying up everything in sight whilst hoping to land on free parking, I plod along like the old boot, getting kicked about by chance and bitching with my girlfriends to get things off our community chest. I do not seem to be winning second places in beauty contests, collecting $50 off all the other players or building tiny red hotels. Nor do I seem to pass go and get given $200 by the bank on a regular basis. I play the game fearfully, hoarding my orange bills and nervously eyeing jail. And I suck at it.

So I quit. I am resigning as an adult and reverting back to being eight years old, (with the exception of wine. I'm keeping that). I’m going to drive bumper cars in peak hour traffic (or perhaps an ice cream truck? I haven’t quite decided), have Pictionary staff meetings, replace my desk with a Space Invaders table and change from email correspondence to paper aeroplanes, all whilst refusing to wear shoes and surviving on lollies and red cordial.

As for home? I am going to sell the house and live in a Mystery Machine bus like Scooby Doo and co. We can play upon the hospitality of red-necks who can’t tell a ghost from a bowling ball covered in a sheet, stay in their spooky hotels and become famous for our cunning mystery solving skills.

They would have got away with it too- if not for we meddling kids!

So just ask me, am I serious? Would I really give away all the responsibilities of adulthood and live a carefree, child-like existence despite the obvious recklessness involved? Hmm, maybe I should pitch it to a TV network as yet another reality show: ‘The Mummy Wants a Life,’ or perhaps ‘So You Think You Can Parent? Go For It,’ or maybe just ‘Australian Idle.’

Would I do it for the money? The thrill? The fame?

Hey, I’d do it for a Scooby snack.

Hard, soft... he’s impossible to resist when he’s in my line of vision. Every delicious mouth-watering morsel of him! Whether he takes his camembert form like a French lover or leaves me weak at the knees at his holey Swiss cheduction, I am powerless. I know I must end my forbidden cheesy affair if ever to aspire to (anywhere remotely near) my bikini fantasy body.

But, alas, I am weak.

Cheese has me helplessly pinned like those little green olives on sticks that lay alongside him in his tempters bed of appetisers. Much like his brother, salt, his flirty friend sugar and his wicked, bad boy cousin, alcohol.

What hope have I, a mere mortal in their path, seduced by the sinful pleasures I will pay for with too much flesh?

Yet I try. Despite having been on a diet since I was twelve, (as so helpfully pointed out by BFF the other day), I haven't given up on the notion that I am not neccessarily cursedly curvy for life. Every week begins with renewed enthusiasm; a vow inspired after previously discussed desperation dilemmas, (see articles on wardrobe, power panties etc.).

How shall I resist thee, oh lovingly cured curd, oh salty seducer, oh sweet, sweet lover?

Oh fermented fruit that will languish upon my thighs?  

Yet the resolution is made without fail, every Sunday, and strangely without doubt at its dubious potential for success. Ah weight loss, the last bastion of female naiveté. We may have lost our innocence when it comes to believing in miracle creams that erase the frown lines put there by men/children, and we know full well our hair will not morph into silky tresses that ripple in perfectly timed breezes if we take the latest shampoo ‘challenge’. And even the dimmest witted amongst us won’t fall for the old ‘fake eyelashes in a mascara brush’ pitch.

But when it come to weight loss, we turn and stare like bunnies in the headlights at the faintest whisper of a new easy way to cheat mother nature at her insistent game of womanly curves.

And what mastermind of feminine torture is behind it all you ask? Fashion of course.

How I have wished that the look of my day was rubenesque; that round bottoms, enormous thighs and spongy tummies were the epitome of ‘hot’. Even in the fifties it was considered the height of sexiness to be an ‘hourglass’, which was simply a fashion permission slip to have hips! Why couldn’t that look have lasted? Now we’re busy stuffing said hips into stubbornly uncompromising low waists and dragging our unwilling egg timer bodies into gyms. No Doris Day belle skirts for us.

What do we get? Stick fashion. Waifs. Visible ribs. The anorexic famous stare out at us from magazine stands as if to say ‘Come on you lazy fat cows! Just live on cabbage soup and hire a 24 hour a day personal trainer and you too could wear a piece of string on your next beach holiday in the Caribbean!’ It’s enough to have us running straight to the fruit and veg section then out the door if it weren’t for that pesky business of feeding a family. Instead we lug umpteen bags of carefully considered, contrasting crap home and stash it all away with the highest of intentions, made stronger by the accusing eyes of the now purchased mag as it lies next to us on the kitchen bench, watching. I put the enormous cabbage in the fridge in full view, along with my bird seed bread, low fat milk, raw veges and diet soft drink. My bland, boring shelf looks like a mousey protest against flavour. I half expect to find prison gruel on there, but that would be too fattening.

The brightly coloured shelves reserved for the rest of the family seem to be having some kind of carnival, tarting about in their brilliant packaging and revealing tantalizing glimpses of their sexy contents as they spill forth in an erotic dance with cheese, salt, sugar and alcohol. I watch a frosty trail of sweat bead down a cheeky little Corona and slam the door shut. Right, ready for the week.

By Monday afternoon I consider having salad for lunch and a cup of soup for afternoon tea isn’t so bad. String woman would be impressed. I even walk around the park on the way home and get checked out by a wino. Things are looking up!

By Tuesday night I am feeling the strain of peak hour traffic and starting to fantasize about the way that little trail made its way down Mr Corona...hmmm. It’s raining so I can’t go walking. So disappointed. By the way, is it considered unseemly to nibble on your child's leftover lamb cutlet like a mangy dog?

By Wednesday night three days of living like a guinea pig is starting to show. My skirt is a little looser than last week which encouraged me this morning, but then J at work decides to have scallops and chips for lunch. It is still raining. I have to seriously restrain myself from hurling across the lunch table in an unladylike horizontal launch and wrestle him for it. Then I forget to wind the window up when driving past KFC. Then my friend comes over and we open a bottle of wine.

Thursday morning I decide two wines, one Corona, a few wedges of Brie and three pieces of KFC (purchased because I also felt a bit indifferent towards cooking any more cabbage) isn’t the end of my diet. It is just a minor setback.

Friday night at the BFF’s things become a little more challenging. ‘Party pies’ are two words that should never have been put together. That's a double bummer if you don't indulge. (Everyone else is at the pie party etc.). The same can be said for 'chocolate macademias' and 'bourbon and coke'.

Saturday isn’t really my fault. It’s impolite not to eat a sausage sandwich at the footy. They’re raising money for the kids after all!

Saturday night I decide, after a few more of those cheeky Corona boys, the week is a bit of a fail and I will start again tomorrow. Besides, you can’t have take away Indian food and not order Butter Chicken. You just can’t.

String lady is now having a little rest in the bin.

On Sunday I realize the entire fridge is empty, except my shelf, and off I set to battle the aisles once more in search of that elusive selection of foods that keeps both taste buds and hips happy.

George Clooney is on the cover of the fav mag this week, along with a section on cooking with cheeses.

Might have to start tomorrow.