Up, Up and Awaaaaaaayyyy

Qantas have really lifted their game lately.  On a recent flight across the strait, I was astonished to find that there were mini screens in the back of every seat.  Not only that, but on offer was a wide variety of TV shows and movies for everyone's viewing pleasure.  There was even Puss In Boots, which sent Valli into a psychotic breakdown of excitement.  The food was also vastly improved, and presented in individual sacks.  Sadly, no crème brûlée, but a muesli bar and sandwich usually hit the target for inoffensive fare.  And if Puss In Boots wasn't enough entertainment, the girls were gifted with a multi-activity pack including 3D glasses.....On our recent Qantas international flight the twins actually received Elmo sacks with other assorted Sesame goods.  Amazing.  Yet annoying to have yet two more bags to carry off the plane.

Keep applying ladies, it can only help.

Who cares that the Qantas hostesses are a bit rough?  Actually, I care that they're a bit rough.  There aren't enough 3D glasses on board to smooth out some of those edges....in any dimension.   There was one in particular on our last flight from Tokyo who was down right scary while simultaneously being annoying.  She had one of those overly familiar loud senses of humour.  Just get me a Baileys and shove off love......Australian air hostesses just aren't easy on the eye either.  All that sun damage.  The crappy aboriginal art sack dresses don't help either.  Although apparently it's good enough for Ralph Fiennes......I prefer Asian airlines.  They sack all their staff when they get over 25 years and/or over 55kg.  They are so fresh and pleasant.  It's like being waited on by a cabin of oriental supermodels. Occasionally you get one who's like an evil fairytale Chinese Princess.  That can be intimidating.  Don't hit the call button too often, whatever you do.  She might poison a magic apple.   Evil or not, they always look so fresh.  The only downside is that I always feel worse about my own raggedness, while staring at their dewy cheeks.  At least I feel at home with the Aussies.  I can get on their level, bitch about Nicole Kidman's forehead etc while scamming another Baileys.

Remember, these are the best they've got

But compared to American flight attendants, Aussie ones are like a cross between an albino Pygmy possum and Miranda Kerr.  I have never wanted to get off a plane and away from a team of stewardesses as much as I do when flying domestically in The States.  The union protects them from a sacking due to age and bitterness.  And then they, in turn, take out all their life frustrations on the unfortunate group of people who have been trapped in a big steel flying box with them for several hours.  Once, an air hostess was so terrifying, that the other passengers and I were exchanging glances and whispering  "What should we do?  Are we under threat?  Does it qualify as emotional terrorism? And if so, can we crash tackle her and duct tape her to the toilet for the remainder of the flight?".  Then the word would go out - "She's coming!".....We would immediately all stop talking, and have eyes straight ahead as she stalked the aisle looking for a person who had taken their shoes off, or had their ipod on too loud.  I wonder if this same woman was the one that was hauled off a flight for raving at passengers, and taken away in handcuffs last month.  Some passengers described the experience as "demonic", and "blood-curdling", reminiscent of a scene from the movie "The Exorcist". http://digitaljournal.com/article/321029

Ryan Air and their official uniforms.

A friend of mine once had a flight attendant who was, in his words "Basically a dude in a dress".  That's fine.  I'm all for expressions of gender identity - but if you're going the dress why not have a shave, or wax your arms.  Jazz yourself up a little.  Really go with the look once you've committed to a dress.  Apparently a South West Airlines pilot was suspended from duty last year, after he didn't realise his microphone was on and started hanging all kinds of shit on his co-workers....the only sentence that wasn't predominantly swear words (and therefore published) was his despair over  "a continuous stream of gays and grannies and grandes (i.e. fatties)."  I s'pose quickies in the cockpit aren't what they used to be.....He was reinstated after undergoing diversity training.....Like that helped.  The co-workers were still going be be unfuckable.  He should have moved to Ryan Air.

Japanese flight attendants are of course lovely and young.  Becoming an air hostess is possibly the most desired job for any young Japanese woman.  I used to teach them English when I worked in Tokyo. There was even the fake inside of plane in one large room.  Completely realistic.   I used to sneak in their at lunch time and practice on the microphone "Cabin Attendants. Please prepare for landing.  Disarm doors and cross check".  It was embarrassing on the day I didn't notice the janitor dusting in the corner.  As soon as I would walk into my classroom every morning, my students would all be sitting straight up, legs crossed, make up done beautifully.  Contrast this with a person who had bed hair, caramel macchiato splashed on their shirt, and did their make up on a moving train in morning peak hour.  I think they respected me.  Deep, deep down.  I recently met one of them on a flight from Tokyo to Sapporo.  She had made it to the air!  She was an attendant on Air Do - a cut price version of ANA.  It was pretty shitty.  Especially under Japanese standards.   Akiko was seemed pleased to see me and meet the twins.  She gave us a special Air Do child's present. A "Squeezy Mascot".  I'm currently using it as a door stop in the bathroom.  I saved it, because I found it so amusing that a stuffed felt apple could have 11 Instructions accompanying it.  I might share them in the following photo;

Looks harmless enough.....

For christ sake people.  It's an apple.  If they're so concerned with safety they should scrub that rust off the door.  It's disconcerting upon entry.  If you want my advice regarding flying with this company I would say "Air Don't.  With Qantas I would say - if you enjoy the (Bogan) Spirit of Australia you will love it....Most Asian airlines are the way forward - except Air India.   This is where the aged Japanese flight attendants go, and you can see their pain as they work alongside their Indian co-workers who crash out in the landing chair for a quarter of the flight.  They then wake up, hide out the back and eat the passenger's left overs, only to come back out with it slopped all down the front of their sari's.  Try not to get a seat near the toilets either.  The locks on the doors are broken and they bang open and shut the entire flight, as the smell of stale urine filters through the cabin.  I think Singapore is my all time favourite though.  I even once had a skirt in their uniform fabric.  Just watch out for any evil Asian storytime princesses overly-cautiously coming towards you with a felt apple.

Fresh, almost too fresh

Nightclubbing Two Year Olds

Suss.  Definitely suss.

I've been taking the girls to an abundance of activities lately.  If the truth be known I can't really be bothered, and would rather put on that stupid knob in his pajamas and that squeaky voiced owl puppet and go back to bed......But, I'm figuring that soon I'm going to be in a place that 99.9% people have never heard of.  A place where the only choice of activities will be scratch your mozzie bites, or sweat a shitload.  So it's now or never.  Anyway, I'd been suspecting we may have some social issues going on, when one of my girls ran screaming from a piece of play equipment in the park because a baby crawled near it.  

It's a tutu extravaganza

It's amazing how cute you can find it when your child waves a couple of poms poms to some lame tune,  or does the hokeypokey with a bunch of strangers.  I was in hysterics when Valli did her best "surprised look" at the command of the dance teacher today.  However, Chalks remarked that it actually reeked of "Toddlers and Tiaras".  I went red, and tried to feebly laugh it off.  I've really got to cut down on my viewing.  In the face of shoving, howling, teddy snatching, parachute ripping and magic wand bashing, I was initially pleasantly delighted that Valli and Cordi were participating like angels.  However, when Chalks expressed concern that they were almost too compliant, I too got more and more worried, and wanted to scream out "What are you robots? Bash someone dam it".  Later we agreed that goodie goodies are desirable.  The last thing we want either of them to end up as, is us.

At least I wasn't the mother reeling in my out of control child basher

However, some activities are neither cute or desirable, and should be avoided at all costs.  I'm talking about those horrendous indoor play centres.  I forgot how much I hated them, and took the girls there on rainy Tuesday.  What is wrong with me?  How could I forget that apart from being one of the dirtiest and most likely disease spreading places in the universe  (that mini kitchen set is surely home to hand, foot and mouth disease) - they are hard hard work.  Never fool yourself that you will kick back with a latte and read about the latest crap from the Kuntrashians.  Instead you will be crawling around in finely crushed Burger Rings, hauling yourself up slopes with those mini pegs in them - designed only for tiny feet, getting concussion from some hard headed brute while you're trying to get your kid's shoes off in the jumping castle.  And worst of all, getting unidentified and moist green stuff all over your cream trench coat as you roll down one of those ridiculous inflated slides.  Forget your latte.  You can't even go to the toilet.  At one stage, while hauling the girls up the last couple of giant padded steps, I locked eyes with a heavily pregnant woman rescuing her three year old off a ceiling-high rope bridge.  The bloody thing was like a tight-rope.  I prayed the girls wouldn't spot it as a fun alternative to the jumping castle. I saw the pain in that poor woman's eyes, and I'm sure she saw it in mine.  We needed no words.  "This is completely FUCKED" emanated from our every pore.

At one stage I lost both of them in some kind of tunnel system.  I could hear one screaming "Mummy Mummy" and raced around the edge trying to look in each exit point.  There was no choice.  I had to go in.  It was claustrophobic and terrifying.  A group of small boys came straight for me and crushed me against the side as they clambered past.  I was sweating in a jumper, coat and scarf crawling around in the dark calling out "Cordi!  Valli!".  I finally found an exit and came out to see Cordi casually hanging out going "What are you doing Mumma?"  Good question.  The other one hadn't showed up. So in I went again.  There was a Huggies in the dead end - I backed out quick.  More and more crawling.  No Valli.  I couldn't take it.  Who cared if she was in there permanently, I had to get out.  Unfortunately she didn't show.  I was about to call for help, and envisioned them cutting the tunnel deathtrap open with a chainsaw.  It was appealing.  Then I heard screaming behind me.  I knew that scream.  I had heard it 50 times a day for the last 1006 days.  It was deeply imprinted in a dark place.  I raced over to see "Baby B" hanging upside down out of a plastic helicopter - with some stuck-up bitch going "Whose child is this?"  I ignored her and grabbed Valli.  There was definitely relief.  Until I noticed Cordi had gone back in the tunnels.

I'm not going back in there Cordi

Don't touch those grotty things girls... 

Those places really are nightclubs for kids.  They look unimposing from the outside,  There is no noise.  No sign of what awaits behind that door.  You enter with trepidation, and there's some hard-arsed bitch on the door.  She takes your money.  Stamps your hand.  You get a drink coupon (Unfortunately the hardest beverage is Gatorade).  Then it's straight into the chaos.  There are maniacs everywhere.  They are screaming, running, twirling, climbing, pushing, puking, shitting, fighting, rolling on the floor, throwing themselves all over the show, breaking shit.  It takes them a little while to warm up, but then your very own (and you by default) become part of the chaos.  Drugs help ease this transition.  The only difference in this pre-school nightclub, is that the drugs are on full display, they are sold by a weight afflicted woman called Beverly, and the mums buy them for the kids.  Naturally, the drug of choice here is the one and only.....sugar.  MSG runs a close second.  

The good gear - get on!

To further complete the nightclub analogy, your hard won table gets immediately swooped on when you turn around to do up a shoelace.  Then, as soon as you decide you are leaving, you lose your bag for twenty minutes, and later find it has been kicked into a corner.  The same goes for all your jackets, which turn up in lost property after asking three different people if they know what happened to them.  By the time you stumble outside, all confused and dehydrated, with no idea of what time it is, you can't remember where you parked your car.  As you feel in every pocket for your keys, you realise that all your money went on Gatorades that all got knocked over after one sip.  You've got a stress headache, you stink of B.O, and your entire application of mascara sits in your eye bags.  

I then weep inside and vow NEVER to do it again.  I'm sure I mean it.  I just hope the girls didn't get kiddie VD (i.e school sores) for indecent contact (too much handling in the "ball pit") with some of the more undesirable clientele.   Hey!  I just found my drink coupon in my pocket.  I wonder if I can exchange it for a vodka at a real nightclub? All I can say though, is get me home with a couple of Panadols and the couch.....And more to the point, where's Jimmy Giggle when you need him? 

Baby you can drive my car

I'm a shit driver.  I thought I'd put it out there straight up.  None of this - "I'm a bit of a nervous driver"; "Yes, I just lack a bit of confidence on the road".  No, I'm definitely crap.  Even with a GPS I'm bloody hopeless and get all sweaty when I have to change lanes above 60km an hour.  I was reminded by my best friend of my younger years, just yesterday, how hysterical she found it when I took her for a spin in Mum's mazda on my first day on the road.  While seeking a park, I smashed straight through the red and white bar at the Centrepoint car park while hanging out the window trying to reach for my ticket.  .  I hit the accelerator instead of the brake.....it could happen to anyone.....Things went downhill from there.  A month later, I forgot to put my mother's car into 'park' and chased it down the driveway to see it stack into the fence.  I also had an accident outside my work....with the boss's wife.

It's sad how your once favourite shows become unwatchable

It didn't help that my first car was the biggest piece of shit existing on the planet. I bought it from the girlfriend of my parent's mechanic.  How suss.  I think I rebuilt that baby from the inside out.  He made some good $ from moi.  It was constantly breaking down in really bad places - the middle of town at 9am, on the southern outlet while I was chugging up the hill.  Once, after I bought a new engine that day (after many months of waitressing at the Doctor Syntax to pay it off), my useless crap heap broke down in the small laneway of the Syntax, on a speed bump.  I got out of the car and shoved it with all my furious might, only to panic as it began rolling backwards.   It was headed for a whole car park full of cars, with me standing at the front watching it going "oooops".  I certainly didn't go "oooops" when the door swung open and ripped off the hinges against the laneway wall.  I screamed so loud that the neighbours thought I was being raped and came running to help (me, not the rapist).  At least they could lift it off the wall for me and lend me some rope to tie the door on.  I "Dukes of Hazzard"ed that metal shit box for about 6 months.

Do these even exist anymore?

I've become even more anxious on the road since the girls were born.  I truly found driving them around really frightening initially, and would keep that pedal firmly off the metal.  However, I probably endangered their lives more, by driving 20kmph than I would have at 120kmph.  Many years ago, I used to mock those knobs who drive around with "Baby On Board" signs on their back window.  "Who gives a shit bitches" I would think as I contemplated side-swiping their annoying vehicle.  What do you want me to do....give a little wave as I go by??? Shove off.  But......I get it now.  They were just terrified, and at least they were actually driving.  Those stupid signs are still pathetic though.  No matter how afraid I was, I would never stoop so low.

So instead, basically I handball the driving responsibility on every time we leave these shores.  Poor Chalks.  Even when he's so tired he's practically falling asleep, I don't offer to take the wheel.  I just suggest he pulls over for a power nap.  I think this quality of mine really annoys him, but he's gracious enough not to force me into the drivers seat.  We've been on a fair few road trips on our travels as well.  A bit of a different strategy had to be employed when the ratbags joined us.  When they were little, they slept a lot, so it was OK for a while (hint: roundabouts induce sleep).  But since then, it's a lot tougher to keep two small children happy in a car.  It's much more difficult than on a plane or train.  In a car they are strapped down....and they don't like it.  One little bit. If you've got one of those cars with the screens on the back of your headrests, you are totally laughing.  An over it parent definitely came up with that invention.....

I wondered what to do about car seats when we first left Australia.  We didn't have our own.  Our first country where we had a car was Morocco.  The car company had only one baby seat available.  We were forced to improvise.  I sat in the back with a Baby Bjorn on.  I wouldn't recommend it.  If you absolutely have too, put the seat belt around you, but not around the baby carrier.  It wasn't just safety that made this option undesirable, but the heat too.  It was so god dam boiling there. With a living hot water bottle pressed up against your torso it was a sweaty nightmare.   There are special safety harnesses you can buy and attach to yourself, or the car seat if they are older.  They look bulky though.  Why not just take a proper seat?  Although I'm not shunning safety....much.....I guess sometimes you have to just go with the flow.  This happens a lot in Thailand - as you despair about the lack of seat belts in a taxi - and then a family of five goes past on a motorbike with a 1 year old standing on the handlebars.  It's a tough one though.  We bought our own car seats in the US when the girls were 10 months old, and have travelled with them ever since.  Just remember to chose dark colours.  Our pink one gets majorly festy after each flight if they're not bagged.  You always feel better when you can't actually see the true extent of the filth.

Ait Ben Haddou - Don't be jealous of my hair everyone....oh jesus, I just realised I could have died with this style - doomed for eternity

During this trip to Morocco we did something that will forever haunt me as the epitome of bad parenting.  I still feel guilty whenever I think about it.  It was an accident though.  We didn't imagine taking the back road home from Ait Ben Haddou would be equal to spending seven hours in quaking terror.   Chalky bravely steered our 4WD (with our two tiny baby girls in it), along a bolder-ridden, one-lane, gravelly steep incline.  This also was right on the edge of a hundred metre drop off into a canyon in the Atlas Mountains.  It took us seven sickening fear-filled hours to get ourselves out of that 42km mess.  There is no way I can convey to anyone how frightened we were that day, how guilty and ashamed we felt for putting our girls into that situation, and the effect that an extended period of adrenaline pumping time has on your body.  It took us days to get over it.

Myself, Chalky, and my sister all truly believed we were going to die.  The car constantly felt like it was going to tip over the edge.  It was being thrown around like a toy as Chalks drove over giant rocks.  As the petrol gauge ran longer and longer on empty, and it grew darker and darker, it became even worse (though at least we couldn't actually see the drop off anymore I guess).  The whole experience came to a peak when we took a wrong turn and ended up on a cattle track sliding down a mountain straight for the edge of the canyon.  We had no choice but to try and steer out of it.....backwards....in the dark.  After already clocking up five hours of terror I was green.  We decided that my sister and I, and the babies, would get out as soon as we could, and walk down the cattle track, so we didn't all end up plummeting to our deaths.  Hopefully we would be able to direct Chalks to safety as well.

"I think I can smell poo poo"

However, during my exit, I became entangled in the seat belt with Cordi strapped to me in the Baby Bjorn.  The car started skidding backwards again in the gravel.  This was the last straw.  I was utterly terrified, and hysterical, I couldn't get free from the car (which was all I had wanted for quite some time)........and basically I had a breakdown and shat my pants.  This was the first time such a thing had happened since Christmas Day '98 when I pulled up in the driveway at my parents house, really hungover, and followed through.  I recalled that I wasn't missing anything.   All I can say is, thank god for baby wipes (and a deep canyon to chuck my undies into).  That's the thing with shit though.  Not matter how hard you try, that aroma just lingers.  According to my sister it was more than a linger.  This made it embarrassing when we picked up an Berber who promised to wake the petrol shop man and get us some fuel.  By this stage though we suspected that the worst was over and we were going to make it.  It the face of such celebrations - what's a little shit between friends....?

So there we go.  I'm back to stories about poo.  It had been a while, so I thought perhaps you were all ready to go there again.  Don't worry no pictures.......

Just a little cuteness to 'wipe' away that last visual imagery

Definitely Not In-vein

If these were my legs, I wouldn't be worried about the vein

Today I went down a path I never imagined my feet would tread.  I (or rather my doctor), used needles to deal with an unsightly physical issue, and future problematic concern.   "Your non-existant top lip"  I hear the people cry....but no, 'twas not that.  It was in fact the unfortunate vein predicament that the genetic lottery (thanks Mum) kicked me in the guts with some time ago.  That minor trouble, has now been made worse, due to carrying round an extra 30 kg for a few months, and then expelling some of it almost 3 years ago - also known as "twin pregnancy and subsequent childbirth" (thanks Valli and Cords).  I'm not quite sure who Clarence Darrow is, but I'm finding particular resonance with his quote;
"The first half of our life is ruined by our parents and the second half by our children".
I would just like to substitute "life" for "legs" and then it fits perfectly with today's theme.

Where's the blood?  These are the photos that deceive....

I'm not sure what I had imagined would happen - perhaps a couple of tiny pin pricks to the backs of my knees I guess.  What I didn't imagine was fifty jabbed-with-a-needle entry points, lots of blood, a burning sensation that is still kicking in, and swelling.  I am currently sitting in bed wearing a pair of compression stockings (that took 20 minutes and a mechanical pulley system to get on) that cover my sore bandaged legs.  Luckily it is an actual medical issue (you get a third back from medicare to prove it's so) and not just vanity or I would feel pretty stupid.  OK OK, some of it is vanity and yes, I feel a little foolish.  Alright, like a total dickhead, stop making me admit it already......

I love 70s Bush.....

Some of us take fairly extreme measures to alter our appearances in the name of attractiveness.  I would however, like to take this opportunity to say that there is none more stupid than waxing your pubes.  For a start - once some lucky guy has gained entry downstairs, he is surely not thinking about how dusty it is.  Or am I wrong?  Seriously, pulling out your fanny hairs with hot sticky crap, most definitely shits all over a full facelift with eyelid liposuction on the pain meter.  I mean for gods sake - who invented this torture?  I just want to go back to the 70s, when maps of Tassie actually resembled a forested Tasmania.  Or even better, maps of Russia (including Siberia)....and nobody flinched when you stripped off at the beach.  I've had some bad luck in this department.  I won't go into too much detail (my ex-boss from Japan - and new facebook friend - could be reading this.....Konichiwa Ishiwata-san - gomen naisai ne), suffice to give the advice; NEVER go for an ocean dip following hair removal if you suspect your beautician may have taken off the top layer of skin as well.

I also had an excrutiating lady garden up-earthing, right before I was expecting to give birth.  God knows why I went there, because at no time when I was under those hospital lights with everybody in Hobart going in for a look - did I ever think "Wow, I'm SO glad I booked that waxing session, my vagina must look so hairless".  I honestly think though, I was screaming more during the waxing than the childbirth (as least I had an epidural on board for the latter - come to think of it, that actually should be standard pain relief with every brazilian).  I remember my beautician being quite concerned as to how I was going to manage to get two humans out though.  You think you were worried bitch......

I also love lady gardens- this is a self portrait

And worried I was.  In fact I had been worried ever since, at the tender age of four, my free-spirited auntie showed me a photo of my cousin being born.  Now, I don't know about anyone else, but the closest I had ever come to seeing that part of the human anatomy was when I was wiping my Baby Alive's arse.  I certainly had no idea where babies came from - possibly flown down a rainbow by dozens of tiny fairies on pink jewel-encrusted unicorns.....I was certainly not ready to see a bloody purple head sticking out of my auntie's 70s style fanny.  I actually went catatonic for 3 days, and held on the determination for  the following 31 years that I would never, ever, do that.

What's going on here?  Is she actually picking the doctor up during labour?

Now the nurse is looking far too happy here....

But I did, and I now support the notion that childbirth is definitely not the time to stop taking drugs.  It is in fact the time to demand everything you can get your hands on.  To all those women who declare that they love giving birth naturally, I say "good on you, you nauseating heros, and you can take that video clip of the woman orgasming during delivery and shove it up your hairy jexis".  Newborns really aren't that cute either.  I know everybody thinks their babies are the most beautiful thing they have ever seen.  However, that is just chemicals in your body lying to you so you don't reject the hideous alien that looks like it wants to crawl on top of your head and feast on your brains.....

Getting slightly carried away? Me??? Of course not.....But I do think these compression stockings are actually compressing my brain.  The worst thing is, that I have a final vein injection next Friday.  And, despite my whinging, I intend to keep it....what can I say, but admit the truth....I'm vain about veins......

Not really aliens, and certainly never "in-vein"......

Tassie: The Pubic Hair Of Australia

Now that I'm back in Melbourne, I feel like I can safely address a few issues that have been troubling me.  No longer shall I have to fear a lynch mob turning up on my parent's doorstep, smearing me in leatherwood honey, rolling me in seagull feathers and stringing me up on the Tasman Bridge.  And before  you all get your friends in the big smoke to do the job for you, just remember that I am in true multi-generational citizen of The Map of Tas.  I love Cascade beer, Boony, Princess Mary, and in fact leatherwood honey.  I can make the noise of a Tasmanian Devil and I freely swim in the Tasmanian sea into autumn.   Being a proud Tasmanian, is like your relationship with your mother.  You can say whatever you like about the woman, but if any other person even dares utter a single statement that could be construed as "mother bashing" you want to strangle them with whatever tool you have handy.  In fact, "mother bashing" would probably stand up as a credible defence for manslaughter in court.

We Tasmanians have learned to defend our "Mother Tas" over many years of coming into contact with mainlanders.  So many stupid jokes have we had to feign amusement at over the years, that now, most of us find the best way to deal with them is to pretend we didn't hear.  So, just in case anyone reading this feels a Tassie joke coming on - I have a tip for you.  Don't share it with a Tasmanian.  If he or she kills you and the case is tried in Tassie - they will walk free on "unnecessary provocation".  Particularly offensive to me were the "two-headed" jokes when I was pregnant with twins.  As I was already fearful of the undetected conjoined twin issue, I found this particular ribbing warranted a swift kick to the shins.  Try it sometime, it's satisfying.

Inbreeding - it's no joke when it's your family

I arrived back in Melbourne yesterday, and had an extremely delicious dinner out with two delightful dinner companions.  Both of them Tasmanians - and therefore unconditional legends.  Our evening started off with the usual pleasantries - recent activities, how are the kids, etc.  However, after a few wines, and a considerable amount of food, the real conversation starts.  Naturally if you asked any of us,  we would all scoff at the stereotypical notion that Tasmanians are inbred.  Basically, we'd roll our eyes and write the ignorant questioner off as a "wanker".  However, much to the amusement and somewhat horror of my beloved, a few stories started to creep out.

I listened in fascination to tales of the "Pig Woman" that used to frighten the residents (including the father of our friend) in a remote Tasmanian town.  I shared my own stories -one of them told by a friend of mine, who had got lost in north west Tasmania while on a bushwalking trip. At last he came across and stumbled into a pub.  However, instead of relief he got flashbacks from the "Hills Have Eyes".  The entire room of occupants all simultaneously turned and stared at him.  To his horror he saw that they all had a wild shock of tangerine frizz, cross eyes and buck teeth.  Apparently it was very frightening to my out-of-state friend.  Then, there were tales of strange, almost monkey-like children hanging off a gate at the top of a long deserted road, that may or may not (it is still unclear), have been relatives of my dinner companion.

I then felt it was time to share the whispered story of the "Dog Children of Ouse" (rhymes with "youse").   I doubt my Granny will ever read this, but as she is traumatised by the memory, it still seems cruel to even go there.  Naturally I will though.  When my then nineteen year old grandmother got posted to the small country town of Ouse, she went to investigate why the Harrison children did not attend school.  As she arrived at the property, she was confronted by the sight of what appeared to be dogs chained up outside eating out of bowls.  On further inspection, it became apparent that they were in fact the Harrisons.  My Granny still gets a far away look in her eye when I encourage her to tell the story at family events.  Sometimes all she can muster is "They weren't human, they weren't animals, they were.... (cue hysteria and voice rising) something......inbetween".  No word as yet on whether she ever got them into the classroom.....

Jo Jo the "Dog Boy"

After further research, I discovered no such record of the poor "Dog Children of Ouse" - or the Tasmanian "Pig Lady".  However, tales of pig women and dog faced children are very common throughout the ages.  The first stories of pig-faced women, occurred simultaneously in Holland, England and France in the 1630s.  The typical story depicts a wealthy woman who was beautiful in every way....apart from the pig face of course.  There was however, a case that appeared to have some merit  in 1815 due to an advertisement in The Times and a tell-all exposée by the housekeeper.

Suddenly, there was a pig-faced lady at every travelling "freak show".  However, these unfortunate porcine humanoids were actually shaved and drugged bears, dressed up in women's clothing.  Aren't people lovely?

Dog faced boys were also a medical oddity that gained notoriety- particularly in the late 1880s. A Russian peasant boy was displayed at circuses in Europe, and eventually shipped out to The United States (That would be Jo Jo in the above photograph).  These days, medical science makes his case unremarkable, but naturally 150 years ago he was a star freak.

If this kind of thing interests you - maybe read the book "Freaks".  It describes how these "tragic individuals rose above human adversity".  If you don't like reading, why not go on a mystery tour of Tasmania's isolated communities.  Just remember to keep the windows locked.

Tired is the new black

Marvelous Miffy and Perfect Purdy

Lets hope Amy Poehler is on the money with the above title quote, because if so, I have been rocking that new trend faithfully for the past three years.  Also pleased to hear that news, will be my dear friend - brand new Mumma Of Twins (M.O.T).  Her cute little bundles are currently doing everything in their power to break her with the only weapon they have....sleep deprivation.  I dare not tell her, that as they grow, they gather more and more tools of psychological warfare to use in their evil plot to push their parents over the edge of sanity.  However,  I really think that the early sleep deprivation is one of their most heinous strategies (why do you think it's the top torture of choice at Guantanamo?).  Apparently, they bring it back into use in their teenage years, when they are out drinking casks of fruity lexia in the gutter, and hitch-hiking with carloads of inebriated boys....It's always good to have something to look forward to.

look closely

But back to my friend - I have already offered my most sincere pity admiration for what a far-out fricken fantastic job she is doing.  And now, I want to share it with the world (OK maybe only about 25 of our mutual friends who actually read this). She is doing so incredibly brilliantly. It's almost like she is giving a big double-handed "Fuck You" to anyone who had the audacity to even slightly entertain the notion that she may not have had it in her to handle the incomprehensible (except to anyone who had twins as their first babies....you poor bastards) learning curve of keeping two tiny humans fed, clothed, clean and (reasonably) happy - or come to think of it, alive!  It is so bloody hard. I now want everybody reading this, to stop for a minute and give her a clap.  She deserves it, and more.  She can't drink, otherwise I would suggest sending her bottles of hard liquor as well.

New motherhood never looked so good

All together now; "Awwwwwww"

Little Miffy snuggles with Cordi

As there is nothing cuter than new born twins (except for perhaps those kittens in bottles they grow in China - if you know what I'm talking about, and even worse agree, I am turning you in to PETA for being sick and twisted), I, of course, had to get my fair share of the action.  I have been turning up on my friend's doorstep so often, that I'm sure she is just about to get a restraining order out on me.  But I can't help it. Those little munchkins are so "ef"'ing adorable. I can't use actual 'fuck' in a sentence when associated with them, it would pollute their pure snuggly muffin-ness.  Even their poo is all yellowy cuteness.  When I see their little precious faces, they make me only remember the good times associated with my own twinnies.  Temporarily gone (until now) are the memories of rocking a cot a thousand times while sobbing "Why meeeeeee", scrubbing shit out of my favourite top with a toothbrush, apologising profusely to friends about why I always stink of chunder, despairing about the bags under my eyes and the new appearance of stomach cellulite.  It's only about the fluffy bunny snuggles and cutie-pie cuddles.

My how they grow....

Valli wants a baby brother called "Pooey"

Cordi wants one called "Centre of the Earth"

As Skye and I wholesomely cuddled our little girls today, I reflected on our former hang-out activities of choice.  It's hard to believe times could change so much.  Who could believe that two once drunken and depraved human beings could go from this.....

....and this....

....and even this.....

To this.......

What a bunch of lame goodie goodies

Thank god too.  I no longer have it in me to roll around gutters in Paris, sculling champagne out of bottles.  I also couldn't now face arguing for an hour with French bouncers (could you ever even genetically create bigger arseholes?), just so we could get into a nightclub located under a bridge on the Seine, to see Peaches.  We then, only made it inside by 'judas'-ing a new (and far too drunk) friend we picked up on the curb outside our apartment, by denying we were really with him.  For our instant karma, as we walked in, we heard Peaches say "Here's my final number tonight, Paris....Thank you and Good Night!!".  We were like "What the...???We just coughed up fifty euros each".  Peaches then proceeded to belt out a really bad version of  Whitney's "I Wanna Dance With Somebody" while profusely thrusting her microphone....as she does.....  What else was there to do, but scull twelve vodkas.....Gone too are the days (also eradicated by two blond haired midgets and now a couple of dribbling newborns), of spilling out on the Parisian streets at 5am, and violating a hot chip and meat baguette (later to be revealed  in a series of facebook posted pictures entitled "One Night In Paris"- see above for "best of"...or perhaps "worst of" would be closer to the truth).

"I wanna feel the heat with somebody, with somebody who loves me"

This next admission may get me taken away by child protection services, but unbeknownst to me, I was about one week pregnant at the time all this took place.  Bloody ratbags.  They couldn't even let me have one last night of reckless debauched abandonment.....they had to be along for the ride.  Even as embryos, they were all about the fun wrecking, and subsequent guilt.  Naturally, the fact that they were also out that night, caused me more than just a little bit of stress when that strip turned blue 5 weeks later.  Luckily they appear not to be affected.  Only time will tell. All two year olds are mental cases so it's currently hard to know.  Apparently everyone commits embryo alcohol abuse in one form or another....tell me it's so....

So far so good.....

Yes, spending the evenings in uggboots and a bobbly cardigan is definitely my idea of fun these days.  And if you can get some sleep to go with it, then it's the holy trinity of the good times......Enjoy it all Skysie.  See you again at Christmas time.  The girls will be so big by then.  I'm going to miss you three so much.....

Just a couple more....it's hard to resist posting photos of those babies

I take it back - the only thing cuter than those bottle kittens, is twins holding twins.........

P.S. Skaz - today I met a woman who had four kids and then got pregnant again.  With triplets!  Just be glad everyday (as I am) that you are not her..... xx