Life Advice. Mass Confusion.

I’ve just read an article by Elizabeth Gilbert which I found via Mamamia. While reading the article, entitled “Life Advice“, I found myself nodding, a lot. I was deep in the context of the read, I was jotting down notes like a mo-fo and I was feeling what she was putting out there. It made me feel excited and I was hopeful that I may be able to finally find the answer to my never-ending question, “What am I doing with my life?” A question, I believe, a lot of stay-at-homes Mums ask themselves.

We are all on limited time here so let me break the article down for you as it is a pretty long read. I’ll do my best to get some nods rolling from your gorgeous heads and then let’s discuss the mass confusion it has made me feel and if you felt it too. To read the full, blessed article, click here. To read the bits and bobs I jotted down – which are her words not my own – then keep reading…

Her “life advice” comes simplified (and then hugely expanded) into four everyday words: Hobby; Job; Career; Vocation. These “life advice” words completely surprised me! They were not the words I had predicted prior to clicking on the link. Perhaps this goes to show how life-advice-smart I am! Just don’t take advice from me in future – ok! Let’s expand and find your four…

  • Hobby: This is something you do for pleasure, relaxation, distraction or mild curiosity. Hobbies are mellow. Everyone needs to have a hobby.
  • Job: A job is something you do to financially support yourself – lol if you didn’t know that then you may need more help than what this page offers! What’s important to know is your job does not define you. A job is vital but don’t make it YOUR LIFE – it’s just a job. You need to have a job – even if you are completely financially supported…. I am not sure if this applies to SAHM…. Anyhooooo….
  • Career: This is something that you build up over the years with energy, passion and commitment. A career is best done with excitement, it requires ambition, strategy and hustle. A career is a choice. Care about it if you have one – but not everyone needs to have a career.
  • Vocation: This is your calling! While a career is about relationships between you and the world, your vocation is about the relationship between you and God (or the Universe as I prefer to say). A career is dependent on others while vocation belongs only to you. Your vocation can be anything that brings you to life and makes you feel like your soul is animated by purpose. A vocation is a private vow, it is sacred and it is a must!

So with this wonderful information jotted down in my diary, I began to wonder what were my four? Seriously, what are my four? My pen tapped the page over and over but nothing, nothing legible came out. Even when I joined the dots there was nothing there to read into. I wear many hats in life this I do know but I’m not sure what fits where. I don’t know what is my sacred vocation. Is it my dabbling in writing, my love of all things home with Interior Styling, or is it something I haven’t even discovered yet. What I would class as my job when 90% of my life commitment is motherhood but hang on a sec we don’t get paid for that?! My hobby, my distraction …

I don’t know what is my vocation, my scared and private vow with the Universe?! Is it my dabbling in writing, my love of all things to do with homes and my Interior Styling, or is it something I haven’t even discovered yet, something deeper. And what would I class as my job when 90% of my life commitment is motherhood but hang on a sec we don’t get paid for that? Where’s the SAHM union, put her on the phone!! My hobby, my distraction … ummm…. hello Facebook you distract me it must be you! Or is this where my writing belongs because I can while away hours at a time tapping at the keyboard… Or perhaps my obsession with house plans, yes house plans, drawing them by hand, drawing them with instruments, drawing them on the computer and then redrawing other people’s coz I think I can do it better…. What about my career? Is this my Interior Styling or will it one day be my writing  – I get excited about both! Hell, I get excited spending hours drawing house plans too…. Do you see my confusion?!

Who knows their four? Impress me with it!

One love,

DRK xxx

Shit Resolution

This story starts with a diet. As a serial dieter it is something I almost forgot to mention since I am ALWAYS on a diet or an anti-diet making it kind of normal life for me. This diet is different because I finally succeeded. In fact, I kicked its butt losing 6kg in the first 3 weeks. As a reward to myself, and with a confidence boost from losing weight, I bought myself some denim shorts. Yes shorts and this is exciting because I don’t wear shorts normally. Why? Well, I believe I’m so hideously white and overweight that people would surely call the RSPCA to let them know an albino whale was walking down the main street in shorts. Then, I guess, the RSPCA would have to pass the call on to the circus coz the RSPCA will likely have never heard of a walking albino whale in denim! Oh, and then considering animal circus’s are pretty well extinct these days the chances are the circus crew would have to forward the call on to Nobody-Gives-A-Fuck because seriously I am wearing shorts and not a mankini made from chimp testicles. Nobody cares!

This story is on a Wednesday which of course means it’s WILD . My favourite day of the week. The day of my girly catch up. I’m kitted out in my new light blue denim shorts and a hot pink singlet top which is worth mentioning seeing as I normally I live in black clothing, universally known as a slimming colour. It is also associated with death and grieving – grieving my once hot and unappreciated body, post kids. This hot pink top is also worth mentioning because if you see me in colour it means I’ve probably lost weight so mention it, ok? Let it be known there’s nothing women love to hear more than “Have you lost weight?” So with 6kg gone and the first part of my diet finished this particular Wednesday was the day I was able to slowly introduce new foods back into my life. The critical part that I missed was the word ‘slowly’. After living on bland boiled protein and broccoli (I’m dramatising but it’s pretty much on point) I’d been super excited to eat my new flavours at breakfast … Fried mushrooms with a scrambled egg and when there’s WILD there is always at least one full cream latte! After missing out on my normal latte for 3 whole weeks I’d hopped into my creamy coffee with immense amounts of love, gratitude and skulling this special Wednesday morning! I’m also at this time, which is important to mention for the re-enactment of my story, recovering from knee surgery. Being my left knee and owning a manual car I’ve been picked up on this momentous day by my WILD friends who were also dropping me home once we were done at the park.

The Story….

It is a beautiful morning. The sun is out, the kids are happily playing and I am with some of my favourite girls. The two hours we spend together come and go too fast as per usual making it time to pack up and head home for our kids to go to sleep. It is around then that my tummy starts to make some special kinds of noises. It isn’t worrying me initially since we are planning on leaving soon(ish) AND live in a City that is more like a country town meaning everything is literally 5 minutes away – including my house and my toilet. On the walk to my girlfriends car I begin noticing the stomach noises start to resemble that of an angry bear, on a hot day and you’re an unwelcome visitor in his woods. An angry bear that you have just poked in the eye with a fiery marshmallow on a stick. It also happens to be his stick. I am also becoming aware of tiny beads of sweat forming above my lip. I start to feel a sense of caution that I may actually be in trouble here.

Buckling my son into my friends car, I weigh up my options…

  • A) Go to the toilet before we leave – even though I am a grown up and should realistically last the 5-minute journey home or;
  • B) Possibly shit myself. Shit myself in front of my friend, in my new denim shorts and her lovely clean car.

The next gurgle urgently chooses the safest option for me. It is most definitely A)! I tell my friend, in the calmest manner possible, that I’m not going to make it all the way home and will have to ‘go’ before we leave… Five kids and a flea-sized bladder is always an unspoken excuse for random pit-stops. I’ve begun backing away from my son who was securely buckled into his carseat and now crying because he’d heard me say I was going somewhere. I’ve looked at him with a desperate and pleading look. “I’ll be back”,  I’ve gritted unconvincingly through my teeth. Unconvincingly because depending on the outcome I may not come back as the same Mummy he knew before!

With every step comes a more urgent gurgle. The 80m to the toilet begins to look like a marathon of miles away and with a new surgically repaired knee running isn’t going to be an option. OMG! This news hits me like a tonne of anxiety-ridden-bricks … Running is NOT an option!!! The pain is beginning to feel unbearable and it takes every ounce of concentration to walk and squeeze my butt cheeks together at the same time. At my most critical moment, I’ve stopped at one of the cafes tables. I’ve gripped the round aluminium top with both my hands. I’m slightly bent over clamping my arse cheeks together tighter than a ducks arse which is waterproof! I’m hanging there stooped over only for a few moments, talking quietly to myself about how the outcome of this situation could consequently change my life forever. I’m sucking back a few deep breaths, I have to. I look up and realise there’s an older gentleman sitting directly in front of me. He and his dogs are looking at me. Concern? Fear? I’m not fucking sure. It’s in that millisecond it sinks in that I may not make it and that I could possibly shit myself right here and now. Shit myself in front of the man with two dogs whose sitting there judging me. Shit myself in front of the three ladies innocently serving coffee in the coffee shop and who will never look at me the same when they hand me my latte on a Wednesday. Shit myself in front of all the little children in the playground. Actually, that is slightly comforting considering they’re all probably walking around with a nuggy or two in their nappies anyway.

Eyeing off the loo which is now about 20m away, I’ve sucked in the deepest breath I can so all my concentration over the next 20 steps or so could go on clenching my bum instead of breathing. I’ve stood up straight, or as straight as my excruciating bowel pains will allow. It is now or it is never. I limp as fast as my dodgy knee can take me. 10m from the door I’ve started to unbuckled my shorts not caring if anyone can see me inappropriately prematurely undressing. The sweat is now on my forehead and dripping in my eyes. The waves of pain have become a constant churning of pure torture and it would only take one fleeting moment of relaxation of my clenching to spell disaster … And disaster would be spelt S-H-I-T-E-V-E-R-Y-W-H-E-R-E! Momentarily a new panic sets in as thoughts flash through my mind of an occupied toilet. If the little sign on the door handle is red I’m screwed. Everyone. Is. Screwed…. What seems like an eternity later, my hands and eyes finally reach the door knob and with relief my pounding heart cries that the little sign is green! THE LITTLE SIGN IS GREEN…. THE TOILET IS VACANT! THANK YOU UNIVERSE!

I don’t know how long I spent in there. I don’t know how noisy I was. All I know was that at that time I did not give one fuck. I had made it. I HAD MADE IT! The relief was joyous! The next person’s public toilet experience maybe not so joyous!

So let this be a Happy New Year and a resolution to you all – let go of the shit that holds you back from what you want in life! The fear may still be there but if you let it, it will consume you and stop you from what it is you really want in life but if you ride the fear like a hardcore-bull-riding-superwoman you will get where you need to go – maybe not in style but you’ll get there none-the-less!

One Love

DRK xxx

  

Five & Three Quarters

Tonight I heard my 5-year-old son crying in his bed. Actually, if you ask him he’s 5 and 3/4’s, which is nowhere near 5 at all I’ll have you know! It was passed his bedtime and I had assumed he was crying because a) he was overtired or b) he was in denial about even being tired. It was neither.

I asked my crying child, sternly, what was wrong… You know stern, right? Hands on hips, firm, deep (cranky) voice…. Yes stern and I did this stern-thing twice! I know, I know ‘parent of the year’ and my only defence is that I had already been in 5 times to his procrastinating two-year-old brother who had wanted a rug, he’d wanted a drink, he wanted another drink and another and then finished off wanting to tell me he loved me – in his not-so-verbal-way … Of course, this part only ever comes after I’ve gotten really cranky – always gets the mummy-guilt really activated! Well played son, well played! After the second stern-hand-on-hip-accusation to my upset child, I noticed he was sobbing more so than crying so I sat on his bed and asked more gently, like the good nurturing TV (and Facebook status) mummies do, what was wrong. He sat up and looked intently at me and I knew right then and there it was going to be deep. Deep for a 5 & 3/4-year-old and deeper for a 30-something-year-old who’d just trialled a new tequila drink in preparation for New Years Eve… It was sickly sweet by the way and tequila, no matter how you mask it, still tastes like the tequila slammers you had in your 20’s with lemon and salt at 4 o’clock in the morning. I drank it though, waste not want not – as my good mother educates me!

His crying wasn’t about missing his Daddy who was at work or about not getting a second turn on the Wii. It was about death. He didn’t want to die. He said to me in between his hyperventilating sobs that he had only just realised that when you die and you go to the hospital they can’t make you alive again. Argh… Insert heartbreaking sad emojis here!!! Seriously, my heart split into tiny pieces and I had to control myself so that I didn’t curl up in the foetal position and hyperventilate too. This is one thing I’m not good at… Oh and cooking. I also kinda suck at parenting too, along with sticking to diets, keeping my own secrets secret and keeping on top of my huge washing piles – I super exceed the suckiness at that!

But I managed to restrain my own tears and fears of death and I sat with him for a good 10 minutes to try to calm him down – with the help of his 2-year-old brother who had come to console him with hugs and kisses too (all together now… Ohh hh hh). Initially, I tried to console him with the idea of Heaven, something I have had to believe in regardless of my religion because that was the only way I could deal with the thought of death as a child. I used to cry myself to sleep at night grieving my parents or my brothers or anyone I cared about who were all very much alive simply so I could prepare myself if it ever did happen… My theory? Well, then it wouldn’t hurt as much… Strange huh?! Anyway, I told him that when we die we go ‘up there’ to hang out with all the people we love and miss now and we all have fun together while we wait for the rest of our loved ones to join us. But my description was vague and he, being the bright 5 & 3/4-year-old, wanted more info…

“What happens to our bones, do they come with us? I thought we died and got buried and we never moved our bodies again?” 

“No, it’s like magic Chevy. When you die your Earth body stays here but you are still you in Heaven.”

“Even my eyes?”

“Yes, even your eyes will go to Heaven.”

“What about my bones?”

“Yes even your bones, you lips, your tongue. All of you that makes you Chevy will go to Heaven.” Then he wanted to know if someone chopped his head off would his head still go too?

“Yes. No matter what happens to you or your body here on Earth you will still be Chevy in Heaven.”

At this point, he had stopped crying. *Winning* We had a huge hug and I finished with a prize winning speech about being grateful for being alive now, how we have to live life to the full and try our best to be good people. I should have recorded it coz I’m pretty sure it would have ended up on a Pinterest board somewhere but as with all good children and good advice it went straight in one ear and out the other before he had to clarify for a final time – chopping off the head would not mean no head in Heaven. Time to turn off all the dreadful news stories I think!

Poor bugger. I hope I helped the situation… A little! I tried my best to be inspiring and comforting. I think it worked seeing as he’s asleep now, with no more tears so I must have done ok!

It reminded me, even though I had complained all night about how loud they were, that I need to hugs those little ratbags tight more often. You too! Not my kids your own of course! Tell them you love them too and please, please don’t take any of my other heavenly advice on board! But feel free to share your own stories in the comments below!

One love,

DRK xxx

child at the beach

 

Seven Days

We’ve discussed this before. We’ve had this conversation. But nothing is more real about this chat then it is right now. Because over the last three weeks while we have worried about our weight, yelled impatiently at our children, huffed and puffed out at the series of frustrating road users a man I know has been counting down his days. Not his days til Christmas or days til his next holiday but the days of his life.

Three weeks ago he was told he had a month to live and while we all can’t wait to get into bed at night only to wake up the next day bleary eyed can we even come close to imagining how those nights and those mornings clicked by way too quickly for him.

Yesterday marked one week to go. 7 days or there abouts. How fucken unfair. How frustrating. How absolutely devastating. I cannot even fathom how this feels for him, for anyone dealing with this same mortality. I cannot put into words what each day drawing to an end would feel like to this man. And I can’t tell you how sad I selfishly feel.

How do you grieve the life you had, that life you have to let go? How do you do that? How the fuck do you do that! How do you sum up your life and ‘tie up loose ends’ when the biggest loose end is that you don’t want to fucken die! You want to live! You want to fall in love again and again. You want to explore the world. You want to hug every member of your family. Thank every one of your friends for every moment you’ve ever shared. Say sorry. Take your kids on a spectacular holiday. Boldly quit your job and train for your dream job.

death-acceptance

One week.

Seven days.

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What is really important in that moment of severely shortened time? What becomes the main focus in your life? Who would you spend your time with? How would you feel?

I don’t write this to bring on guilt for those who have just cried about a frustrating yet precious child. Not written to bring shame for the materialistic lives we lead. Not to instil fear in our own mortality. Just words written for a man I know with seven days left on his life calendar. His LIFE calendar. Just words from my heart because I feel so sad. For him. For his family. For the “what ifs”. For the challenges and unfairness of it all. For the fact he has just written his own eulogy which is not done for premeditated fun but out of a requirement to him and his final words of life. LIFE.

So I ask of you be grateful today, if even only for a moment. Be gracious over the next seven days in a compassionate way to all those on this similar and terminal journey. What we take for granted is a blessing to others. Less whinging, more hugging.

One Love,
DRK xxx

let-go-of-balloons

 

Budgets for Millionaires

I am a millionaire. I am. I have won lotto more times then I can count and the feeling of excitement, the bubbles and the butterflies are always the same. The stupid grin on my face never changes and I always spend it the same way.

Firstly, I divy up equal amounts between the five kids – a million each. In trust funds of course. They get weekly payments from their 18th birthdays which increases with age – decreases with stupidity – with the full amount being accessible by the time they turn 25. Unless they’re arseholes – then they get nothing. Conditions: do good with your life. Find happiness. Don’t be an arsehole.

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Secondly, I get my family together including my in-laws. We call a secret meeting to tell them we have important news and they have to be here to hear it or they miss out. We are always standing in my Mum’s house I don’t know why but we always seem to end up there. Vinnie and I hand them all special little envelopes – all pastel and pretty – we count to three and tell them to open them together. Imagine their surprise! Always a million each for our parents and half a million to our siblings. Conditions for our parents are: they must spend it! All of it on getting amongst the living and holidaying! Conditions for our siblings: be happy and enjoy.

Image courtesy of: https://www.etsy.com/listing/200621913/12-pretty-pastel-gift-card-envelopes

Thirdly, we pay Pink a million dollars to do a private concert for us – with just our family and friends – somewhere remote like El Questro. Yes, I said Pink. I spend a mill on Pink every time I win lotto.

Yep! It's true love!

Yep! It’s true love!

Fourthly, we donate a million to our two favourite charities. But we don’t just give it to them, no that’s too easy. We buy things for them. Life changing, treatment transforming machines for PMH. Accommodation/entertainment/camps/fundays for Camp Quality. We make it get put to real good use and see where it has gone!

Camp Quality – my other love!

Princess Margaret Hospital – loving our kids!

Fifth on the list is property. I always buy property. Usually a renovators delight – which I renovate with absolute delight as I please. I also build a themed village – with each home styled in a different style that I love … Industrial, hamptons, country, vintage, chic. I would then let them out to families, women or men who are going through tough times. Conditions for them being: they must be willing to choose to smile more, be grateful and welcome awesome new opportunities into their lives.

Renovators

Renovators Delight!

Sixth and last on the list is us. Our dream home. An automatic car. A new dining table that seats 8 comfortably and a lounge.

That’s it.

Then I wake up.

What’s your lotto dream?

One love,
DRK xxx

#thisdoesntmeanyes

Consent.

Consent is a word that I will teach my sons. Consent is a word I want you to teach your sons and share the word together with all the men and women of this world…

Something else I’d like to share is that whether we believe or dont believe there is such a thing as rape culture, victim blaming and slut shaming all of the obscenities, all of the fallacies standing alongside these things should be abolished. Detonated. Destroyed.

Rape culture is disputed. It’s disputed because it’s “feminist”. But rape is not about feminism. It’s not about men v’s women. Rape is not about equality. What it is about and what surely cannot be disputed is that what women say, wear or post via social media is interpreted by some people, possibly a lot of people, in all their unholy judgements that she either ‘wanted it’, asked for it’ or ‘deserved it’. 

Rape culture victimises the victims. They are not taken seriously by all walks of human life and they then become the questioned. Dodging humiliating bullets of “What were you wearing?”; “How much had you had to drink?”; “Did you give him your number?” Rape culture blames the victim, trivialises sexual assault, scrutinises the victims clothing, attitude, history and continues to objectify women. 

Whether she wears a short skirt, a tight dress, bares her midriff, whether you buy her a drink at the bar or 10. Whether she plays with her hair and sends you flirty signals, licks her bright red lips or comes homes with you, consent is the only active guarantee that what you are about to participate in is legal. LEGAL.

Let me repeat that…

Consent is the only active guarantee that what you are about to participate in is legal.

It’s an all embodied passionate yes. A ‘yes’ is consent. A ‘yes’ is hot. A yes is a yes.

A short skirt cannot say yes. A hair flick cannot say yes. Swapping phone numbers does not say yes.

Consent.

Only consent can say yes.

Drunk does not mean yes. Drunk means be a fucken gentleman and make sure she gets home safely. Be an even truer gentleman and call her the next day to see if she is ok. How she pulled up. If she wants to have breakfast with you.

Drunk does not mean yes.

Walking the street late at night is not a yes. It is, unfortunately, dangerous sometimes but it is still not a yes. It is a “Can I call someone to come pick you up?” or a “Here’s $20 let me call you a cab?” It’s women sticking up for women – not judging and vilifying them. Making sure they’re safe. Making sure they are ok. And it is men being gentlemen.

Unconsensual sex is rape. 

Full stop.

*Featured image courtesy of unslutproject.com*

Superwoman Reincarnated

What happens when you finally sort your mental shit out? Well not much apparently. The earth doesn’t explode into a billion delicious oreo cookie pieces. You don’t magically look any different. People don’t fall over each other to be around the new you. But blogging does become more difficult. Or perhaps just different.

My gripes, my vents, my deep personal and over shared thoughts are now silenced. I’ve dealt with them. I guess in a way they are still there, they always will be so the skeptics say but they are fainter than before and I can laugh way louder than them now. And so I do. I laugh louder. I laugh more. Which is nice and I’m proud of that.

Here have a 9 minute laugh on me…

I never thought I’d ever be able to say this but when I occasionally weigh myself these days I feel … Nothing. Nothing at all. Not even when I had to weigh myself at the hospital on Sunday in front of a complete stranger and in fact the worst kind of stranger – a woman stranger. This would have given me sweaty palms and high blood pressure if I had of been standing there as the old me. I would have begun to make excuses about having fallen off the wagon recently, having had a big night of pizza loving the night before, or the best and most used excuse of all time – having five kids! This particular excuse has always been used as a distraction and it’s worked every time. Ok so it was a little bit of an excuse too but that’s got to wearing thin considering my youngest is nearly 2.5! It definitely distracts people momentarily though as I apparently look way too young to have five kids. Not sure how I’m supposed to look – haggard or whore-ish perhaps?

Anyway…..

I proudly stood there on the scales with this complete female stranger hovering beside me, a nurse who ‘The New Me’ knew had seen much worse in her career like blood and guts and things stuck up peoples anal passages. Things way more exciting than the numbers the scale was about to announce. Finally the numbers stopped going up (and up and up) and I noticed I weighed +3kg more than I have EVER done before. I didn’t even get the chance to freak out before ‘The New Me’ rationalised this weight gain instantly clarifying that my body was wearing shoes, socks, jeans, singlet, bra, top, jumper and a puffer vest, yes a puffer vest! That’s a fair bit of extra kaygees right there. Best of all though, I didn’t feel ashamed of me or that number. I didn’t go home and cry. I didn’t go home and start a new diet – aka starvation-slash-binge-slash-newest-fad-diet-slash-starvation-again. I didn’t go home and look in the mirror so I could personally curse the ugly, fat reflection staring back at me. No. No I didn’t. I took my sick not-so-little baby home with my healthy and able body. I held him the entire five hours I was there in the hospital ED and I did that with my strong capable arms. I kissed his head. I wiped his tears. I lifted him in and out of his car seat and I carried him up our 9 stairs to get home. I cuddled him. I loved him. And not once did I think about that number again that day.

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I love this about ‘The New Me’. I love that there is more liberation in my head. There’s more room for things to float freely. To be able to feel the real stuff without the added anxieties that a compacted thought system can make you feel. There’s more space to rationalise, to breathe, to just be in and enjoy the moment. Even if it’s a shitty moment. A moment where you worry about your sick kid. But let me break this down for you too – I am not a miracle. I am not magically cured and now living the perfect life in the perfect body of the perfect wife/mother/woman. My kids still drive me crazy and I am still known for yelling like a banshee. I argue with my non-perfect husband, I cry at silly ads on TV and wouldn’t you know it I bleed just like every human on this Earth. But now I don’t care what others think of me. I don’t care if they notice my spare tyre once carefully hidden beneath my top. I don’t care if they hate freckles, my nose stud, my tattoos. I don’t care if they like me or if they don’t. I only care about being me.

Blog

With my new found freedom of mind and with all that extra air in there I didn’t think I could blog again. I’m not sure how I can go from sharing all this crazy head stuff to not having anything mental left to share. I could use this blog to vent about my messy, noisy children, my frustrating yet totally loved husband, my treadmillish routined life BUT I think I’m going to offer more of myself to you than that. I’m feeling naughty and not afraid of the possibilities. I’m feeling brave! And I’m scared where this empty wild head leaves my blogging now but I know I will find my new groove, I can feel it feathering away inside me – like an internal tickle but not like an anal itch. It’s exciting, frightening and frustrating. It may take some time and we are all well aware of my patience (yep – zilch, nada, zip) but I’m one of the lucky ones who has time. So be patient my little super heroes, my fans, my followers, my friends and in the words of The Terminator, I’ll be back! And better than ever too!

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One love,
DRK xxx

Belle F#€ken Gibson

I’ve just watched the interview with Belle Gibson on 60 Minutes and I have to say that someone has drained me of my blood, put it over a fire pit and boiled it before giving it back.

Yes I am angry in every faucet of angry! I’m angry that she was paid for the interview. I’m angry that she wore that fucken hideous pink jumper, I’m angry that people are defending her and putting her under the mental health banner but most of all I’m angry that she STILL couldn’t tell the truth. There was no simple answer of yes or no. No simple “oh I’m 23 or am I 26?” She can’t even remember how old she is coz she’s lied about it too much!
She is a conman, or woman in this case. She doesn’t have a mental illness besides being a fucking lame arse fucktard! She is someone who has profited from sick people, from people who trusted her, who related to her, felt connected to her …. only to find out it was all lies! Belle Gibson lied and she continued to do so through the whole interview!

I don’t believe in Belle Gibsons words but I do believe there are healing qualities in food. I believe that we all can lead a much better life through whole foods BUT she has now tarnished that for so many people AND people who really need to benefit from healthy living! She is a scammer. A liar. A cheat. A high neck pink jumper wearing monster!

My brother died from brain cancer. My friend is currently combat fighting brain cancer. Little children I fundraiser for are kicking the arse of cancer. The story “her story” of cancer, heart problems, surgeries, strokes are all fabricated stories to get vulnerable people, people who are actually going through these things, to buy her shit in all shapes and forms! 

Shame on you Belle Gibson. Shame on you for not stepping up to the opportunity for truth telling. Shame on you for not putting on your big girl knickers and owning up to your shit, your lying shitty shit. Shame on you for not giving those you stole from, those whose trust you slaughtered, a real, decent and heartfelt apology! 

  
I can’t apologise on her behalf (and I don’t want to) but I will say this to those who have been burnt by BG … 

Feed your body love and pure ingredients. Nutrition is important to your wellbeing, to everyone’s wellbeing. But life is also for living. So laugh with those you love. Enjoy the slice of sunshine on a winters day. Be spontaneous and dance in the rain but most of all forgive BG for her stupidity and let it go. Let her go. The sooner we all let her go the better. The sooner we let her go the less she will profit from her self-made stories. Don’t let her profit from anymore of her lies and don’t let her own anymore moments in your precious life.

 
Life is wonderfully short. We have so much to do with so little time.  Fill it with good stuff….


One love

DRK xxx 

Women’s Greatest War

Today I feel sad. Deeply sad, not in a depressing way but sad in a connected way. I feel sad for the women in the world who spend their time being mean to other women. I feel sad that there is constant verbal abuse towards women about women by women and behind other women’s backs. I don’t understand this. This is not a life designed to keep women at war. This is a life – our own – and we all have our own shit to fight for, within ourselves not amongst ourselves.

Is this war we insist on something built-in inside us? Something we can’t control? I’m calling bullshit. Bull-fucken-shit it’s out of our control! We own the rights to our thoughts, to our filters and to our trashy potty mouths! What’s even more disturbing is listening to our beautiful daughters doing the same thing in the playground. The playground at Kindy where the four year old girls tell another little girl that she cant play with them because she’s not pretty like them. You wonder how they can be so mean and judgmental but then you turn to listen to the mirrored conversations of their thirty something mothers under the verandah…

So is it built-in or do we learn this behaviour from our own mothers and the women around us? The distasteful looks, the judgements, the comparisons. The nastiness about other women while they are not even there only to smile and be polite when they walk through the door. The lack of compassion they show for what other women may be going through. The lack of sincerity when they speak. The falsity in their voices. The judgement on bodies, wardrobes and choices in life. Do we consider this the norm? This is how you be a woman? Is this all the substance we have, that we are?

I find it terribly sad that women degrade other women so easily. That they put other women down. But isn’t it a reflection of their own insecurities? Isn’t it an ego boosting statement while the insecure sheep nod and smile? Isn’t it the narcissist polishing their perfection knob? And I feel sad knowing at times in my life I have participated. Deeply participated… I feel sad that I know that it was my insecurities, the driving force, behind my own cruelty. I feel sad that I didn’t change my filter sooner.

War

It’s like so many women are looking for a fight but avoiding confrontation at all costs. It’s like engaging in war, a war without a cause and the fight only involves trying to get people on your side but you can’t remember the reason why you starting warring in the first place. What are we fighting for? What does the winner receive besides an ego that is bigger, an ego that is placed on a pedestal, an ego that is worshipped but truly unloved. You can’t love a faked ego like you can love a real woman. Women against women is the ugliest war I have ever seen. It is based on nastiness, judgement and as many casualties as possible.

I don’t believe we should all live in harmony, hold hands and dance in koombahya but I do believe we can acknowledge when someone is not in tune with our song and just leave it at that. There is a woman in my life who drives me completely nuts and I am now fine with that. We have a history that I used to draw upon when I choose to feel a need to justify my disconnect towards her. But our history is just a story. A story that has been told for so long that I (and my therapist) have decided it is now finished. End of the final chapter. Book closed. She is, realistically, just not my cup of tea and that is totally OK. We don’t have to get along with everyone but we don’t have to bring those who we don’t ‘get’ down. If they are on a pedestal whether you put them there or not is no concern to you. The pedestal is imaginary. We are all born equal – society differentiates us.

So I do feel sad. A sadness that is connected to other women’s sadness. The victims and the narcissists. I feel sad that we can’t just all get along or be ok not to get along and agree on what is best for ourselves. That we can’t just accept, support, stop trying so hard and be real. Be open heartedly really fucken real.

Being real is awesome. Being real is authentic. Being real gives you clarity. Being real means being you and fuck me but there isn’t anybody else out there like YOU! Celebrate that! Celebrate that we are all different and that we don’t have to conform to fashion, size, success. We don’t have to be like any other woman but we can certainly pat them on the back and say “Well done Sista!”

Some of us are business entrepreneurs, working hard to climb a corporate ladder – I fucking salute your dedication, sacrifices and hard work. Some of us are successful mothers who keep our kids alive, in fact we breed the next generation, we feed them occasionally, maintain the house they trash and drink shitloads of coffee to keep up with it all – hey that’s me, I’m a fucken successful mother! Some of us are health freaks and live for raw food, wheatgrass shots and naked yoga – bless you thats great but vaginal discharge scares me! Some of us grow armpit hair, colour it and plait it all pretty like – not my thing but hey whatever floats your boat and yay for you being al-natural! We are all superbly different, seeking different things in our lives, defining successful via different means. We live and breathe for our own unique reasons and guess what??

THAT IS TOTALLY FUCKEN OK! OK?!!!

Warw

One Love DRK xxx

10 Cheeky Comebacks For When Someone Asks If You’re Pregnant BUT You’re not!

In the light of recent pregnancy comments about Princess Zara I was reminded of a lifetime of my own. As a mere ‘normal’ mortal, though, I am lucky not to have had my “is-she?-isn’t-she?” splashed across the internet and news feeds but I do wonder why there is this obsession with the woman body. I believe just like being “on a period” you should never ask a woman if she is pregnant. You should never ask when she is due and definitely never EVER have an opinion on her “baby” weight! We are women and weight is a very sensitive subject. It’s not hard though. Just keep your mouth shut.

Preggas

I’m generally two from left – except my boobs are bigger – unless it’s been a few days since visiting the toilet then I am definitely more a three or four.

If you, like me, have ever been asked these questions, if you have ever been in that mortifying and uncomfortable situation don’t hide yourself away. Don’t feel ashamed. Don’t visualise punching them in the face – and please don’t actually punch them in the face! Instead have a comeback. A fucking witty comeback topped up with good dose of sarcasm so people learn that it is NOT ok to assess a womans body or to make assumptions that we can’t simply be a little voluptuous or god-forbid bloated without having to be up-the-duff. Lets face it for those of us who can conceive it is an awkward situation and, at worst, it’s a throw-the-outfit-in-the-bin-and-never-wear-it-again embarrassment but for those who can’t have babies then it is just a heartbreaking moment in their life… A question they would give anything to answer “YES!” to …  A question and answer scenario they dream of, even when they are awake.

Lets raise the bar (or our eye level) and look at each other when talking together instead of analysing bumps and lumps. If you do feel the need to analyse bumps and lumps then do a breast check and by that I mean your own! Now doesn’t that seem much more important than insulting an unsuspecting and definitely not pregnant woman?!

OK so let’s talk about comebacks to particular questions. They must be delivered with shoulders back, head held high and a smirk on your face. No one needs to feel embarrassed in the skin they are in and typically, these questions come from people who mean well but lack any type of filter from brain to judgement to mouth.

Here we go………

Q1: How long have you got to go?

A: Well, I dropped a couple of laxatives a few of hours ago now so ummm any minute now I guess and then my five day old shit will be ready to explode!

tumblr_mi1inqYiK31r62pq6o1_500

Q2: Wow you must be ready to pop – how long now? 

A: Oh no I’m not pregnant but hey looks like your arse is about to have twins – congrats!

Q3: Oh my god you’re pregnant… Congrats!

A: Yes but don’t tell my husband – it’s not his!

Q4: OMG so-and-so told me you were pregnant – congrats!!

A: Shit! Am I? I better lay off the tequila shots and cigars!

Q5: When’s this one due?

A: I was just about to ask you the same question!

Q6: OMG! Are you preggas?

A: No but the night is still young!

Q7: Look at that belly! How far along are you?

A: Well I’ve been brewing this massive fart all morning but unfortunately you’ll need more than gas to help that mouth of yours!

Q8: Are you up the duff?

A: No. My boobs are always this awesome!

Q9: Oooohhh (points to belly) what are you hoping for?

A: A puppy that can burp the alphabet

Q10: I can’t believe you’re pregnant again!

A: Actually I’m not. I have a condition called “Fuck-You” – Google it.

Pregnant

Only ever assume a women is pregnant if a) you have x-ray vision (which you should be careful with as it can be harmful to the baby) or b) you physically see that baby emerging from her body! Otherwise shove that foot firmly back into your mouth and never utter those words again to any woman ever?! Got it? Get it? Good!

Now some wise words from the always effervescent P!NK, the woman I adore and may even consider leaving my husband and children for….

Pinks statement

Ahhhhh god I love her……

One love,

DRK xxx