Last weekend was a doozy. On Saturday night I went to my oldest friend’s champagne-fuelled party, then on Sunday I took my youngest to a birthday party at an indoor trampoline park so she could go feral and scream with about a million other children. We walked into swarms of kids, mood killer fluorescent lighting, over zealous helicopter mothers, loads of grumpy under-caffeinated dads and a sonic nightmare. The birthday girl was in heaven and her mother and I were certain we’d died and gone to hell.
My friend paid $130 for three kids to jump and climb for two hours. Fork! What happened to jumping off the garage roof?
An assortment of families gathered, made up mainly of these key players:
Mothers who didn’t want their over-sugared kids touching other children or any unsanitary surfaces
Bewildered grandmothers who didn’t understand why they were not just opening a pass the parcel and blowing the candles off a home made cake in the backyard
Toddlers too young to be there being run over by sugar fuelled 12-year-olds on a mission to escape their parents
Dazed grandpas who parked the car, did what they were told, then pretended to be deaf
I was the hungover mother dribbling on the plastic table, absentmindedly dunking my lukewarm chips into my friend’s coffee
Then my girl and her little friends decided they wanted to climb the walls.
There’s nothing I like more on a Sunday than to be greeted by pumping techno music and too cool for school teenage staff who don’t like to explain the workings of the safety harness more than once. In my decrepit state I watched as competitive dads scaled the walls, pushing their kids out of the way. The kind of dads who have their own Instagram inspo-fitness accounts. I closed my eyes as my gal climbed to the ceiling then abseiled down the wall again and again.
One of the day’s highlights was being told off for bringing fresh fruit into the ‘party zone’ by a spotty assistant manager.
As a former children’s party entertainer I despair that our kids are growing up thinking the only place to have fun is a climate-controlled, germ-filled noisy concrete bunker. We could simplify our celebrations and bring back egg and spoon races at daggy parties with our neighbours, a few marshmallows and a homemade cake, in the glorious seasons of Mother Nature, but instead we’re working to pay for experiences our kids don’t really need.
“Going so soon? I wouldn’t hear of it. Why my little party’s just beginning.”
Wicked Witch of the West – The Wizard of Oz
Hi, I’m Sonia, and as well as being a famous ex-dancer, TV wonder girl, motivational guru and gifted Botox devotee, I like to inspire and uplift my fellow mainly white Australians with the love I feel for other fearful Christian human beings. Today I hope we can all:
Dance like Sam Newman is watching
Pop pills like we’re Eddie Maguire
Work like Tony Abbott’s publicist
Love like Michelle Bridges looking in the mirror
Genuflect like Roxy Jacenko
Sing like the Madden brothers mentoring themselves in the shower
Live like we’re in Queensland in 1952
Ponder the deep meaning of our existance like Donald Trump’s wife
Drink like we’re Ben Cousins
Smile like we’ve had dermal fillers
For now you beautiful pale Aussies, Keep Calm and Dance like Sonia
My heart weeps for the children of Syria, Orlando, Baghdad and Nice, I feel powerless to change the hatred and fear gripping parts of our world. What the hell can we do?
I love the fact that the Australian people have spoken, and the message is clear: ‘We don’t like the way you’ve been running the joint.’ Whoever we end up with running our parliament, they will have a tough time passing legislation without consultation. I’m hoping the independent pollies will ‘keep the bastards honest.’
Henry Ford advocated an 8-hour day for his assembly line workers because research demonstrated that worker productivity tanked after more than eight hours. As Brigid Schulte documents in her book, Overwhelmed: Work, Love and Play When No One Has the Time, humans can only take so much for so long. When a workplace is full of overworked employees, those employees will be exhausted and incapable of showing creativity or making good decisions.
How did we end up in a world full of over paid executives who own too many houses and underpaid employees who own none? Capitalism sucks the life out of many for the benefit of a few. Our world is changing and those who want to stay stuck in the old ways are in for a rude shock. With the number of women politicians increasing hopefully we’ll gain some balance.
I’m hoping and praying that when I return to Australia we will have a parliament made up of a diverse group of female and male politicians, but I fear that nothing has changed. I should look on the bright side; another long torturous federal election campaign is over. There was almost a double dissolution, a budget, lots of pontifimacating about, “jobs and growth,” and eighty billion weeks of campaigning buffoons to endure.
I met a man who reminded me that voting is a privilege. “In my home country I wasn’t allowed to vote,” he told me.
Every night on TV we suffered idiots in suits who protect their mates and do very little to turn us into a clever country. Having watched them run a campaign in 2015, what disturbs me most about the Liberal party male power machine is not their political views but their lack of empathy. I didn’t hear any of them speak about helping their fellow humans in a real way. That’s a motherhood statement.
I learnt a lot standing as a politician in 2015. Don’t call swinging voters swingers at a community forum packed with senior citizens. Why did I want to be a politician? I got ahead of myself and imagined spending taxpayer dollars on homeless people, animal shelters and counselling for women victims of domestic violence. I met David Gonski. A rich banker who lives in Point Piper who actually knows how to fix our education system so it is fair to all kids, and the bastard politicians won’t even listen to him.
If I ever venture into politics again, I’ll start the single mother party. I will be the minister for cramped housing, over breeding and goon bags. If current politicians can rort their way into helicopter travel, when I’m elected every child of a single mum will receive a pony. but maybe I’ll just throw a party. Only smart people who want to save the planet can come. You with me? My slogan: Single mothers like to party. BYO cask wine and Prozac.
Spoken and authorised by Lou Pollard for the Single Mothers Like to Party Party.
The individual whose vision encompasses the whole world often feels nowhere so hedged in and out of touch with his surroundings as in his native land.