The Month that Returned the Muse

Picture this.

A young writer struggling to get her words down. The traditional road of pen and paper didn’t work. The new age computer gave her nothing but a headache. Hell, even writing on her forearm like she was back in high school did nothing to get the muse flowing.

The story was there, bubbling away – begging to be told but the messages from her creativity heavy right sided brain were getting lost before it could reach her fingers to get it down. She could hear the voices of her characters, see the scenery, smell the smells of the world in which they lived. She could see the whole story in front of her eyes as if it were a movie. But still, nothing was getting put down.

She tried to become the character. She tried to record the story verbally … only to find out that she made no sense (apparently the messages from her brain to her mouth weren’t working either) and ended up with her being confused and angry. She tried to meditate in hopes that it would just come to her – instead she ended up napping. She tried to talk to people about it, but it ended up the same as when she tried to record it – anger, confusion and a whole lot of head tilting.

Everything she tried, just ended up making her more and more upset and annoyed.
Until suddenly, there was a shining light at the end of the dark cloud caused by writer’s block.

NamoWrimo had finally arrived.

NamoWrimo is a month-long initiative for writers around the word to try and write a whole novel in the month of November. What better way to get the words flowing than with a deadline? She thought to herself.

She went into it the same way she went through life – head first with absolutely no idea, living on coffee and sheer hope with no real expectation. And lo and behold, the words started to flow. Scenes wrote themselves, characters started to take on personalities and a whole new world started to form.

Some days were amazing, other days left her frustrated and banging her head against the keyboard. She mapped and planned and threw caution into the wide world of Microsoft Word. If she came out of this adventure with only a few thousand words, she would consider it a win as a few thousand words was better than the blank space she had before November started.

She ended up breaking her own records. 1000 words here, 5000 words there … 8 cups of coffee in two hours and a buzz that left her dizzy. She made herself laugh, cry and began to develop an emotional attachment to characters that didn’t even exist a few weeks earlier. She connected to fictional people easier than she did with real people. Ideas brewed, back stories were told, and conversation flowed from her finger tips. She felt invincible.

As the 30th loomed closer, a sense of dread overcame her. Could she do this? Could she finish this incredible month on the same high in which she started? She had read over a few of her chapters and cringed. Serious editing would be needed. But it didn’t seem to matter. She had, after all, finally got the story out. But would it be enough? Self-doubt is a horrible feeling for a writer.

Turns out, all she needed was her iPod, a full kettle to keep her going and a few hours of alone time along with a small push in the self-confidence department. The 30th came and went … and she finished with 51,480 words and a brand-new novel.

She had learnt a lot in the wonderful month of November. She discovered how easy the words flowed – once she could get them to cooperate. She realised that self-doubt was the only thing holding her back and she could rise above it. She knew most of the 51,480 words were dribble and basic note form but that was okay. She breathed easier knowing that a first draft can be rubbish, all that matter was having a strong foundation and emotional depth. With those two, she understood that the second and third draft would be easier.

She learnt that she was a writer, a real writer and she could completely kick ass. A small, fun writing initiative had turned into a truly eye-opening experience.

She had done it.

I had done it.

And what an amazing feeling that is.

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The Fiery Female

She is magnificent in the way she moves.

Swift steps make next to no sound as she marches towards her target. Hair as red as fire crackles around her shoulders as if a visual aid to her anger.

She is small, standing only just over 5 feet but her spirit and her fire gives her limitless height. Small pale hands decorated with henna and bangles are clenched tightly next to narrow hips. Her flowery skirt dances around slim ankles and she moves with purpose and pride. A frown distorts the elfish features of her face and anger seems to scream frim within her flashing green eyes.

Her warning is nothing short of a battle cry. “You selfish bastard!” the rage sounds odd falling from bright pink lips. Her target turns, a look of surprise jumping to his face before her ringed fist smashes into his cheek.

“How dare you!” she screams “You arrogant son of a bitch!” her hair bounces wildly around her now flushed face almost as if it has anger of its own. Her anger is something to both fear and admire. She doesn’t hold back nor does she care who hears her screams.

She shakes out the hand that punched him and a small butterfly tattoo makes an appearance on the underside of her wrist, creating an illusion of long ago innocence.
He tries to appease this angry pixie bit it only serves to fuel her fire. She throws her weight behind the next punch and a loud crack echoes across the park before the tall man falls.

“Don’t you dare!” She doesn’t need height to be imposing. Her victim cowers in fear at the tiny slipper adorned feet of this raging storm.

“Baby, please!” he begs. She doesn’t have to lean down far to look him in the eye.

“You are nothing but a worthless, disgusting excuse of a human and I bid good riddance.” She all but hisses in his face before spinning on her heel. Her clothes whip behind her like a cloak and she stops to take a deep breath.

Her thick bottom lip trembles but she pulls it between straight white teeth to stop it. Green eyes catch mine from a few feet away.

She shakes her petite form slightly and sends me a wink that crinkles her bejewelled nose before she is off in a flutter of green, red, bangles and awe-inspiring attitude.

The Controlling Viper

She’s a dangerous mix of a kind heart and an acid tongue.

You think things are okay and suddenly out of nowhere, she will strike with a furiousness of an angry snake. Poison drips from her tongue as she fills your ear with all your fears and doubts and turns it around so suddenly, you believe it’s all your fault. She’ll create wild scenarios in her head and leave you to pick up the pieces. But as quickly as she strikes, she’ll retract, leaving you reeling and back to being with a close friend . It leaves you wondering if it really is all your fault or even if it was real.

You never know where you stand with her. When things get hard, she bites down hard and drags you through the mud with her. The second you are free is when the pain of what she has done begins to settle in.

You would fight for her, die for her in a second but the second you do something she dislikes, you are now the enemy and she will strive to turn the world against you just so they agree with her.

It’s an unsettling feeling not knowing where you stand with someone. Unsure what to say, unsure what to do. You wish to fix things yet are too scared to make it worse. But you know that if you don’t do something than things will begin to fester. She is domineering in her thoughts and strong in her anger. Stubborn in her belief that she is always right and innocent of it all.

Things begin to take a turn. You can step back and take a breath. The voice inside your head tells you that you don’t need her. You don’t need the doubt or to walk on egg shells. You realise that you can live without her. Without her comfort full of hidden agendas, her concern filled with lies, her backhanded compliments and her comparison of your soul to others around her.

You can survive without the her.

She realised she is losing her grip so she tightens down on you, raising more problems…faults…lies…doubt. But what she doesn’t realise yet, is that she has already lost control. She has been squeezing so tightly for so many years that she can’t see the vacant look in your eyes when it starts. She doesn’t notice the steadiness of your heart and breath. She doesn’t notice that you simply no longer care.

You will never again cower before her. Never again be a victim of her acid tongue. You realise you are better… stronger. Why did you wait so long? Why did you ever think that pleasing her and her viciousness would ever make you feel whole? She is no longer in control. You are.

You are now free.

The Perv

Meaty hands would make their way down thick thighs in a poor attempt to sweaty palms. The sweat stains on his flamboyant shirt give his secret away. The word ‘pig’ comes to mind, but that would be an insult to pigs everywhere.

Over eager to make everyone around him believe the self-believed lie that he was better than what he was. Brutish looking with thinning hair and wire framed glasses that pressed tightly against a Neanderthal brow and a sneer that only showed itself around women.

“I’m going to rock your world sugar tits.” She couldn’t help but stare at the yellowing stumps that were once teeth. He winked bloodshot eyes at her and waddled away, no doubt to find his next victim. The man was a walking law suit waiting to happen.
Arrogance surrounds him like a bad smell and he believes himself to be God’s gift to woman … a right looker in his too tight suit and flushed skin.

“Chicks dig me toots.” He snorts at his next victim, the smell of garlic threatening to knock her out. “I won’t tease you too much when you start begging for all this.” All this was apparently an overweight island of a man with bad hygiene and obviously suffering from delusions.

He looks at women like they are foods he longs to devour, piggy little eyes darting from their breasts to legs peeking out of respectable skirts. They never seem to reach their eyes.

“Yep. All those bitches want a piece of this buffet.” He leant back, next to his final victim, raising his arms to rest behind his head. Sweat stains his pits and suddenly it’s a war between bad breath and his bad BO. She dainty covers her nose and offers a tiny smile, to not be rude. He made her very uncomfortable. He made everyone very uncomfortable.

He was a prick. Plain and simple.

 

Beep Beep Beep

Dark hair falls across a pale face as he leans to leave one more kiss. He stays pressed there for a few moments before pulling away, eyes clenched tightly. It’s hard to watch this once tall, imposing figure reduced to such a hunched mess.

His eyes are glazed and stained red, his nose isn’t much better. His immaculate suit is now a crumpled mess, stained with tears and God knows what. He looks like a lost child, huddled on the too small seat, strong jaw trembling. His wide shoulders shudder as he tries to control his breathing. The silver stud in his left ear catches the light as he shakes his head.

“It’s okay.” He says, the normal boom of his voice nothing but a whisper. “Everything is going to be okay.” His voice breaks and the room fills with loud convulsing sobs. He folds his large frame tighter within himself and digs slender fingers into his wavy hair. He starts rocking, gripping his hair harder in pain.

“I’m so sorry.” He sobs. You can almost hear his heart break as he silently begs for forgiveness for long forgotten sins. “So sorry.”  Shaking hands reach out and grasp the still hand on the bed. There’s tenderness and love in the soft strokes he dances across the knuckles. “I am so sorry it’s come to this. I’ll try harder. I promise. I won’t let you down again.” Tears stream down not only his face, but ours as well.

He pulls away hesitantly and wipes his dripping nose on his sleeve. He turns to me now, pain echoing across his face. He attempts to smile but it comes out shaky and weak. Tears glisten in the soft light but he makes no move to clear them. His breathing is heavy and raspy.

“I guess it’s just her time, right?” he asks… no…begs me. He wants to know why. He demands answers for questions we have all asked ourselves before. He begs for a small peace of mind.

I want nothing more than to break policy and wrap my arms around this broken man but instead I stand by the door, listening to his gut-wrenching sobs and the heart monitor of his dying mother beep to a stop.

My Man

There’s a man I know, who I have grown to love in almost every way possible.

He stands tall and proud with dark hair that can’t be tames and a cow’s lick that gives him back his youth. His pale blue eyes stand out against the dirt that seems to stain his face. They sparkle when he is happy and darken when angered. The lower part of his face is covered by a prickly beard that is pulled when lost in thought. His lean body weighs more to the right, an aftermath of a bar fight years ago.

A working-class tattoo sits on his right forearm, surrounded almost loving by an old school mermaid. His family crest is displayed proudly on his left arm, above his dedication to the love of motorcycles.

It’s not common to see him out of the fluoro orange shirt and loose blue pants that make up his work attire. The only thing clean about it is the part he tucks in and his steel cap boots that protects his tattooed feet. But he has earned that uniform and wears it with pride.

His fingers are stained from tobacco and grease, his nails bitten to the quick. They are never still, always twitching, drumming or dancing over the top of his latest project. Small tattoos mark the web between thumb and pointer, a remind of the rebellious teen he was. His hands are rough and calloused and nearly always covered in cuts or burns. Although they are rough and harsh, they are capable of soft caresses and a gentleness that makes our children calm. He says his hands are hard and dirty so I can keep mine soft and clean.

He is the hardest worked I have ever known.

He can’t lie to save himself, something I always find funny. His jaw clenches, he swallows loudly, eyes refuse to make contact and his left eye twitches. It’s not the tells that give him away, rather the hidden smirk that pulls at his lips that tells me I am too bloody clever for my own good and he knows the gig is up. But he is stubborn so he’ll try to hide it a little longer.

He is not an elegant man, a metal fabricator by trade. “Fuck” falls from his lips like a prayer at least 5 times a day. For a man of few words, unless motorbikes or work is involved, that word apparently covers all he needs to say.

He is my best friend. My partner. My soul mate. And I find myself falling in love with him more and more each day.

The Sacrifice of a Parents Love

One of the first assignments we are ever given at school is a “what something means to me.” More often than not, it has to do with our families.
“Family means love”
“Family means fun.”
“My mummy bakes with me.”
“I love it when my daddy plays with me.”

A long list of an innocent child perceptive on the world around them. What they don’t see, is the hardships, the struggles and the pain that adults go through to make sure that their children have those memories. The sacrifices, the fights and the frustrations are all pushed aside. Smiles replace frowns, deep breathes are taken and memories are made simply from sheer will of the parents.

Children never stop to think about how much parents go through in order for those ‘what something means to me’ memories to be created. They don’t think of the bad – only the good and the small wins in the forms of toys, hugs and amazing food. And most people will agree that that’s the way it should be. Why should children have to carry the burden of their parents’ struggles when they can have the freedom of just being children? Don’t get me wrong, I agree. Whenever there is something wrong, I try and hid it from my children. It’s just what we as parents do. Protect our babies.

But children are smarter then we give them credit for. They pick up on things most adults will brush over and are incredibly intuitive – except when it comes to bed time then all bets are off. Why do we think that they don’t pick up that something might not be as amazing as it seems? As they get older, they will figure it out. Then what? Do we continue to lie? Do we tell half-truths or do we treat them as the people they are and level with them?

Sure, it might get to the point where they start blaming you for things. God knows I blamed my parents for a lot of things. And think about it, if it’s not the children blaming you for something, you can put money on the fact that society will.

Everyone always has an opinion on something and when it comes to raising children, everybody feels the need to put their two cents in. It drives me nuts. We judge people on the smallest things without knowing anything about what goes on behind closed doors. I get judged all the time because I am a young mum. When I first signed my daughter up for school, most the school mums assumed I was an older sister and upon finding out I was actually her mother, boy did I cop the judgement! We can’t know what goes on and it’s not our place to judge nor is it our place to blame parents for everything. Sure, it’s their job to raise their children to be good people but where is the rule book that states how they go about doing that? Too much sacrifice leads to kids feeling abandoned but too little sacrifice then you are a bad example and a burden on society. We can’t have it both ways.

Being adult and a parent myself, I have realised just how much my parents sacrificed and went through to make me the person I am today. I mean I always knew how hard my parents worked and as I was getting old, it made more sense to me and I could see how tired they were or how stressed they were and I wanted to help – as much as a child could without understanding the whole story.

And for that, Mum and Dad, I am sorry. I’m sorry it took me so long to realise.
I am sorry about the tantrums and the late nights. I am sorry about the constant worry and the grief I gave you fighting every rule that I now know was only there to protect me. I am sorry for believing that I knew better and argued that you didn’t know me well enough. I was wrong.

I was wrong in assuming that because you were from a different generation, you had no idea what the world and were out of touch. I was wrong in assuming that you didn’t care about me (in the grips of teenage anguish) I am sorry for assuming that everything was perfectly happy when you both were sacrificing things I didn’t know we needed for things we only wanted.

You were sacrificing time so we had what we wanted for Christmas. You were sacrificing work and free time when we were sick. You were sacrificing your hard earned money on things we wanted but didn’t need. I am sorry for the times I yelled at you. I am sorry for the times I lied to you. I am sorry for thinking that you guys sucked and were the worst parents in the world (again, in the amidst of teenage anguish)

You weren’t, aren’t and never will be.

Because of the rules, I learnt discipline. Because of your time, I learnt compassion. Because of your interests, I learnt passion and with that, the words to songs no 26 year old should know (Dad I am talking to you) I know exactly how many drinks you’ve had by what dance moves you break out and that you will never go over the limit when we are around. I know the rules of a game I can’t stand. I know the rules of sports I don’t even remember watching. Because of your friendliness, I learnt kindness. And because of your love, I learnt to love myself. Because of your strength, sacrifice and generally being amazing, I learnt how to be a pretty badass parent.

I once swore to myself I would never be like my parents. Now, I can’t imagine being anyone else. I hear my mother’s voice come out of my own mouth all the time.

Why wouldn’t I want to be someone who is loving, caring, kind, compassionate, hilariously funny and stronger than anyone I have ever known? What’s not to love about two slightly dorky but totally amazing and always embarrassing parents?

Be kind to your parents. Love your parents and stop blaming them for your mistakes. They created you and gave you the gift of life. Take that life and honour them by doing something worthwhile with it. No parents want to see their children unhappy and no child should want to make their parents unhappy. They have been here longer than you and have more than likely been through what you are going through. Don’t shut out the built in security system you have within your parents. They are your biggest supporters, teachers and they are the ones who will be there long after the others fade away. Look past the long hours and deep sighs and see parents who are working their arses off just to make your childhood incredible and to make sure you have those memories of what family means.

Love them. Treasure them. Remember them.

 

Cat Calling Make You A Pussy

Dear cat callers in the car,
Thanks for the compliments! It was so nice to hear everything you’d like to do to my body. The added graphic details made it so much better! I felt so good about myself afterwards, I was shaking from happiness and wanted to run into one of the closest houses just to tell them how nice you are. It was so nice of you to turn around and keep following me almost the whole way home! The company was great! I especially loved it when you called a frigid bitch because I didn’t reply. You are so right. I should have been more grateful since you and your friend took the time out of your day to all but stalk me from your car while paying compliments to my body and giving great mental images. Oh, I promise I will try to smile more since apparently it would make me prettier. Do you really think it would? You kept calling me sweet cheeks and baby – doesn’t that mean you already think I’m pretty? The comment telling me I’d look better with my head buried in pillows has made me a little confused …

Let’s cut the crap shall we?

First and foremost, I am okay. There was no physical damage and I was just shaken up but otherwise unharmed.
For those who didn’t get it, I was being sarcastic. No woman is going to thank you for making her feel utterly uncomfortable in her own skin. Because guess what? Let me fill you in a small secret. We don’t like it. We don’t ask for it and we sure as shit don’t find it complimenting.

You and others like you who think it’s all good to cat call and make suggestive gestures to women are the reason most of us are scared to walk home in the dark. Or walk with our keys between our fingers. Or why our parents beg us for a confirmation text or call that we arrived safely when we step outside our house. It’s not pleasant; you’re not doing me “a favour”. You’re being an arsehole and a poor excuse for a man and before you say “oh it’s just a little cat call”, let me tell you that there is a massive difference between a simple cat call and basic sexual harassment. A line which some seem to ignore.

I know I’ll probably get a lot of backlash from this from people saying its tradition or it’s just for fun or I should take the compliment. Calm down, they’ll say. Stop standing on your soapbox they’ll say. It’s just a compliment, why are you complaining? You must be one of those people who likes to put trigger warnings on everything and gets butthurt at a male sneezing … Let me tell you why I shouldn’t and don’t “just take the compliment”.

CASE IN POINT:
“Why don’t you smile? You’d look prettier!”
“Mmmmm Shake it baby shake it all the way over on my dick!”
“You’d be so pretty on your knees! I’d make you feel real good.”
“I’d love to pound that ass and see how far you can take it.”
“Look at her! She’d take it all the way. Isn’t that right sweet cheeks? You look like you’re a dirty bitch.”
“You have really long legs … they’d look great wrapped around my neck.”
“Let me show you how a real man fucks baby.”
“When I am through with you, you won’t ever move again.”
“Bet I can make you scream in more ways than one.”

This, and other vulgar remarks, is what I got yelled at me. By two strange men in a car who followed me almost all the way to my house. I was walking home from dropping my children off to school. I was wearing long pants, boots and a baggy jumper. There was no skin on show, no sign indicating that I wanted to be harassed. I could have taken the comments just fine if they didn’t turn their car around to keep going while driving so close to the pavement, I honestly thought I was going to be taken. And that fear is real.

The amount of kidnappings and rapes and murders has and still are, steadily climbing over the years. We have more sexual abuse and harassment than ever before. Funnily enough, we are still stuck in a ‘rape culture’ and there are fair too many people still too scared to say anything which assholes like these guys know. “Catcalling isn’t the same as rape.” No you are right, but it still leaves a mark. It’s mental abuse and sexual harassment. Plain and simple. So no, we are not going to “take the compliment” anymore.

Do you know how that feels? That fear? No? It’s not a game to us. It’s not fun or wanted or needed. We don’t ask for it no matter what we are wearing cause fun fact people: women don’t dress just for you. I had my hand in my bag gripping my keys just waiting for it. And no, I am not exaggerating. Welcome to real world.
Calling me vulgar names because I gave you the finger makes you look even more pathetic. I don’t need you to make my day. I don’t need any man to make my day. I make my own god damn day your self-centred wankers.

How would you like it if a girl suddenly started yelling at you? You’d feel complimented for the second before it starts turning nasty and it does … it always does. “Hey babe nice ass I can’t even tell you how much I wanna bang that.” “Hey babe, why don’t you move that dick over my way and I’ll show you how a real woman moves?” “You’d look so pretty on your knees.” “What’s the matter baby? Can’t take a compliment? Frigid dick.” “Don’t have the loving of a good woman?” “You should be thanking me for paying a compliment/ attention to an ugly thing like you.” “You can thank me while on your knees all night long” “I’m going to break you for the next girl.” …. yeah bet everything’s not a joke or compliments now huh? I bet you men would love it if some strange woman came out of nowhere and grabbed a fistful. “But you’ve got it out so that must mean I can touch.” Those excuses just sound better and better. And you know what? I am sure men get harassed just as much as women. It’s not pleasant for anybody who goes through it. It’s scary and enough is enough.

People laugh and joke and say that we are making a big deal out of nothing. It’s not nothing. It’s not us trying to get attention. It’s real, it’s creepy and we are over it. Why should I take something I don’t want and not argue back? Why am I the bad person for sticking up for myself? Why are there double standards? Why is it that there’s still assholes who think that’s okay?

Don’t you have a mother? Sister? Daughters? Partner? Would you feel okay knowing someone out there is yelling the same comments at them? Why is it okay for you to harass someone else’s daughter, mother, partner, sister? Think about that before you start cat calling at the next woman.

Because cat calling is for pussies and enough is enough.

 

 

 

 

 

Stay at Home Heroes

What do stay at home mums do all day?

This is one of the worst questions out there. Are you serious? What do they do all day? They keep the bloody kids alive for starters!

I am a stay at home mum. For that, I am very grateful. It means that I am home to watch my babies grow and get to see all the special moments. It also means that suddenly I am a target for every gossiping, self-entitled wanker.

Where is this coming from I hear you ask? Society apparently. So, I was at the shops the other day (I have been stewing on this for a while) after dropping moo off to school, getting dinner and what not and suddenly I am confronted by the vicious silver tongue of society’s arsehole. Now, I have been called many things in my life. It happens when you refuse to format to society’s expectations and when your “resting bitch face” is just your face. But never, and I mean never ever, have I been called a “vampire of society.” Yep, you read that right. This … woman … was very loudly declaring in a very public place full of mum with little ones or pregnant that “Stay at home mums are the vampires of society. Sucking up time space and good people’s money while sitting on their arse getting fat and opening their legs to anyone willing.”

Yep.

Words cannot even begin to describe the rage. Creative, I’ll give her that but she was lucky I didn’t punch her. Who says that?

Okay dickhead let’s look at the stats. According to abs.gov.au in 2003, 91% of families with children under 14 year old had the father working. Of that 91% of fathers who worked, 84% were employed full time.

So if we use logical, which I strongly don’t think you have, that means only 9% of fathers don’t work. So we break down the 9% into different reasons – didn’t want to work, wanted to work but not actively looking, permanently unable to work and wanted to work/looking for work but unable to start within 4 weeks.

Fun fact though: it’s 91% against 63%. That means that 63% of families also have their mother working. It’s also fun to know that In 2004–05, 1.6 million fathers were employed and 1.3 million mums all who had children under 15 within both couple families and single parents. Doesn’t quite sound like a fat arsed vampire spreading her legs for everyone huh?

Oh and let’s not forget that stay at home dad’s, which I bet you have an opinion on, has steadily risen by about 13% each year. Which means the mum is working … just in case that wasn’t clear.

And then of course if your firmly in the place of “Well just send the kids to care then” argument, let’s look at those stats.

The average cost PER DAY in Australia for childcare is anywhere from $70 to $200 PER DAY. A nanny is $17 – $35 AN HOUR, family day care is $6 – $17 AN HOUR and a baby sitter is $15 to $35 AN HOUR. So in order to actually make money, you wanna be on good money (like $25+ an hour) which ironically, is quite hard to do considering that 75% of parents have a school aged children. For those lucky bastards who don’t have to do a school, it means you have to start work after 9 AM and finish before 3PM. Oh and if your child is sick you can’t work or if you get a call from the school you have to drop everything and go straight away and then of course there is the sports and dances and stalls and school activities that you kinda have to go to cause, you know, your partner works full time and possible overtime.

It’s all well and good for you to stand there and sprout bullshit but until you actually go out there and try and find something close to home, that pays great and has super flexible hours and leaves you with enough energy to actual parent when they get home and functional until bed time – shut up.

The options for such unicorn like jobs are the coffee industry which pays shit, waitressing which again pays shit, fast food services which are just shit all round from what I can gather or you can stay at home and raise your children and save money on childcare or whatever and actually see your children grow up.

Because you know what? Who gives a flying fuck what society thinks? Stay at home mums were all the rage not even 30 years ago. It was “a woman’s job”. Now, we are lazy, money hungry vampires of society because we would rather raise our kids’ right.

Most stay at home mums I know either work close to home or have their own businesses allowing them to work from home. I am one of them. It’s not the grand illusion that apparently some people think it is.

You are a referee between your children, you are a nurse, a cook (at times you even feel like a gourmet chef with how picky they are), you’re a personal washer and drier and dishwasher and even then it never ends. You keep the house clean, make sure the shopping is done, bills are paid and everyone has everything they need even when it ends up with you missing out. Don’t tell me stay at home mum’s sit on their arse all day. Ain’t no stay at home mum got time for that.

So to the “lovely” opinioned woman making all of the stay at home mums in the shop centre feel like shit, I only have a few words of advice.

Keep your uneducated, idiotic opinions to yourself and save your breath.

Because all you are doing is lowering everyone’s IQ points every time you open your mouth.

14 year olds now vs then

Did I miss something?

Was there like a memo or something sent out? Loud announcement? Please, I’d really like to know. I want to know who told these kids (man I sound old) they need to skip the embarrassing part of being a younger teen.

Because to whoever you are – and internet I am looking at you – you fucking suck.

There are 14-year-olds running around with on point (or however you say it) contour and incredible eye make – up. Their eyebrows are perfect and they look like models. Like wtf? No. No, you do not get to skip past “using your mums shitty cheap mascara that itches like crazy, terrible eye shadow colours and a mix and match on what your actual skin tone is by using every little bottle of foundation you can find” phase. What gives you the right?!

Pfft child please. Hell no. Spin around on your little high heels and skinny jeans and go and put something embarrassing on. You are making the rest of us feel awkward.

Please don’t get me wrong. They look gorgeous and I am not shaming anybody. It just bugs me that the unofficial traditional freaking rite of passage has officially ended. You aren’t supposed to look like you know what you are doing. That’s not how this works. Especially at 14. That’s the pinnacle year everyone looks back on and cringes with self-loathing. You see all these memes on Facebook that are like “What would you tell your 17-year-old self?” Wrong question mate. We all know at 17 we were freaking dickheads. Obviously, the answer would be DON’T DO IT DICKHEAD! The right question to ask is “What would you tell your 14-year-old self?” Put. Down. The. Fucking. Eyeliner. And if you were born in the 90’s or hell even the 80’s – you know what? If you were relatively young in the 90’s – you know that answer is right.

God look at the 80’s for crying out loud. There were more random colours worn and more hair spray used in that decade than I reckon we will ever use again. My mother still cringes if I bring up her 80’s hair.  And do not even get me start on the colour palette of the 70’s.

Actually, I don’t know a single person who doesn’t cringe or sigh and literally leave the conversation when the topic of younger teen years and “fashion” pops up!

So, listen up. Let me tell you how it goes and readers, by all means, chime in with your memories. I am going to teach you how to do your make up … 90’s style.

  • Start with a shade of foundation anywhere from 2 upwards either lighter or darker than your skin tone. And pile that on. You want a really awkward glow happening.
  • Don’t bother about your neck. We didn’t find our necks until about 2008.
  • Ignore contouring. That was a model thing or a movie star thing not our thing.
  • But you are going to want to stock up on blush. Don’t forget to make it 2+ shades darker.
  • Now, grab your eyeshadow palette and by palette, I mean those gaudy colours you found for 2 bucks at the chemist or $2 shop. Rub that shit in until you swear it is never coming off because it is so cheap it probably won’t come off.
  • And lastly everybody’s favourite make up tool – EYELINER! Grab your eyeliner and don’t worry about your cat eye/perfect wing helpful tape or whatever else you use to make it perfect cause all you are going to do is circle your eyes panda style.

Congratulations! You now look like a 90’s kid and that shaky gross feeling you have is completely normal. It’s called shame.

To finish it off add dangling earrings – doesn’t really matter which ones you wear they will all look terrible and tie a black shoe lace or elastic around your neck (Oh? You didn’t realise we invented that look?) Now you are done. Go outside with your Walkman or bulky as iPod, weird fitting jeans, ugly trainers and enjoy.

There. That’s how it should be. You do that for a few years, get some really terrible photos you will want to burn but will always be brought out when you least expect it and you’ll be fine. Mind you, I grew up before mobiles were big and had decent cameras so in a way, I do understand the need to not look stupid.

But, it is still tradition though and I for one am sad and slightly awkward that it is no longer a thing. After all, how will the next generation embarrass themselves in an attempt to better themselves if you all look perfect now?