How To Tell If You’re A ‘Nice Girl’ & How To Be A Queen Instead

I believe on a deep level that I am a genuine person and my intentions are good. I, like most other people, have had predominantly good intentions throughout my life – even as a rebellious shithead teen.

My daily intentions now are to be a patient, kind, nurturing mum, hey, I said intentions not real actual shit that happens. Intentions to be a hard worker, a financial wizard, stylish, successful (and by successful I mean just not a failure) and intentions to write a novel…

The good news with that is I’ve actually written 50 pages …

Bad news is there are 50 different novels in those pages – 1 page per novel – winning! Or. Not. Winning…

Confused

I’ve also had intentions to say sorry more, to love harder, to be a flawless daughter from hereon in, I repeat I was a shithead rebellious teen, and to stand up to others when things aren’t right.

Intentions3

My intentions recently have been super pure coz I am a super fucking sparkling woman after all. They have been genuine and they have been for the greater good. But my intentions have not matched the actual outcome. Someone forgot to tell Mr or Mrs fucking Universe that I was doing things for all the right reasons and to come to the party with his or her blessing. I’m not asking for accolades or for the Gods to come and sing my praises I just wanted things to go smoothly and not be fucked up the arse at every turn. Ouch!

I play life by the rules, I dot my “i’s”, I cross my “t’s”, I try not to step on anyone else toes in the effort of getting what I want and I always consider other peoples feelings before my own. This is somewhat like the “Nice Guy Syndrome”. NGS is where a guy is super nice to all potential future partners (aka every girl he meets) and so therefore no girl wants him even though she whinges about wanting to find a decent nice guy. Because I am not a guy and I am kind of sick of having syndromes I’ve come up with my own version of NGS… I call it – Nice Girl Soshitonme – [soshit-on-me] NGS. Same-same but different.

The “Nice Girl Soshitonme” has a few symptoms typical of this disease syndrome illness life choice. Symptoms are:

  • You are polite, like really polite and you won’t step on peoples toes to get what you want… ever.
  • You ensure a smile is plastered on your face no matter how pissed off you feel at someone and you say sorry far too often for all the little things – even when it was the small-man-syndrome dude who bumped his trolley into yours.
  • You prefer to sit on the fence about controversial subjects and you never willingly try to upset anyone and if you do, accidentally, you spend the next 100 years feeling guilty about it and trying to buy their forgiveness with cheap arse gifts coz you can’t afford the real and expensive stuff and…
  • You avoid confrontation with anyone and everything and you backdown at the cost to your soul, your withering defeated soul…

Any NGS with me?

Now let me explain a little thing called “Getting Screwed” and see if anything stands out to you:

  • People who get screwed (PWGS) are scared to ask for what they want, most would say they’re too polite
  • PWGS are nice. To everyone. Pretty much all the time. Even while being screwed.
  • PWGS keep themselves safe and secure and rarely step out of their comfort zone. They like to obsess over things that have gone wrong in the past when they have ventured out of their bubble. They are scared of change and how those changes will be accepted.
  • PWGS won’t fight. They won’t fight for what they believe, for what they want and will settle for life as a screw.

Bridesmaids

Anything standing out to you?! Any clear collisions? Well of course there is because I wrote this purposefully to be a complete collision course to get my message across! Why? Because I am a nice girl and I am not going to continue to be screwed over. I won’t sit on that pretty picket fence any longer I mean that shit isn’t comfy anyway there’s a full picket up my arse. I am not going to stand in the pouring rain any longer at the expense to my health and well being. I will no longer stop, drop and roll at any sign of confrontation because I do have my own valued beliefs and god damn it they need to be heard, listened to and put on the register of ‘don’t mess with this chick’. Yes that is a real register. Really. Ok .. so not actually real but let’s just go with it, ok?!

Are you a NGS? You sick of being one of those PWGS? Well, put those abbreviations aside and pull those awesome shoulders back girls. Dust off those dirty sucking-arse knees you have there and wipe that shit from your mouth. You were not put on this earth to please every tom, dick and harriet. You were put on this earth to shine like a diamond. We don’t need to cause chaos or become evil bitches we just need to stop allowing ourselves to be screwed – unless it’s going to end in an orgasm! We need to be real to ourselves. Stand up, be heard and believe. Believe in who you are. Believe in your importance on this soil. And damn girl believe in your ability to speak up!

You will never be able to please everyone and by pleasing all of them you are forgetting the most important person of all – yourself! Those dirty red knickers were born to ride high. That cape was designed to fly and by god that crown was created to sparkle. So sparkle you sensational, perfectly-imperfect queens! SPARKLE!

One love

DRK xx

intentions2

 

 

 

The Fat, Mean Mum

I woke up this morning and consciously decided to speak nicely to myself. You know, manifesting good things by thinking good things. Tapping into that kind and forgiving inner voice that I know is in there somewhere. Turning the volume of my Devil down and telling my Angel to speak up. Flipping the negative talk into positive language. Slapping the bitch in me to give the belle of the ball a second to stand up and curtsy… You get what I mean.

So I showered and let positivity rain down on me. Cleansing the negative thoughts away as well as showering to be all hygiene and shit – seems as though some people skipped that memo from The Universe. I let the water warm my body and my soul on the cold autumn morning but of course, I’m a mother so I’m doing the whole showering thing while parenting at the same time. I call it Shower-Parenting.

Shower-Parentingbetter known as yelling from the shower to a bunch of minors who know you’re not really going to get out of your nice warm shower to follow through with any of your threats so they continue to completely ignore you. Arseholes! Just wait til I’m outta here!

So I’m yelling and I’m showering and I’m washing negativity away. I know, I know I’ve totally got this shit sorted, huh? I’m just about done when my six-year-old son wanders into the bathroom because mothers, as we all know, never shower or shit in peace. He plonks himself on the toilet and begins his morning cleansing process. First, the passing of gas, then the smile and then me screeching “Are you doing a poo?!” To which he sleepily replies “Mm-hmm.” Affirmative confirmation. I try to stay in my positive state while the hot air and gases combine.

Eventually, I admit defeat with the hot stench being too much to bear. I drag myself out of the shower and begin the drying process. Continuing with the positivity I thank each body part as I go. I dry my legs and thank them for doing their job. Thank them for functioning properly. How lucky am I to have legs that work, I say to myself. I wipe my rounded tummy and my voluptuous hips and thank them for carrying five children into the world. I thank my gluteus maximus for all the jobs that it does which I don’t even know about. Then in between my positive self-talk and my six-year-olds stinking plops he sweetly says….

You’re fat Mum.”

It was matter of fact.

The truth.

A bomb.

Slightly harsh.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Three words from a child who doesn’t have a filter but he doesn’t need one because he’s just calling a spade a spade.

I felt the need to clarify, or maybe for further punishment, his judgement so I asked, “What makes you say that?” While thinking, praying, it must have been the way I bent over? Maybe the angle I was standing at? It definitely wasn’t my outfit – well actually thinking about it now I guess it was because there’s nothing more honest than a birthday suit.

He looks me up and down confused by my confusion and reaffirms, “‘Cause you are. You’re just fat Mum.

Bam! Right next to my reflux pain I feel something … Oh, yep that would be my heart shattering into tiny pieces. 

I’m fat. 

My kid thinks I’m fat. 

He’s being honest not mean. He’s using a word I hate to hear as a description of how he sees my physical body. It’s a word he knows and understands that he can relate in describing me. Yes, I know I’ve put on weight and yes, I confidently tell everyone that I have while really hoping people don’t actually notice that it’s there and all the while praying to the Universe, God, the Weightloss Fairies that it will just disappear overnight. But it won’t because it’s not bloating or fluid retention or ‘just a good shit’ it is actual fat caused by over-eating.

Clever clothes may hide my rolls, I can paint my face pretty and I can do positive affirmations the fuck to death but underneath it all the Pope is still Catholic and I am still fat. It is what it is. I get to either be ok with it or do something about it. But first of all I’ll cry. That’ll help. Foetal position, on the floor and cry.

861363

Really?! Aww hell no! You ain’t gonna to let a little three letter word bring you to your knees?! Bitch really?!

While temporarily in the foetal position, memories from only a few days before of my teenager informing me that I’m known as the ‘mean mum’ to his mates came to mind. So with these flashbacks rolling and from the comfort of the floor I define myself as the fat, mean mum. Damn girl! You used to be the hot, fun mum. What the fuck happened to you?!

Seriously! What the fuck happened to me, my body, my care factor?! And more importantly, what am I going to do about it? I took myself off the rollercoaster – or so I’ve said. The cycle of diet-eat-starve-eat-diet-eat-starve-eat … Oh, fuck it you know what I mean. I’m out of that cycle, aren’t I? I’m happy with who I am? So why did those 3 little letters bring me to my knees?

In all honesty and with a little bit of dignity remaining I can say that I actually didn’t curl up in the foetal position. I just said that for the benefit of my internal breakdown. I didn’t even cry. Almost, but I didn’t. Why? Because of two things.

1) Fat doesn’t define me. I know that. I am not less of a person, mother, friend, stylist, lover, life-giver just because I carry 10kg more than I should and,

2) I do not want to teach my son that the word ‘fat’ is another f-word that he can’t say. You have fat and sometimes too much of it but you are not defined by fat and no this isn’t an excuse to be carrying extra fat either – maybe I will pull my finger out, maybe I won’t. It just doesn’t define the person I am – unless I let it.

b8e9d3875bd6239dafe0db0c08165db7I did give my six-year-old some life advice though about using that f -word because let’s be realistic, he is going to be somebody’s husband one day and I’d like my son to live beyond their first year of marriage. Honesty here can take a back seat. I really tried to make sure he didn’t feel bad about saying it but unfortunately either my face gave it away or he can read me well energetically because for the rest of the morning he was all like, “Hey Mum can you help me put the toothpaste on my brush because you’re so strong.” And “Can you help me put my shoes on because you’re so clever.” So he may see me as fat but he also sees me as strong and clever. I’m happy to take that on.

One love

DRK xxx

The Eight “Mistakes” Parents Make… Here’s a tip: there are no mistakes!

Just as teenagers awkwardly navigate through their pubescent lives so too will adults fumble through a time called parenthood. These so called adults going through parenthood will undoubtedly cross unpleasant times, have to frequently learn the same lessons time and time again and they will undeniably shed many tears from the injustice and confusion of this alien life that didn’t come with a satelittle navigation system.  It’s a tough journey on some rough terrain but some of us have to do it.

Parenting five times over certainly hasn’t made me an expert, in fact, it’s probably made me go backward more often than I have ever come forward. I can honestly say I’m still not even close to being an awesome parent and I don’t say this so my friends can tell me that I am. I’m here to blog not play that “I’m-just-saying-it-so-you-will-say-that-I-am” game. Having five kids doesn’t make me smarter, wiser or braver than any other fallen soldier, ahem, I mean parent. Some people would actually call me crazy and/or stupid for having so many kids – well, the ‘Don’t you have a TV?’ type of people definitely do. Often.

It makes no difference whether you have one child or eighteen children there are always hazards and obstacles involved in parenting and there is no technician to call to help with the troubleshooting. The fruit of our loins are not cardboard cut-outs designed to be easily pliable and shaped around our dreams and ideals. They are actually real life mini humans with thoughts and feeling and wants of their own. Plenty of wants. Making mistakes as a parent is usually not life or death, well at least these aren’t the types of mistakes I am referring to. To me, mistakes are just lessons yet to be learnt and I personally seem to have a lot of lessons I’m learning over and over again. It’s like being back in highschool but I’m actually taking every subject there is on offer and I’ve failed them all twice before I finally, on my third attempt, get a D and pass. I am just scraping by with this parenting gig too. D minus all the way. The key here is that I’ll never give in. No matter how hard the wall my head is hitting feels I will continue to try to be better.

Let it be known that when we discuss ‘mistakes’ here we are not judging so let us not get all defensive or hurt and keep those knickers from knotting. Mistakes can be fun. I made three definite ones but they turned out to be pretty awesome kids 😉 Haha I’m kidding. Or am I.

8 MISTAKES YOU SHOULDN’T MAKE AS A PARENT …

‘Shouldn’t’ because this is me giving YOU the heads up! So buckle down, pay attention and be a good student! Oh and don’t take any of my advice too seriously!

  1. SELF-DOUBT. It is a well known fact in the parental kingdom that kids can smell fear and doubt a mile off. It’s as potent as a packet of double coated Tim Tams being opened in the laundry linen cupboard by the real life ‘parent’. Give fear (or a Tim Tam) a mile they’ll still smell it, hear it and feel it. When you tell them “NO” make sure there isn’t any trace of a quiver in your tone and ensure that you are firm and 100% certain because when you tell them “No.. I said no.. Not right now… Maybe later… Oh ok…. Whatever then! Have it!” You’re actually telling them you’re a push over, a sucker and that you are the parent they need to go to whenever they want something because you’re guaranteed to be an easy crack. For the record, I’m the push-over parent. I don’t want to be but I don’t know how to take all the “umms-and-ahhs-ok-fucken-have-it’s” back. It’s gone too far. Don’t be me.
  2. CONSISTENCY. This is kind of like mistake 1^^ except we are making the assured NO consistent. If you fail at being consistent even if it’s just one time you are doomed for all parternity…. See what I did there? Parent? Eternity? No? Oh, well, nevermind. If you consistently suck at being Mum (or Dad) and consistently let them, the child, win you really are screwing yourself over. You have just turned yourself into the inexperienced undergraduate law student whose way out of their jurisdiction and the child has now been supremely promoted to senior associate. You are going to be objected, overruled and begging for a plea bargain the rest of the way through parenthood. Inconsistency is an epic mistake! Be consistent no matter how hungover you are. If there’s consistently been no icy poles for breakfast then it’s never ever any icy poles for breakfast. And for the record, it was only once and now he asks for one every fucking morning.
  3. CLEANING. Ok so basic hygiene is fairly important and we all know that a tidy house feels good but if you invest all your energy into a tidy house and perfect looking kids you will be left a quivering ball of pyschotic mess curled up in the foetal position on the twice mopped floor that is now covered in wet grass and sucked’n’soggy naked Tim Tams. If you plan, as a parent, to have a spotless display type home and TV advertisement children you might as well pack up your uterus right now, hang up your French Maid outfit and drive yourself to the nearest pyschiatric unit. Especially on school holidays. It’s not plausible. It’s not fun for child nor parent and it’s not worth the frustrations. It’s also not worth the crazy cleaning spree you do before a childs birthday party. Seriously you are going to have five hundred dirty little feet, five thousand sticky stubby fingers and a bunch of five year olds who don’t give one fuck. You’re doing it to impress the other mummies – I get it, I’ve been there too – but all it does is make those mummies go home and feel insecure about their parenting and cleanliness. Hang up the facades they’re detrimental to all of our wellbeings.
  4. DREAMS. Before becoming a parent you will have had dreams of the type of parent you were going to be and the kind of child you were going to deliver. Please, honey bunny sugar plum pudding pie, lay those dreams to rest. Right. Now. I’m not trying to blow up your dreams with a motherfucking truth laden stick of dynamite but I am going to say that high expectations may lead to big disappointment. And big disappointments lead to many other things that aren’t nice. Adapt your dreams instead. Take an attitude of seizing every parenting day as it comes. Take each moment as a unique moment in your parenting life and roll with it. Stop, drop and roll. It’s a survival technicque. Use it.
  5. ORGANIC-PALEO-LOW-GI-GLUTEN-DAIRY-SUGAR-YEAST-AND-TASTE-FREE HOMEMADE FOOD.  **Allergy kids not included – der obviously** Nutritious food is paramount to a child’s health and development. It’s not rocket science we all know that. But if you are going to lay claim that you will never, ever give your child a plastic-wrapped piece of what some of us may call ‘food’ then you are setting yourself and your child up for failure. You don’t want to put this pressure on yourself because there may be a day when you’re stuck at the hospital with your sick child who is now screaming for food and your only option is a white bread, butter and vegemite sandwich from the canteen. Give it to her. She’s fucken hungry. But don’t, I repeat, DO NOT give yourself a hard time over it. 100% healthy food only intentions are well meaning but totally glorified and sometimes unrealistic, well for us average parents anyway. Look, I know there are some hybrid parents out there who have and are pulling this 100% free range meat, organic fruit and vege only diets off and kudos to you guys… Ahem Curtis Stone Ahem…. But it’s not going to happen that way for a lot of us. Eventually there will be a day that you’re child is invited to a birthday party. Don’t let him/her be the only kid there that isn’t allowed to eat any of the party food because it isn’t healthy. Don’t be that parent. Don’t be that jackass.
  6. GIVING UP YOUR LIFE. Mummy guilt is a real thing so it is understandable that so many parents give themselves up in order to be parents. Don’t let your children grow up to believe that you only have one identity – as their arse wiper! You are a human with needs, wants and desires of your own. Not fulfilling them will leave you a little empty, slightly confused and probably just a smidge resentful. Honour yourself as a woman (man or dog) and take up a hobby or give yourself the space and a place to go to be you – authentically grown up adult version you. You will be a better parent and they will resepct you more. Lol ok just kidding. You’ll still be an average parent and your kids will still disrespect you. Big girl knickers up and enjoy that ‘you’ time while you can!
  7. PEDESTALS. These fuckers are dangerous. Seriously. Worshipping the ground your children walk on is very different to loving them unconditionally. When you worship them you see them as a glorified version of who they truly are and you expect others to see what you see. Rolling out the red carpet for your children instills an entitled belief system that is going to set them up for failure. Essentially you are lifting them up and placing them on a golden revolving pedestal like they are an object to be admire and adored. Let me warn you there are no rails on those motherfuckers and those objects you call your children will quite possibly fall once they grow up and meet the real world. Be a champ and don’t do that to them. Love them. Nurture them. Ground them. Yes. Yes. Yes! But don’t kiss the air you make them walk on. Not even Jesus walked on air. Remember that.
  8. COMPETITIVE PARENTING. Argh. I hate this. This is what those child worshippers do. I believe children should be allowed to be children, after all it is what they authentically are. It’s like cats. We let them purring pussies be who they are. We don’t dress them up as dolphins and throw them in the ocean just because we ordered an olympic swimmer. Parents shouldn’t be allowed to live their dreams through their children. Sure, teach your kid to swim and to be water safe by what’s the point in making them a bronze medallion swimmer by the age of 3. By all means teach them how to play and be a part of a team sport or a solo game like tennis but why enrol them in strenuous daily sessions, going on for hours at a time just to make them elite athletes by kindygarten. Let them play outside. Let them relax inside. We are breeding a bunch of over achievers instead of fun loving children who should be naturally developing thoughts and feelings and experiences of a child. Over-achievers are arseholes and people generally don’t like them so while they might have many trophies on their mantles they may not have much substance in their souls. So many parents push their kids into being things they didn’t get a chance to be and take control of their ‘talents’ instead of letting them find their joy in what they want to do. Like a little girl who wants to get all rough and tumble while playing football but is made to pull her hair back tight, put on a tutu and dance all because her mother wanted to be a dancing star. It’s selfish and it’s unfair. Give them encouragement and give them an extra little push where needed – especially to all those lazy little sods – but don’t force them to be the 2.0 version of what you wanted to be. That’s just being an a-hole.

Parenting is a full-time position complete with exorbitant amounts of uncertainty, no pay and a few headaches here and there. It’s a job based around other peoples needs and feelings while your own are generally left on the back burner. It’s a tough gig yet somewhere in there it’s an absolute joy and a pleasure. It’s a nightmare rolled in hot chocolate and coated in 100’s and 1000’s (or cacao and chia seeds for the health conscious). Parenting kicks your arse and hugs your heart all at the same time. I’ve been doing it for over 18 years now and I still suck but one thing is for certain and totally not sucky – I love all my little offspring and there’s nobody in this world that could love them more than me. Which is lucky coz that, and the fact they’re all pretty cute, keeps them alive each and every day 😉

Kudos to all adults doing parenthood. We got this.

One love,

DRK xxx

2

103504076513587516185388737081240073473820n

images

And finally.. Just b’coz it’s funny…

 

Ever Had One of THOSE Days?

I’ve had one of “those days”!

I know you get what I mean when I say that because I bet your bottom dollar you’ve had at least one of those days this year too.

It’s the kind of day where you’re dropping your child at school and you’re totally high fiving yourself coz you’re there right on time for once… And then you see every other student in free-dress. It’s the kind of day where your child cries relentlessly because he is the only one in his uniform and you feel like the worst Mother in the world because you didn’t read the memo! So you drive home, you change him into free-dress and you take him back – which by now, of course, he’s late.

It’s the kind of day when you have so much to do but you have an almost-three-year-old who won’t let you do any of it without a fight. Fuck the terrible a twos these fucked up threes are a nightmare! A tantrum down every aisle, bargaining like a mother fucker just to keep him quiet, a shit in his pants in the Bunnings car park, shoes off/shoes on argument every single stop we make, a Houdini in the seatbelt and a bite on the behind in Spotlight. And just to be clear he bit me! Not from anger just pure enjoyment.

It’s the kind of day where you get granted 1 hour alone time without that Houdini biting child just to finish what you started because it was simply impossible to do it with him and stay sane. You get to the supermarket but you can’t remember how you got there and you start to wonder whether silence in the car is actually more distracting than a noisy and demanding toddler. You arrive safely, thank god, and park in the furtherest spot from the shops because it’s the only car bay where someone has actually parked in their lines. You suit up, smack that “I got this shit” smile on and head in. Locating all your items in the “new look” supermarket is tough and you seem to get caught behind every single granny who has recently had a hip operation. They’re clocking their Zimmer-frames at minus 40km/hour while swerving dangerously all over the aisle. You can’t go around them, ones coming up the rear and their too deaf to hear your polite excuse me’s. It’s snail pace on horse tranquillizers… and there is seriously a billion of them.

It’s the kind of day where you’re “late” for appointments that you actually secretly forgot and your kid forgot to hand in a permission slips for an excursion so you have to do an emergency dash to the school otherwise they can’t go. And if there’s something worse than a three-year-old tantrum it’s a moody fourteen-year-old boy. Ergh, fast forward to a happy well adjusted adult please.

It’s the kind of day when you’re about to sit down, finally, only to realise you have two kids still ‘out there’ awaiting your pick up some time soon. So you fold up your PJ’s and put them back on the bed for later… Much later. Oh well, what’s two more trips to the fourteen hundred already clocked up today.

It’s the kind of day when you’ve finally sent out your child’s three-year-old birthday party invitations only to find out apparently he’s turning one coz one rhymes with fun and three doesn’t and you probably should have known that when you bought the cute little invites.

It’s the kind of day when it seems everyone has decided to drive on the roads at the exact same time as you, but super cautiously…. Must be those hip replacement Grannies from the shops! Like 20km-below-the-speed-limit-cautious. And you want to scream and yell and be one of those psycho road ragers that you see on YouTube coz you’re in a hurry but you’re way too cool and kind for that so you sit behind them muttering obscenities under your breath because if you say them out loud the almost-three-year-old will repeat it in front of his Speech Therapist who wants to hear his ‘new’ words.

It’s the kind of day you need I.V coffee just to get you through.

It’s the kind of day where I may whinge a lot, I know, I seriously do, but I can also find the joy. I’ve high-fived myself on numerous occasions because even though I’ve been late, I’ve been frustrated, I’ve been bitten by my almost-three-year-old … I’m alive. I made it. The kids made it. We managed to laugh and talk and tickle. We’ve managed to shower and eat and fall asleep peacefully. And those slow drivers probably saved me a speeding ticket, maybe even saved me from having an accident. 

Nobody’s going to shake my hand or pat me on the back tonight to tell me what an awesome fucken game of survival I played today. Nobody’s going to give me a pay cheque for being an event planner, a taxi driver, a personal shopper, an au pair, a negotiator or a teething ring for someone who already has a mouthful of teeth. Nobody really cares.

But it’s the kind of day that when I finally crawl into bed at midnight that I can count my blessings. Of which I have many and whinging, freely, in my blog is one. Because I get to say it, unleash it, vent it and let it go while you get to relate or hate or whatever tickles your fancy and we all get on with our day after that. And so my venting here is done and my blessings have been counted. 

How about yours?

One love,

DRK xxx

Social Media is Ruining Our Lives

Good intentions. Do you always have good intentions especially when your almost three-year-old goes down for his lunchtime nap? Good intentions involving housework,

Do you always have good intentions especially when your almost three-year-old goes down for his lunchtime nap? Good intentions involving housework, exercise and spending a bit of time on your passion – mine being drawing house plans and writing. Do those good intentions go by the wayside because social media gets in the way?

Does your “quick” scan of what’s happening in the online world turn into hours of brain-numbing scrolling, occasional laughing, a few ahhs and many more ridiculous faces that the owners of those statuses can’t see or hear?  Then your time is up. The almost three-year-old is awake and it’s school run time. No housework was completed, no writing of the novel done and there was definitely no yoga on the lounge room floor. Hell, you didn’t even make it into your active wear…

That afternoon, as you look around your home, you promise yourself tomorrow will be different. Just like tonight when you go to bed you’ll promise yourself your diet will be different too…

Promises.

Do you find yourself following all these fitness blogs and diet pages? Paleo, lite n’ easy, Ashy Bines, Kayla Itsines? Social media is the platform for many of these. This is the best form of advertising. Yet social media is the biggest distraction of all. Do you sit there and watch the exercise videos or scroll through the foods? Note: sitting there watching someone else exercising does not have the same benefits as doing them yourself – yep, tried and tested. And damn those foods just make you hungry and you just want any food to get in your belly.

The most productive time of my life was when I deactivated Facebook. Two whole months of productivity. It was awesome but things stopped functioning too. How do you survive without social media when that’s where all your events are – the ones you’re attending and hosting. It’s also where your business and charity pages are which would not exist without a personal page and where you share your blogs. It’s a catch 22.

Is social media taking up too much space in our lives? What do you think?

One love,

DRK xxx

untitled1

 

How not to say sorry

No more sorry’s….


I won’t say sorry for a messy house anymore. I’m doing my best trying to keep it clean but then it gets undone. Every. Fucking. Time… Three. Times. A. Day… #sorrynotsorry

I won’t say sorry for my body when you fake tan me, see me in a bikini or give me a Pap smear. My body is my temple and sometimes that temple eats cake and fries… #loveroffries #sorrynotsorry

Saying sorry for my creased up clothes is a thing of the past. My iron was faulty – faulty as in I didn’t have fucking time this morning to care about my outfit but the kids are done. #ironingsucksballs #sorrynopenotsorry

I won’t say sorry for being a little bit cranky this morning. My smile and my charm was smashed through the window during one of the eightieth times I got up to my child. I can hardly see through the sandpaper in my eyes let alone care about making sure a fake smile is plastered on my face. Plus I haven’t had my coffee yet. #gothefucktosleepsorrynotsorry #coffeestat

I won’t say sorry for being on my phone while my child plays in the sandpit. He’s happy. I’m happy. What more do you fucking want. #stopjudging #sorrynotsorry

I won’t say sorry when we are in each other’s way at the supermarket. Stay left dickhead! #roadrulesapply #stopsayingsorry

You won’t be hearing me say sorry for saying how challenging things feel at times. It’s called venting. It’s called getting it off your chest. It’s called getting over it and moving on. I know that things could be worse. Trust me I know. I’ll pull my big girl panties up once I’ve unloaded. #whinger #sorrynotsorry

Sorry. Nope not sorry at all.

One love

DRK xxx

Marriage, Sex and a Genie: Part 2

I recently blogged about sex and how it’s not always what it’s cracked up to be, especially in long term relationships. There is not always passionate sex and equal libidos…

Not all of the time.

Not for all couples. 

The original post came with a warning to NOT read it if you were sensitive to dirty words or lacked a sense of humour… But sometimes people, lovely special people, don’t heed the warnings. And so these people – after reading my sarcastic, crude, tongue-in-cheek and well-warned post – decided to offer their advice to me about me and my “bratty western woman” behaviour. I really, truly value their opinion. Honestly, truly valued – thank you xx. In their opinions, I shouldn’t be married to anyone … ever, I really don’t deserve my husband, I’m a terrible, terrible wife and that, well, that I’m a disgusting human being … simply because I don’t want sex every day – sheesh I thought my average of three times a week was quite sufficient.

I’m smart enough to know that “some people” (you know who you are) get all defensive about these types of things (hmmm again the warning was there people) and it seems everyone takes everything personally these days. But all that really concerned me before I hit the “publish” button were the thoughts and feelings of the people who I actually have real feelings towards like my husband, my immediate family members and my good friends. So with this is the forefront of my mind I aired my naughtiest post ever! But in baby steps.

Step 1: I let my husband read it. Verdict: he has a sense of humour. He didn’t take it personally because he knew it was a collaboration of conversations with girlfriends over many years. His only concern was that our 18-year-old daughter might read it. She hasn’t and she doesn’t want to but she also wanted me to go ahead with Step 5 coz she, like me, was also born with a sense of humour. Gifted, all of us I tell you!

Step 2: I posted it privately and sent the link and password (it was ‘headache’ by the way which I thought was a nice touch) to a few of my closest friends. I sent it to them because we actually talk about this stuff – hell this is where I get most of my crude material from? Also, I wanted to gauge their reactions. Their reactions: Laughter, agreeability and support. Agreeability is such a nice word isn’t it but what they really said was “Fuck yeah!!! That is hilarious!! I totally get it! You need to share this!!!!” Yes, they said all that with all those exclamation marks too!

Step 3: I posted it publicly to my few hundred followers who initially at whatever stage followed me coz they ‘got’ me to a certain extent. They ‘got’ my dry and dirty sense of humour and could relate to my stories to some degree BUT I was prepared to delete if necessary. Their reactions: Again laughter, agreeability and support. In fact, I received many private messages and emails saying ‘thank you’. Thank you because nobody ever talks about this stuff and we feel we must pretend everything is perfect all of the time because our marriages are doomed, apparently, if we don’t feel like bonking our partners all day every day. If we don’t enjoy it, desire it, initiate it.

Step 4: I gave myself a pep talk… Well, actually I listened to an audible book by a successful writer who speaks about writing simply because you love to write. She speaks about writing for yourself not for others. She says when you write you have to do it with the realisation that you cannot, you will not be able to control anybody’s reaction to what you have written. That reaction belongs to them. My reaction to her talking about reactions: was to be brave. Marriage, Sex & a Genie was written lightheartedly and exaggeration was obvious (wasn’t it). My husband didn’t take it personally because a) it wasn’t and b) he’s married to me so he knows the truth about our sessions AND c) again … he has a sense of humour – which kinda seems to be an important missing ingredient here for some of you.

Step 5: Accept a ‘viral’ opportunity from a big blogging site (aka Huff Post <3) who are happy to post the risky but honest, albeit sarcastic-for-humour-purposes, post. Wow, thank god someone has a sense of humour in this world! Reaction: some crazy, aggressive, mother-fuckers!

For people who don’t know me, my husband or our relationship they’ve certainly been quick to judge which is fair game I suppose. But is it necessary to label me and call me names? They have even given my husband a permanent hall pass – he’s stoked thanks guys – and I was told by some lovely fellow, whom is probably very single, that I should stop breathing…. Yeow that was a bit harsh buddy – is Mrs Palmer cramping up? Oh and here’s a personal message just for you from me and the gorgeous Megan Fox…

While to me this all seems a little bit of an overreaction (or to those that wrote the comments, fair) there is a choice here for me. I can dwell on it, cry, beat myself up coz people don’t like me which, if I’m honest, I was tempted to do because that’s been ‘my thing’ all my life. You know, live in fear of not being liked and trying to keep everyone happy. OR my other option is that I can take it and leave it. This is what I have chosen to do. It’s that simple really. Read, delete, repeat.

I’ve learnt five things in this critical process:

1) a dry sense of humour is not shared by all.

2) people take shit really, really personally.

3) from a 980+ word “story” people think they know all there is to know about you and your relationship and whether you should live and breath or not.

4) you cannot control how other people react.

5) you are braver than you think. Even if it hurts.

I’m not going to apologise to the keyboard judge and jury – again you were warned not to continue reading. This type of shaming is why women or men – remember all relationships will suffer from some kind of libido imbalance at times, feel like they can’t talk about ‘it’. That they can’t talk about their low libidos or heavens-to-Betsy have a joke about their husbands persistently high libido. Shamed because people are quick to label us selfish, dud roots (yes someone actually called me that – someone who has never actually rooted me), terrible wives and to tell us our marriages are doomed. But that’s their opinion.

We are always, always on demand whether it’s the five hundred kids we have (see how I exaggerated there?), their billion teachers and sports coach appointments (and again), our never-ending household needs (dramatising), and most importantly our husbands. Sometimes we feel like we are always in demand. Kissing sore knees, wiping away sad tears, fixing, cleaning, sucking dick… So for us to want our bodies, our minds to ourselves for an hour, a day we are seen as selfish, spoilt brats? Really?!

Well to those on the same wavelength as me (I think there are a couple of you out there … Oh yes I see you.. Hi there!), to those that feel like they’d like a little “this-is-my-body-and-I’d-like-no-invasion-of-a-peen-today” let me support you. Ignore my hateful commentators (I have – they’ve been deleted) that try to make us feel ashamed for not feeling like getting down and dirty with sexy time all the time

Here’s to not feeling like a ‘happy ending’ each and every night – oh unless that happy ending is watching your own TV show in peace while snacking on chocolate.

Here’s to the effort that we do make even when we don’t feel like it. 

Here’s to “obligation sex” when hubbies flying out to his week-on shift, or flying in. 

Here’s to being able to laugh about it with your girlfriends and to people with a sense of humour. 

And finally here’s to feeling normal and not awful for having a headache, occasionally. And no aspirin will not fix it but a cuddle will. Just don’t poke me in the back with that ‘thing’, ok?

#findyoursenseofhumourdotcom #nexttimereadthewarning #yourreactionsucksdicks #hallpassesallround

One love,

DRK xxx