7 must-own single mother fashion items

Aside from prescription medications, a home and a large cask of fruity leg-opener, here is your essential guide to the seven must-own style items for single mothers:

 

  1. A leopard cougar dress adds class to any event, including school canteen duties or my kid doesn’t deserve another detention meetings in the principal’s office
  2. A large slobbering pit bull wearing a choke collar is mandatory for surviving early weekend morning netball games courtside with only happily married power couples for company
  3. A timeless, barely-there I can’t pay the rent ripped t-shirt emblazoned with I am the patron saint of deadbeat males goes with just about anything and is perfect for last minute call ups to the school father’s day breakfast
  4. Flannie shirt and work boots, for that crucial menswear-inspired look to confuse the hell out of the parents who can’t guess which side of the sexual fence you’re sitting on at the school fete
  5. Add polish to your 3pm pick up look by combining a no-brainer plunging neckline with the quintessential single mother chunky snakeskin stiletto
  6. Sneakers found on the street outside charity shops lengthen your pay packet and mean you can run from your children when they embarrass you at the shops
  7. A basic toy boy dressed in suede or leather is the ultimate go-to handbag for school parent-teacher meetings, he will add instant sophistication

 

Jeannie C. Riley – Harper Valley P.T.A.

 


Dear Malcolm

You are asleep at the wheel. Banker lawyers aren’t renowned for their innovation or empathy, but you have turned out to be our Clayton’s* Prime Minister, the one we have when we don’t really have a leader. You are surrounded by pseudo human career politicians and you have proved to be as much of a jerk as Abbott, just dressed in a better suit. Malcolm, you seemed to have potential, years ago you talked with great passion about Australia becoming a republic, the Australian people thought that you could have been a man of vision but instead, you bow to people whose ideas belong in the Dark Ages. 30 women have been murdered this year alone and the only thing that makes you angry is the company tax rate not being cut. You truly are our most disappointing Prime Minister.

You spoke of Australia’s success with resettling refugees using sportsman Allir Allir as an example. You forgot to mention the refugee children languishing in mouldy tents on Manus and Nauru and the dying man whose supporters had to fight in court for him to receive proper palliative care in a hospital. Allir Allir coming here from a refugee camp in Kenya had nothing to do with you. You cold fart unholy man.

You have no inspiring strategies on:

Climate change

The arts

Health

Education

Refugees

or Science

And Malcolm, you feel the need to constantly bash Bill Shorten, but you’re short on common sense, short on intelligent policies and short on compassion. What you need is a bunch of single mums in your cabinet; you’d get some great decisions made in record time (and under budget) and our country would perhaps be more inclined to give people in need a fair go (does this concept sound familiar?).

Your grandchildren won’t be proud of how your party decided to destroy what’s left of the Great Barrier Reef, how about you stand up and become a statesman? Because right now you look like you really don’t want the job. Malcolm, it is time to step up or crawl off to your dodgy tax haven in the Cayman Islands like the scaly, shifty old caiman you resemble.

 

*If you’re not familiar with this term, in the 1970s and 80s Clayton’s was advertised as ‘the drink you have when you’re not having a drink.’

 


Addicted

This week we learned that we must no longer go online because bad people will steal our identities, our children will turn into Minecraft addicted zombie bots (too late) and we’ll all start speaking Russian and worshipping Putin.

This is a blog post about why you shouldn’t be reading my blog online because your health will suffer. It is harmful to be on the Internet. Please direct lots of people here and make a habit of visiting my site because it will help my stats, but don’t become dependent. It will be your fault dear readers if you give me insomnia while I stay up all night dealing with all the comments and emails and awkward conversations that your online obsession provokes. You’ll be fine on my blog, but don’t visit any other websites, and please make sure you don’t tell Cambridge Analytica that you have been reading this post. And don’t comment with the F word or Mark Zuckerberg’s lawyers will come to your house late at night and steal your thoughts.

Isn’t our world moronic? Don’t you think?

This post has been brought to you by the Alanis Morrissette school of irony and Instagram influencer mothers posting photos of their kids playing #devicefree and #technologyfree while those mothers profit from these same kids’ lives on social media.

#irony

Ed Byrne on Irony


Put it in mothballs

Autumn winds make me extra allergic to the online world of success coaches with glow in the dark teeth, perky personal fitspo gurus with Instagram famous bodies and shiny women with trout pout lips on an endless loop on Youtube. A generation of children are growing up with mothers who’ve had so much Botox put into their faces that these women cannot express the full gamut of human emotion on their dials. These zombie women scare me but I can’t stop staring, wondering when the fillers will stop working.

Then I get scratchy when I hear the words mastery, motivation, personal best, inspire, disrupt. Show me the leaders in lethargy, excellent examples of ennui, successful sloths, wonderful worriers. These are my people. To mangle Kerouac: the only ones for me are the crazies, the Bukowski drunks, the shabby, the borderline criminals, the drop outs, the dribblers, those grungy, suffering, unshaven cats who get thrown out of the best parties, the ones who always yawn out loud, the rambling, boisterous messes who convey every sloppy human emotion on their cracking apart faces. These are the people who make me feel good about myself, as I hide away at home reading, not wanting to face the world or climb any ladders.

Growing up into a cranky old cat lady, I’m pondering the autumn and winter of my life with a countenance that moves. As I slip under the radar with a face that loses its sheen every day, I think I like my mangy self best.


Growing old disgracefully

My oldest childhood friend is about to turn 50 and realising I have elderly friends has made me think about what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. Middle age can be about making time for personal growth and wondering what sort of human you want to become in the second half of your life. Once my kids have moved out of home, I want to inspire people, live well and have fun, so when I grow up, hopefully I’ll still be young enough to:

Care about my fellow humans like Sam Newman
Be open-hearted like Prune Macsween
Dance like Peter Garrett

Have the compassion of Miranda (Not Really) Devine
Pop pills like Ben Cousins
Manage my hair like Donald Trump

Tolerate people like Peter Dutton

Possess the humility of Malcolm Turnbull

Be open-minded like Andrew Blot

Be submissive like Eddie Maguire

Be as sexy as Bronwyn Bishop

What’s on your life goals bucket list?

I’m Too Sexy – Right Said Fred

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Love in the time of blended families

A poem

We say I love you, and if we’re still together on Boxing Day, Easter Wednesday, the day after the kid goes back to school we may survive as a couple by detaching from your teen’s nightmare behaviour

Your son looks like Elvis but he sings like a drunk footballer

I adore you but your brother’s second wife’s extended family will poison me slowly with their frozen coleslaw

I’d really like to grow old with you but your son’s new girlfriend has a voice that curdles milk and I can’t bring myself to help you raise her kids

Your touch is tough to resist but the complaints from your mother and her coven of neighbours about my cooking have reduced my brain capacity

You soothe my jangled nerves but your child’s penchant for snakes is a reptile too far

I really like your daughter but another netball match will kill my will to live

I love you but I can’t add another mother in law to my collection

Shakespeare described step parenting best:

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom


Instagrammar

Dear selfie kings and queens,
Here’s a revolutionary idea for you when posting to your millions of followers on Instagram: Your posts can be edited.

Call me old fashioned but if you profess to be an expert in your field, perhaps you could proudly display that you can grasp the basic idea of stringing a sentence together?

Maybe proclaiming that youre / your / ur a thought leader then displaying a smorgasbord of unedited grammar and spelling mistakes is not ideal for your brand. If you’re claiming to help people get millions of followers perhaps it would help if you were mildly literate.

It’s bad enough when Insta ‘celebratiez’ post photos of their ugly children, but recently, on her Insta feed, well-known personal trainer MB posted the words,
All be it

I think the word she was looking for was albeit. Really. I’m going to start a heartfelt crowdfunding campaign for the poor lady, she obviously can’t afford to pay someone to proofread her life-changing posts.

Pert ladies and buff gents, you know that tweets can’t be edited (looking at you idiot President number 45) but all your other brilliant revolutionary thoughts on other social media channels can. How about you learn to use the delete button and maybe send a text to a friend who can spell so they can read your genius ideas before you pay to boost your inspo post?

I really love that your /ur / youre a lifestyle guru and new media-savvy social influencer. Honestly I do. But if you want to be a disruptor (gag) then maybe read your ‘next ‘level’ post before you hit the share button…