Move over, there’s a new supermodel

Don’t let anyone tell you that you’re too old to be a supermodel. At the ripe old age of 30 something (my maths is terrible) I have at last become a cover girl. Dressed in clothes that will definitely embarrass my teenager, I am featured in the May issue of Lift magazine, a fabulous new read for single mothers and their huge band of servants, personal trainers, private chefs and stylists.

Click on the link to read my story:

Lift Magazine Issue 3


Mama said knock you out

As my 87 year old mother’s brain drifts further away into dementia, I realise that I don’t have much time left with her.Yesterday my kids and I took her for a lovely beach walk in a place where I spent a lot of time misbehaving as a teenager. So today I’m celebrating some of the gifts my mama gave me. Thanks to my mum I spent my childhood listening to great singers and story tellers. My mum has a wonderful voice and she loved singing to me when I was small. When ‘Songs In The Key of Life’ came out we would sing along to Stevie Wonder together. Love you mumma, thanks for your sense of humour and your songs


Seven styles of single mothering

There are so many parenting books telling us confused time-poor parents how to raise our rugrats that mothers like me get lost in the blur of DIY parenting manuals. As a shortcut, here’s a few parenting strategies I’ve picked up in my 18 year journey through smotherhood:

Bribery
Coercion
Sarcasm
Sycophantic soft soaping
Hovercraft parenting
Bubble wrap parenting
Freestyle/slacker parenting

Single mothers take a portion of each one and back off. If we don’t let our children raise themselves we will end up mummy-fied


Step on a crack, break your mother’s back

As it is Friday the 13th, please children don’t let your single mothers
Catch a bus
Feed a black pussy cat
Climb a tree
Open the fridge
Break a mirror
Cook dinner
Spill salt
Make a bed
Log out of Tinder
Wash clothes
Leave the couch
Walk under a ladder
Or stop dancing

Because it is very, very unlucky

#childrenmusthelptheirmothers


Gurls germs

I’m a single mother of girly girls so I’m fluent in lipstick, Bratz dolls and emotional meltdowns. I don’t speak a word of Transformers, Thomas the tank engine or Minecraft, my gals are not interested. Girl children like to talk a lot, every thought has to be workshopped, discussed and dissected. It’s emotionally exhausting but I don’t think I could have been a mother to boy children. Too many trains and trucks and cars and not enough cross dressing and emotional awareness. I love my gurl kids even though they wear me out. My job makes me grateful to have well children whether they are pink or blue or rainbow, but I do believe that if more girls were in positions of power we would have less conflict in the world, less war, less militaristic decision making. So boys, you’ve had your turn, there’s a few of us gals who are tired of the world turning into an angry hate-filled space; one day our girls are going to take over and change the dominant paradigm forever.


Seven signs you’re a single mother

1) Your flat mates keep asking you to drive them to school

2) You have 50 cents in your wallet

3) Your kids have eaten three kilos of fruit before you’ve even left the supermarket fruit and veg section

4) You don’t have a husband

5) Every item in your wardrobe is made of cougar, puma or leopard print fabric

6) Your kids’ most oft used sentence is, “Mum is your job cash in hand?”

7) Your youngest child says, “This would be a good dress for you to catch a husband in,” only in crowded shops

Just me?


A FAIRY TALE FOR SINGLE MOTHERS

ARE YOU MY HUSBAND?

A single mother left her babies in the nest with a teenager in charge. The kids screamed so the mother left in a hurry.

“Damn,” said the mother. “I’d like to find a husband. I’ll be back.”

So away she went, a long way from the deep dark suburbs.

She did not know what her husband looked like. He might have walked right by her. She did not see him.

Where is my husband?

She looked at the golf course. She saw a sporty young man in a golf buggy. Are you my husband?
The young man just stared at her like she was deranged.

The sporty man was not her husband so she walked on.

Then she came to a pub. She saw a pot bellied drunk at the bar.
“Are you my husband?” She said to the man.
“Me wife kicked me out, I could be your hubby,” he said.
“No, you are a yobbo, you are not my husband.

The pot-bellied drunk was not her husband. The young sporty man was not her husband. Where is my husband?

She came to a strip club. She saw a man who looked sharper than a rat with a gold tooth sitting in a booth.
“Are you my husband?’ she said to the man.
“I could be your husband tonight baby, “ said the man.

“No, you are not my husband, you are a player,” she said.

She looked on the Internet. She found a man whose photo was 20 years old.
“How could you be my husband?” He replied. “I am gorgeous and you are an old cougar.”

“Where is my husband? Where could he be? I will have a husband, I will, I know I will find him”

The single mummy ran, she saw a road worker showing his bum crack. No! He was not her husband. She ran on and on.

She called to a good-looking older man, but he did not stop, he went right on.

The mummy walked on and on. “Where am I?” said the mummy, “I want to go home.”

So the single mummy went home and when she got to her front gate, the mummy saw a cute man visiting her neighbours.

“There he is, there is my husband!” she said.
“Do you know who I am?” said the cute man.

‘Yes, you are not a yobbo, you are not a player, you are not too young for me, you are not too old for me, you are not too good looking, you are cute and you are my husband.”

And they lived happily ever after in separate houses keeping their five children from three different marriages at arm’s length.

THE END


Single mother splurge fest

My resolution for 2015 is to focus on me, me, me in the spare five minutes I have before I return to my glamorous life of washing up, reheating microwave friendly food and idle gossip. On New Year’s Eve forget the frugal flan, pitch the Prozac with a cask wine chaser, bin the baked bean bolognaise for just one day. Go on single mothers, lash out and buy yourself a noice bottle of bubbly or some expensive choccies, you deserve it. Here’s to $20 out of our meagre budget well spent. The universe will provide

Happy New Year everyone, even the happy couples

May drunken conversations be forgot, and never brought up again
May life have sun and kids be fun
For the sake of our sanity

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JWVshkVF0SY&index=1&list=PLFC7490C2AC639BBC


Santa’s checking his list

and I’m checking my single mama Christmas list. Mine looks a bit different to Santa’s version:

Last minute, hope this will do presents for my kids – tick
Chocolates bought at service station for relatives – tick
Happy face on when kids buy you same cheap present as last year – tick
Fight with siblings – tick
Feeling abnormal – tick
Dysfunctional family – tick
Underwhelmed by lack of French champagne and luxury goods – tick
Forgot my own present – tick
Can’t drink alcohol because I’m driving all over town – tick
Smile for my mother even though I really hate eating ham – tick
Not feeling very relaxed because I’m holding the fort – tick
Dream bubble above my head of me with a hottie on a Caribbean beach instead of being stuck in a hot house – tick
Sending cards to all the family and friends I forgot about on Boxing Day – tick

What’s on your Christmas wish list?

Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby Christmas Special 1957


What happened?

Thank God this year is nearly over. 2014 felt like a bad party that lasted all year, the kind of party where you turn up late and all the cool people left 20 minutes ago and you’re stuck with maudlin drunk people who don’t dance and only have one beer and a packet of stale crackers left. In 2013 I travelled to new places and made new friends. In 2014, the shiz got real; single mothering became the major focus of my life when my kids barely saw their other parent. These are the edited highlights of my year of slavery:

I dated different men, which became a social experiment rather than an exercise in true love

I finished the HSC (translation: VCE, O levels, graduated from high school). Well, my 17 year old daughter did but I wrote essays, made lots of food and threw some tantrums

Sports uniforms were big this year and the bills for the outfits were even bigger

My middle child completed her first year of high school without me sending her to a maximum security boarding facility for pre teens

I performed in my second solo stand up comedy show “Looking For Mike Brady” at the 2014 Fringe Comedy Festival and my darling friends turned up to laugh with me

I spent another wonderful year being a fool in hospitals in the presence of beautiful families

The Australian dream was flushed down the toilet by the worst federal government in Australian political history

2014 was a year of many tears, I lost too many treasures, “precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,” as Shakespeare put it, passed into the next world way too young. I went to 10 funerals this year. Two funerals were for my mentor and for my teacher, people who are largely responsible for my career. These were the only two funerals I attended that were for people over the age of 50. I learnt the hard way not to take beautiful young people for granted. I want to find a cure for brain cancer.

I found these words in the possessions left behind by one of my darling friends:
Walk slowly,
Water lashing at your toes,
Crane ready to take flight.
Wait for the tide to change

For many of my friends, the Year of the Horse was a year of heartbreak

And the world lost brilliant artists who made our lives happier, including Rik Mayall, Joe Cocker, Clarissa Dickson Wright, Shirley Temple, Alice Herz Sommer, Mickey Rooney, Doc Neeson, Phillip Seymour Hoffmann, Peaches Geldof, Robin Williams, Joan Rivers, Bob Hoskins, Stella Young and Dr Peter Spitzer who founded the Clown Doctors in Australia

I became an aunty again to a gorgeous girl and a fabulous boy

Two of my beautiful colleagues had babies

I travelled to Queensland to laugh and dance and cry and remember with my Clown Doctor colleagues from around the country

Malala Yousafzai accepted the Nobel Peace Prize and went straight back to her chemistry class

#YesAllWomen became the most viral feminist hashtag of all time

I went to my school reunion and reconnected with old friends who made me laugh out loud

Mary Lambert singing at the Grammys made my eyes wet in 2014

Two planes fell out of the sky breaking more hearts

Horror unfolded as the year came to a close in Sydney, Cairns and Pakistan

Sydneysiders and our visitors poured love and flowers into a memorial site in Martin Place to remember two shining stars we lost and to promote cultural tolerance. Our mission as Australians is now to replace hate with love

What a year! As Michael Clarke said at his best friend Phillip Hughes’ funeral, to honour our loved ones who have passed too early, ‘We must get through to tea, and we must play on.’