Scary Age

In just two short months I will be turning 44. It brings to mind an episode of the that much cited sociological documentary Sex And The City where the Miranda character declares 44 to be her “scary age”. By that she meant it was the age where it was “all over Red Rover”. If one hadn’t gotten themselves hitched and sprogged up by then it was never going to happen. Luckily for both Miranda and myself we impregnated and married (in that order) in our late thirties – just before hells gate slammed shut trapping us in the eternal damnation of spinsterhood.

Now that the ominous double fours are approaching it doesn’t feel so scary. I’m not monstrous to behold. My capri pants from over ten years ago still fit and I feel more or less the same as I did when I originally purchased them. (from Petites in DJs – because I am a short ass)  In my own mind I am perennially in my early 30s. Sadly every now and then I catch a glance in the mirror and get a mighty shock. Middle age is the new black in Chez Abulous (just as long as you don’t wear the black too close to your face because its aging).

Fortunately for me and the pre-menopausal sisterhood, the font of cultural wisdom that is Esquire Magazine has decreed that sleeping with a woman over 40 is now acceptable. Hooray!


The article points to Hollywood A-listers like Cameron Diaz, Sofia Vergara, Leslie Mann and Amy Poehler to support the argument. Fair point – most straight males above puberty would not kick these ladies out. Thanks Esquire for establishing that its hawt to be over 40 as long as you don’t look like you are.

It seems to me that in the past once a woman reached a “certain age” she was let of the hook aesthetically speaking. Now the expectation that we will remain hawter for longer is unrelenting. Of course we are smart women. We understand the futility of comparing ourselves to models and actresses at any age. Nevertheless the pressure to conform to cultural standards seeps in almost like osmosis.

Back in 1967 Anne Bancroft played the original cougar Mrs Robinson in the movie The Graduate. She was only 36 – but was thought of as an “older woman”* . The legendary Ava Gardner was rejected for the role. At age 45 she was considered geriatric.

Anne Bancroft the face of middle age in 1967

Anne Bancroft the face of middle age in 1967

By contrast in 2014 Jennifer Aniston is the face of 45.

Just an Eastern Beaches mum on the school run.

Just an Eastern Beaches mum on the school run.

Even more alarmingly Jen’s friend Courtney Cox is the new face of 50. Bloody Hell! Of course there’s airbrushing, botox, personal training, more botox and more airbrushing involved but still – Bloody Hell.

My middle aged friend.

My middle aged friend.

If Jen and Courtney are not painful enough here’s the new poster girl for 73 – Raquel Welch.

Now that's what I call a cougar!

Now that’s what I call a cougar!

Its making me lose to the will to live. I may as well dunk my head into a tub of Caramello icecream.

Like this one.

Lucky I had this one handy.

At what age will society deem it acceptable for women to “let themselves go”? Some are still trying to cling to youth (with questionable success) into their 80s.

Former sex symbol Kim Novak at the 2014 Oscars.

Former sex symbol Kim Novak at the 2014 Oscars aged 81.

The problem is that for every individual who manages to delay the ravages of time through a combination of good genetics, hard work and quality cosmetic intervention there are dozens who overdo the cosmetic intervention and end up looking as scarily unnatural as a robotic Stepford Wife. It seems that the wealthier strata of society is spawning an army of middle aged fembots with immobile foreheads and frighteningly tight jawlines. I’ve seen the future and I’m terrified.

In the future society will be overrun by Joan Rivers clones.

In the future society will be overrun by Joan Rivers clones.

I realize that I’m enormously privileged to even have this as a concern. I’d wager that the botox vs notox argument is not a hot topic of conversation in the refugee camps of sub-Saharan Africa, the Gaza strip or the Crimean peninsula right now.  Nevertheless a first world issue is still an issue.  As medical science has not yet uncovered an elixir of youth, aging is here to stay. When is Western society going to collectively deal with it let alone celebrate it?

Do you feel there is too much pressure to hold back the years? What is your scary age?




*Anne Bancroft was only 6 years older than her co-star Dustin Hoffman.


The Day I Got Lucky.

So I have just finished binge watching four concurrent series of Game of Thrones. The fact that this is newsworthy should give you an indication of just how exciting life here in Chez Abulous really is. If I’ve gleaned anything from GoT its that my life as an Eastern Beaches housewife is as pampered, comfortable and safe as it gets. ( I’ve also gleaned that Kit Harrington and Iain Glenn are smokin’ hawt). In the Game of Thrones the players stare down death everyday and twice on Sunday’s. All too often  they come off second best. No one is immune – not even the uber smokin’ hawt.

Two hawt bros but only one of them survives to the end of Series 3

Two hawt bros but only one of them survives Season 3.

In stark contrast I feel like I’m going to die if 10 am rolls around and I haven’t had my coffee*. You can tell the time by my moaning about this – it is that reliable. When I am heard to complain “If I dont get a cappuccino now I’ll die” you know its 9.30am. Its got to be a real cappuccino made by the artisan hand of a skilled (and preferably hawt) barista. That Nescafe shite wont cut it when it comes to matters of life and death.  Also over the past seven years many is the occasion that I felt like I was going to die of boredom. Particularly during those endless hours spent at the park, playgroup, swimming lessons and viewing In The Night Garden.

This one is from Bake Bar in North Randwick

This one is from Bake Bar in North Randwick

There has only been one occasion when I sincerely believed my number was up. I wish it were an heroic story like falling down an ice crevasse and crawling my way to freedom (that was Touching the Void) or having to drink my own urine whilst stranded in the wilderness (That is every episode of Bear Grylls and Todd Carney on a big night out). Sadly my brush with the Grimm Reaper was much more mundane.

Bear Grylls surviving the outback.

Bear Grylls surviving the outback.

Back in the BC (before children) era shorty after Dadabs and I shacked up we took my chariot on the epic trek to the Gardens of The East. Which is a fancy pants way of saying I drove my shit box Mazda 121 to our local Westfield – Eastgardens. Calling it the Gardens of the East makes may life sound vaguely exotic. That bottle green 2002 Mazda really was a box of shite. Dadabs risked dying of embarrassment every time he stepped inside it. On the one occasion he actually had to drive it he found the experience so humiliating he decided there and then to buy me a new car. But I digress.

Chariots of Shite

Chariots of Shite

Whilst we cruised down Avoca St towards Anzac Parade Mother Nature unleashed an Almighty Gale. She can be a bitch that way. The gumtrees that lined the avenue bent and groaned helpless in the sway of the cyclonic winds. Then I saw it – a bloody great tree branch hurling straight towards my windscreen.

Like many a movie cliche time slowed down. I watched stunned as the log inched towards us as if in slow motion. I didn’t however see my life flash before my eyes. My one thought was “you’ve got to be kidding! It can’t end today, I’ve only just found a half decent boyfriend and been promoted at work”.

Just when it looked like all was lost and I wouldn’t get to finish the report on the mining services company that I had been working on the log lowered its trajectory. It smashed into my radiator with a sickening thud. Water leaked out all over the road. Dadabs and I had been spared by a matter of inches. Talk about getting lucky!

The car limped into a side street and we walked back to the former Chez Abulous determined to restart our journey to the Gardens of the East in Dadabs chariot – a firey red Mazda 3. Brenda and David having avoided their demise lived on to become Mum and Dadabulous. Even the Mazda 121 carried on heroically for several more months until it was deemed unfit for a successful software developer to be seen in.

Since that day luck has been on my side and Game of Thrones is the closest I’ve come to experiencing another brush with death.

How about you? Have you ever stared your mortality in the face?



*If you noticed that very bad GoT pun, you are as nerdy as I am. High five!

OK – enough with the GoT references already.


Mojos MIA

At the moment I feel like I’m living in the Austin Powers universe. However instead of having a sassy code name such as Felicity Shagwell or Ivana Humpalot, I’m more like Ms Willa Knott. It’s as though Dr Evil  dispatched Fat Bastard to steal my Mojo with his high tech Mojo extractor.

Mumabulous is the latest victim of the Mojo extractor

Mumabulous is the latest victim of the Mojo extractor

I’m not talking about marital relations here. Thankfully for all I intend to stick to my pledge about not discussing that – what goes on between a vertically challenged middle aged couple stays between a vertically challenged middle aged couple. ( I hope you can scrub your mind clear of that mental image). Its more that my enthusiasm for certain mundane activities is waning.

My cooking mojo is missing in action

Decades ago the mother of an old flame said to me ” Daahling a woman faces two choices every day – what to wear and and what to cook”. As a first year economics student I was completely aghast. I’d never heard anything so antiquated. Fast forward twenty five years and I could see that the pearl and twin set wearing north shore matriarch who I completely disdained at the time had a point. Churning out meals and trying to make them even moderately interesting day after day is a major chore. I’ve got about 6 dishes on high rotation. Dadabs takes over the culinary duties on the weekend and knocks up Master Chef standard fare. Absolutely everything is plated up with style and garnished with fresh herbs from the garden no less. A humble sandwich is inedible without a decorative sprig of parsley.

After giving the matter all of 2 minutes of thought I initiated this seafood pizza.

After giving the matter all of 2 minutes of thought I initiated this seafood pizza.

My exercise mojo is missing in action

There is a reason why Mumabulous is NAWT a fitness blog. I’ll come right out and say that I do not enjoy working out (Although I dont mind bending my elbow or flexing my retina). Nevertheless I enjoy feeling fitter and trimmer as a result of exercise. Last year I was getting to the gym 3 to 4 times a week. This year sadly the effort/reward curve is flattening which is a fancy pants way of saying I couldn’t be bothered anymore.

The only time I’m get is after 8.30pm when the kids have gone to bed.  By then a comfy couch, a doona and series 4 of Game of Thrones via Chromecast awaits. I ask you blog fans – when faced with a choice between going for a walk in the frigid night air or sampling hawt leather clad dudes wielding swords what would you do?

Meanwhile unlike in Game of Thrones summer is coming and this is my bikini. Its a frightening prospect.

Summer is coming!

Summer is coming!

I really need to find my “Eye of the Tiger” or rather “Eye of the Cougar”, make like Rocky and get myself match fit.* Either that or invest in a sequinned leopard skin print kaftan.

Meanwhile my gym gear mocks me!

Meanwhile my gym gear mocks me!

Screw it - have a coffee instead.

Screw it – have a coffee instead.


My blogging mojo is missing in action

Have you noticed that the internet is currently awash with blogging tips and advice? Like the proverbial rebel without a clue I am completely ignoring all of it. Hence my lack of success as a blogger.

When it comes to blogging I'm the wild one.

When it comes to blogging I’m the wild one. (Brando was hawt for a nano-second 60 years ago.)

Recently I’ve read about the importance of having a niche in social media. “Niche” is defined by dictionary.com as “a shallow recess”. Last time I looked I was not in need of any recess either shallow or deep. What’s wrong blogging about anything and everything? I stick to the philosophy that Variety is a Spice Girl.

Similarly I am reading countless dissertations about finding your “authentic voice”, “letting your readers fall in love with the real you” yada, yada, yada. This theory completely discounts the joy of writing as a caricature. Brenda can authentically tell you that it is awesome fun to have an alter ego. Would you rather read Brenda’s authentic thoughts about domestic life or Mumabulous’ inauthentic thoughts about being a dirty old lady?

Has your mojo ever gone MIA? How did you get your groove back?

This is how Stella got her groove back. Lots like she's been at the gym.

This is how Stella got her groove back. Looks like she’s been at the gym.




*Some musical motivation to get myself back to the treadmill. Cue the strains of the Rocky theme song

“Its the eye of the cougar

Cops a perve at the gym

Checking out all the hunky young crumpets

And the free weights section

Is so entertaining

Cause she’s watching them all with the eyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Of the cougar.”




Get More Fabulous

In economic news just to hand I went shopping. Analysts are currently busy upgrading their forecasts for retail spending, consumer confidence and GDP accordingly. I didn’t just spend like a drunken sailor. My performance was more like Wayne Swan in 2009.  Unlike the nation my personal budget did not stray into deficit. However I managed to make a whopping great dent in the surplus.

I dont need to hire a spin doctor to put my own personal cash splash in a positive light. I was not squandering Dadabulous’ hard earned. I was investing it in the future of my fabulousness. OK – it wasn’t exactly national building stuff. It was more an exercise in “cougar” building. I have declared loudly and proudly many times on this blog my utter commitment to becoming a kooky old bag. With my 44th birthday fast approaching and a 12% increase in wrinklage according to the Ponds Institute (not to mention a few grey eyebrow hairs – WTF?), I’ve decided its high time to walk the talk.

Its time to unleash the animal within – specifically the cougar but the old cow gets a guernsy too. Its time to bring out the big guns – animal print.


With leopard print its double or nothing.

With leopard print its double or nothing.

And if you’ve got any attitude at all

you team your fur with pleather.

you team your fur with pleather.

Dadabulous wanted to know how many snakes were sacrificed to make this el cheapo knock off bag

the rest of that conversation is unprintable.

the rest of that conversation is unprintable.

Animal prints are fun but being a cougar can also be about pastels.  I purchased this age inappropriate woollen tunic from Review.

I luff it.

I luff it.

Then I imposed my own taste upon my seven year old. I am completely bummed that this didn’t come in adult size 10.

Like mother like daughter.

Like mother like daughter.

Meanwhile sunglasses must reflect the personality of the owner.

In my case bright 'n cheap.

In my case bright ‘n cheap.

A cougar needs a few good role models. I was inspired by the Real Housewives of Melbourne I decided to let my inner sparkle shine through.

Appropriate day wear.

Appropriate day wear dont you think?

I reflect like a disco ball in this baby. It can be a tad distracting in the office.

Finally as my life is a bed of roses my choice of clothing should reflect this. I purchased this wool tunic dress from a chain called Blue Illusion. I think the shop would be better named “Have no illusion – you shop in here you are old”. Still it looks smoking with opaque tights and boots and it hides a multitude of winter sins.

I have no illusions blue or otherwise.

I have no illusions blue or otherwise.

Who wants to join my on the journey to Cougar Town?

More importantly do you feel a personal sense of obligation to stimulate the economy starting with the retail sector?



Here'a a gratuitous beach shot!

Here’a a gratuitous beach shot!



A Love Letter

Dear Chez Abulous

We’ve been together for three and a half years now and that first flush of infatuation has not yet faded. I thought I knew what satisfaction was with the former Chez Abulous but you’ve lifted me to a entire level entirely. To be specific – a second level with a balcony. Up until January 2011 you were the stuff of my wildest fantasies. A two car garage and a patch of lawn in Sydney’s east was something I could only dream about. Then you came along and I fell instantly in love. Walking through your front door for the first time was like stepping into the Tardis. You were literally bigger on the inside. A quaint cottage’s facade giving way to a spacious modern home.

I said to Dadabs in my typical understated manner “If you want to make an offer I will not be upset about it”. He made an offer and within a week an obscene amount of paper work was thrust in our direction. But it was worth it. You were ours.

You can still surprize me with a hidden storage nook or an undiscovered light switch. The excitement is such that even after three and a half years I can’t things clean between you and I. Literally! Your bathrooms (count them 1,2,3,4,5) are reservoirs of dust and mildew.  The floors are almost permanently covered in a film of grot and the walk in wardrobes are a no go zone.  The gracious high ceilinged play room with the gorgeous bay window is a pit of despair most of the time.

Play room or pit of despair?

Play room or pit of despair?

We’ve loved and nurtured you over the past three years. We’ve swapped out all the lights for LEDs, fixed a multitude of plumbing issues, trimmed your hedges regularly and vacuumed your smooth and silky polished floorboards every god darn day. Why do you have to be so high maintenance? You’re not quite an Eastern beaches palace. You dont have full frontal water views. You have no pool (hence no excuse to hire a pool boy) not even one of the plunge variety. In your defense you do have a jet powered spa in the main ensuite but its still no justification for behaving like an Eastern Suburbs princess?

A hills hoist is a nice touch.

A hills hoist is a nice touch.

But we're constantly on hedge.

But we’re constantly on hedge.

Is it not enough that mould is slowly devouring our spacious faux marble kitchen? Or that I climb these stairs at least 30 times per day (and still have managed to gain weight)?

My ass-pirational staircase.

My ass-pirational staircase.

Now the poles supporting the upper balcony are corroding requiring an expensive fix. Like a trophy wife you constantly need “work” and you are a constant drain to the hip pocket. Infact Mum and Dadabulous working as a team are still not able to satisfy your needs. Perhaps we need a permanent staff to cater to your whims?

Getting "work done"

Getting “work done”

Yet like a bad love song, we remain hopelessly devoted despite all the heart ache you cause us. We will never leave you. Your location, location, location, your high ceilings and your splendifious tub have seduced us completely. That and the thought of moving and dealing with f$%king real estate agents again is too much to bear.

A magnificent tub.

A magnificent tub.

Eternally yours (or at least until the kids have us carted off to an aged care facility).


Dear Mumabulous

Talk about first world problems! Stop whining. You’d have time to clean me if you got your ever expanding ass off social media. You lazy sod.

Love Chez Abulous.

Do you have a complicated relationship with your family home?





Impure Thoughts

Its a good thing that most of us, at least when sober, have a filter that stops us from blurting out whatever happens to be on our minds. Today my filter is more like a sieve.

Kids craft

Its a marvelous thing to encourage and develop creativity in your child by doing craft activities with them. Its just a darn shame that what the kids produce is often such complete shite.

Pure craftsmanship.

Pure craftsmanship.

Chez Abulous is bursting at the seams with this kind of junk. The girls of course think this stuff is wonderful and I haven’t the heart to file their handiwork in the wheelie bin – yet.

Party down

I’m not sure what possessed us to make a paper mache pinata from scratch for P1′s impending 7th birthday party. I suppose we thought it was a wholesome craft activity that would encourage and develop creativity in our girls. One well worth the shite result at the end.

A masterpiece

A masterpiece?*

P1 is well chuffed by the way the pig (yes it is meant to be a pig) turned out and P2 wants one for her 5th birthday party in November. Only P2 wants us to buy her a pinata because “it’s quicker and it looks better”. Not only does P2 look like me, she thinks like me. Its a dangerous combination. Lock up your sons!

Rough Play

Dobbing has reared its ugly head in Chez Abulous. P1 took great delight in informing me that her sister was making Spiderman bash the Barbies with a miniature spatula. Of course we will not tolerate violent play in this household and P2 was promptly told off for “not being very nice”.  Nevertheless I thought to myself that those plastic biatches had it coming.

50 Shades of Spidey.

50 Shades of Spidey.

The joy of reading.

Dr Seuss is lauded for his contribution to children’s literacy but not for his contribution to parent’s sanity. My heart drops a little every time I am presented with this as bed time reading.

No but I can say &^% *&%$!!!!!

I am all for twisting my tongue but not around passages such as

Which beast is best?…Well, I thought at first
that the East was best and the West was worst.
Then I looked again from the west to the east
and I liked the beast on the east beach least.

No Theodor Seuss Geisel I can’t say that but I can say “Sod the Sod Orf!”.

Size Matters

I’ve come to the conclusion that size is far important to men than it is to women. Case it point, my husband thinks our TV is too small. Infact he is embarrassed to reveal it in front of his friends (some of which are extraordinarily well endowed televisually. Some of them have whoppers).

When it comes to screens size matters.

When it comes to screens size matters.

I argued that our television was perfectly formed and that anything more than a wall unit full is a waste. Dadabulous is unconvinced. He is so bothered by the issue he is seriously contemplating a surgical solution. He wants to adjust the wall unit (at considerable expense) and implant a larger screen. Men!


It’s politically incorrect to admit it but I spent Dadabulous’ hard earned money on these shoes.

Because I am in luuuurve.

Because I am in luuuurve.

I did not need them. I have no idea when I will get to wear them or even if I can still walk on a serious heel. Still they are the fabulous! I luff them.

I quit sugar! ( Hahahahahahaha – I almost had you there)

I was cruising down the aisle at a local Colesworths humming to myself “Hello I love you. Wont you tell me your name” – which Gen Y whippersnappers may or may not know is a classic tune by The Doors.

They were pretentious gits really - hawt though!

They were pretentious gits really – hawt though!

Anyhow imagine my surprise when I got a response in the confectionery section.

Oh my! You had me at Hello.

Oh my! You had me at Hello.

Its a fine thing for everyone when Lindt chocolate gets conversational. We’ve developed quite a rapport Caramel Brownie and I.

The ultimate First World Issue

The ultimate first world problem is the fact that when it comes to ice cream there is simply too much choice. How many hours have you whittled away in the freezer section of the the super market searching for a 1 litre tube of plain vanilla. Not vanilla with bourbon and hazelnut or elder flower or eye of newt – just simple vanilla for a cheeky spoonful here and there. Alas pretty much every flavor variant in existence except for vanilla. Homer Hudson used to produce a heavenly concoction appropriately named “Vanilla Nirvana” and no it had nothing to do with the band. That seems to have gone the way of the Violet Crumble bar which ironically can still be found in ice cream form.  A dude named Harry has gotten in on the act. He has developed a range of classic desserts in a tub.

Oh my! Harry!

Oh my! Harry!

If he ever put out a plain vanilla, I’d marry Harry.

What’s been on your mind?



* The pinata has since been painted.




Why I Write

Clear the decks blog fans because a big name is about to drop.

You’ve probably heard about the “Why I write” blog hop. Its origins are difficult to pin point but much like Errol Flynn’s (ahem) love it has been spread far and wide. Now it’s my turn.

Legend has it he was well practiced with his cross bow.

Oh My! There’s a legendary cross bow! (Not to mention the green tights)

I was tagged by Mrs Woog. CLANK!!!!!!!! (That was the sound of the name dropping). When Mrs Woog offers you a baton, you grab it and you run like hell to the finish line.

Therefore I give you a fascinating discourse on my illustrious writing career thus far.

What I’m Working On

Many bloggers tell you that they are working on a book. I am working on an entire set of books. They are called the accounts to my husband’s business. Its a riveting saga of international credit card sales, monthly salaries, business expenses, BAS, bank reconciliations and my husband’s spending at Bunnings. The series is utterly engrossing to myself, Dadabulous, our accountant and the tax man. To the world at large – perhaps not so much.

I don’t speak of it but there’s a little Barbra Cartland inside of me. It would be best for everyone if she stayed there. HONK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Waiting to burst forth from Mumabulous.

Waiting to burst forth from Mumabulous.

I have in mind – a bodice ripping romance novel. (Well I have the casting of the inevitable movie version in mind a little too often)*. Inspired by Horatio Horn(y)blower, it is a salacious tale of lust, betrayal and hawt men in britches on the high seas.

Oh my! Talk about rockin' the boat!

Oh my! Talk about rockin’ the boat!

I’d love to call it “A Young Woman’s Passage” but that would be leaning to heavily on Julian Clary. I doubt he’d stand for it.

JC med


 How Does My Writing Differ From Others In My Genre?

If you are one of the happy few who have been following Mumabs the answer is simple – the crumpet! This blog has a keener appreciation of the male form than any other in the “Mummy blogging” scene. This blog is differentiated by what it doesn’t have. There are no recipes or helpful hints. Nor is there anything emotionally resonant or  inspirational – unless you are inspired by this sort of thing.

ZOMG! Shirtless sword play !I be inspired!

ZOMG! Shirtless sword play!  I be inspired!

However it makes up for what it lacks in truly awful word play and double entendres.  Occasionally I lift my mind above the gutter and discuss things like science, politics and pop culture.

Why Do I Write

As a youngster I fantasized about  becoming a writer of fiction. Then I trained as an equity analyst and dreams came true. I had the great honor of perpetuating the mythology of the epoch (mid 2000s) – like the mining boom would be “stronger for longer” and “coal seam gas is good investment”.

Nowadays I view my writing as a community service. There are so many middle class mothers out there consumed with the tedium of raising kids, doing housework, balancing family life with paid employment, paying mortgages etc. These unsung heroes deserve an eyeful of steamin’ hawt crumpet and that is what I provide.  If there were a Nobel Prize for blogging I would a certain front runner. I’m sure Tony Abbott will draw from his suppository of wisdom and declare me a Dame.

Where the magic happens. Oh Ah - I have been sprung looking at obscene material again.

Where the magic happens. Oh Ah – I’ve been sprung looking at obscene material again.

How Does My Writing Process Work

Or not work as the case may be. Usually a smart arse comment will pop into my head – something like “Kim Kardashian has an arse-iscistic personality disorder”**. I will try to construct a post around that. On other occasions my husband will say something quirky or funny and I’ll feel compelled to lampoon him online. Sometimes I find myself feeling strongly about a political issue (like the recent Federal budget) and I’ll attempt to put something half sensible down about it.

I usually swish ideas around in my head for a few days before hitting the keyboard. Then I find that I can bash out 700 words quite quickly. The image sourcing takes more time but its a labor of love.

And now I’d like to pass the baton over to two lovely ladies whose wit and wisdom never fails to entertain. I present to you

Pinky Poinker

She’s precariously clinging to sanity one day at a time


Pinky-Banner-blocks-940x200 med


My Mid-Life Mayhem

The awful truth about middle age



Over to you ladies. Why do YOU write?

And a great BIG thanks to Mrs Woog. You’ve been very supportive of my humble efforts and it is truly appreciated. You are a good egg.




* Tom Hiddleston as Max Naughtious, a very cheeky young naval captain and Viggo Mortensen as Sir Richard (Dick) Dudley a cuckolded husband. (Face it Tom Hiddleston one of only about five people I might consider cuckolding Viggo for. Viggo is hawt)

** Actually not my line. It belongs to our friend  Mr Happy Camper.




Singleabulous Meets Red Brother

The year was 2003. Under Peter Costello’s masterful stewardship the Australian economy was buoyant. My mood however was considerably less so. In fact my 33rd year was an epic pity party for one. On the face of it I was Carrie Bradshaw. I was Singleabulous. I had a job in stockbroking which could be made to sound more glamorous than it was and the bank owned my chic inner city apartment. I rocked a mini skirt and knee boots.

I  whined to anyone who would listen about not being able to find a man but truth was Singleabulous found her fair share of men. You don’t need to look too hard – the big end of town is littered with Mr Bigs. The trouble is the their full name too often happens to be Mr Big Ego, Mr Big Player or Mr Big Overgrown 12 year old rather than Mr Big Commitment. Sadly (or perhaps luckily) most of them were in the immortal words of Jack Berger “not that into” me.



Of course I blamed myself and my general lack of beauty, sass and style. You could call it depression. I look back at the sorry episode and kick myself for being such a god damn wuss but bear with me – I snapped out of it.

After having my heart broken by a very hawt but very, very naughty boy (this dude could rival Russel Brand for womanizing) common sense finally smacked me in the face – HARD.

My old "boyfriend". Can't say it wasn't fun.

My old “boyfriend”. Can’t say it wasn’t fun.

The time had come to say “No to crap”. A change of attitude was well over due. I resolved to keep looking until I found someone who’d treat me with respect and consideration and not to settle for anything less than that.

Spurred on by another single girlfriend I visited a local tarot reader. Seeing psychics is not something you generally do when things are going well. It’s a sign that you’re desperate enough to pay to hear some good news. I got what I paid for. The tarot reader told me that there was a bad influence in my life and once I got rid of that person things would improve. No shit. Secondly she pulled this card -

A new emotional beginning.

A new emotional beginning.

” I see a new relationship for you”. “Yeh right” I thought “isn’t that what they all say”. She informed me also that I would be having a career change which would involve writing and I would be moving homes. Basically I was about to win the trifecta.

I promptly asked Russel to stop calling. Fast forward a couple of months and I found myself alone in the office on Christmas eve. One of the dealers had been checking out the dating site RSVP earlier in the day and I  let curiosity get the better of me.  Not long after logging in I spotted an interesting profile – a smokin’ hawt scientist on secondment from the University of Colorado. The guy had the looks of Eric Stolz and a PhD. It was worth a shot. I’d made an ass of myself for far less. I signed on. Part of me felt like I had truly hit rock bottom.

I never met the scientist. I did however connect with a conga line of interesting characters – a pilot, a guy who owned an ad agency, a couple of IT guys, a Federal police officer, a property analyst, some marketing types and one pathological liar. Amid this smorgasbord I noticed a cute red headed chap with the code name “Red Brother”. He was seeking “an intelligent woman for a long term relationship”. I ignored it because I interpreted an “intelligent woman” as a career high flyer.  As it turned out Red Brother contacted me.

He wasn’t the type to faff about with flirtatious texts and emails. Instead he rang me and suggested that we meet up. A date was arranged on a Tuesday evening at The Nags Head pub in Glebe. I headed off that night dressed in my trademark tartan and fierce heels with a strange sense that my RSVP odyssey was about to end. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking. My internet dating experience had been a roller coaster ride worthy of its own blog. I was ready to get off – or should I say disembark?


The scene of the crime.

The scene of the crime.

Red Brother wasn’t hard to spot in the milling crowd at the bar. Luxurious red curls tied into a pony tail, alabaster skin and eyes of china blue, dressed in a hip bomber jacket and lace up boots.  I immediately introduced myself and blurted out something uncool like “Wow – you’re better than your profile pic”. He saw my dagginess and raised it. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever dated”. Blushing “You need to get out more”.

Fast forward one year and we shacked up – that was the moving home. Shortly afterwards I was promoted to the role of trainee research analyst, a new job involving writing. I guess I won the trifecta.

Ten years on we’re Mum and Dadabulous and our life is a ten of cups – but of course Dadabs (aka Red Brother) doesn’t believe in that shite.

Team Abulous

Team Abulous

Have you ever had your cards read?



PS: Finding love online was never part of the ideal narrative for me. I also hoped that some enchanted evening I would see a stranger across a crowded room yada yada yada. Yet the whole thing fell perfectly into place – where else would you expect to met a software guru but on the internet. Give it a go single ladies.





I am not a connoisseur of reality TV but  will admit to liking Wife Swap. There was something compelling watching women go into another family’s home for the purpose of bossing them around for a week. Unlike most reality juggernauts the Wife Swap franchise didn’t  take off in Australia. There was one series on the Lifestyle channel which sank with barely a ripple. I think its high time this brand was revitalized. I propose that in order to give it a fresh twist we swap out public figures instead of wives. I have some choice candidates in mind.

Wouldn’t it be fun to swap

Christopher Pyne for

There's a mincing poodle face.

There’s a mincing poodle face.

Christopher Pine.

Now that’s my kind of dawg.

Joe Hockey for

C'mon Joe the economy needs a bigger stimulus package than that!

C’mon Joe the economy needs a bigger stimulus package than that!

Joe Manganiello

Oh my. There's a lifter not a leaner.

Oh my. There’s a lifter not a leaner.

Clive Palmer for


clive palmer med


Jabba the Hutt

Jabba is slightly less self interested and will take up less space in the Parliament.

Jabba is slightly less self interested and will take up less space in the Parliament.

In the interests of balance and non-partisanship let’s swap

Bill Shorten for

That stimulus package is more like it.

Don’t exeggerate about your stimulus package Bill.

Bill Granger

He could cook up some better alternative policies.

He could cook up some better alternative policies.

Greg Combet for

GC med

A Kombi van

This ol' jalopy could take the ALP further.

This ol’ jalopy could take the ALP further.

In the media I suggest we swap

Miranda Devine for

Queen of the poison pen

Queen of the poison pen


The fat man in drag is slightly less scary.

The fat man in drag is slightly less scary.

Shane Warne for



a bottle of fake tan.

Its basically the same thing but without the annoying tweets.

Its basically the same thing but without the annoying tweets.

And for the climactic finale I propose we swap

Tony Abbott for

He calls it a stimulus package.

He calls it a stimulus package.

for a drovers dog.


because a drover's dog could have won the last election.

because a drover’s dog could have won the last election.

On the to keep list I would include: Richard Fidler, Annabel Crab, Karl Kruszelnicki, Guy Pearce, Hamish and Andy, Shaun Micallef and Dadabulous.

What swaps would you like to arrange?

Who is on your keep list?









Opinions. They’re like cellulite. Most of us have some. Some have more than others. Its no fun talking to those who have none at all. I’m often hesitant to reveal mine – my opinions that is. Today I am going to step outside of my proverbial comfort zone and tackle a subject that  provokes passion in even the most polictically unengaged. That is the big F – Feminism.

Before I dive into these murky waters let me clarify a few things. Of course I am a feminist. Last time I looked I had lady bits. I’ve also got two gorgeous, bright, feisty daughters. Naturally I believe that women should be equally represented in the workplace, in public life and in the community. Of course I am opposed to violence against women. I am opposed to violence against men and horses too for that matter.

Caitlin Moran a writer who has smashed the cliches about humourless, man hating, hairy feminists sums up my position perfectly thus;

CM med


I’m neither ‘pro-women’ nor “anti-men.” I’m just “Thumbs up for the six billion.”

So we’ve established that I count myself as a feminist BUT (you knew a but was coming) I am disappointed by much of the feminist commentary in our main stream media. Frankly there’s alot of fluffy click bait masquerading as feminism out there. I have no problem with fluffy click bait but we’ve got serious issues to discuss right now.

The body image chestnut gets rolled on a basis. This piece by Clementine Ford had me banging my head against my desk.


The article is about a US comedian who based a routine around encouraging women to love and accept their bodies. Clementine slammed him for being condescending. She reasoned that women’s hatred of the bodies runs far deeper than seeking approval from men. That may be true – women are judged and valued for their looks to a far greater extent than men are. However this poor sod was trying to do the right thing. He was taking a stand against society’s increasingly impossible standards of beauty and telling us we are loved and accepted as we are. Surely this is a step in the right direction? One wonders if it is possible for a man to say anything right?

The body image band wagon rolled on with this


Indiana’s entrant in the recent Miss USA pageant caused a social media meltdown because her perfectly proportioned and well toned figure is not skeletal.

Miss Indiana.

Miss Indiana.

I doubt most men would “kick her out” as it were. “Attractive woman in a beauty pageant” makes for an unsurprising headline. I’m wondering why in 2014 we are still having these pageants.  Ironically thanks to feminism women have the right to parade around in heels and bikinis if they wish. Nevertheless in the interests of true equality I ask where are the male pageants? ( I’m not talking body building here – that is considered a sport)  I would love to see a gaggle of be-speedoed hunks strutting their stuff on stage. I would happily express shock on social media if – for example, Mr Indiana’s biceps were smaller than his head.

Speaking of scantily clad men, today’s Sydney Morning Herald carried this.


In case you were unaware (yeh right) there is an Instagram site called Porn for Women. It features shirtless hunks gazing broodily into the camera – and Alecia Simmonds is complaining about this. Seriously? Apparently the site is neither porny nor ethnically diverse enough. This could be easily remedied by setting up a rival site called “Pornier and ethnically diverse porn for women”.

I pride myself on thorough research and headed to Instragram immediately. I too was disgruntled by what I found. Tom Hiddleston is woefully under represented as are Damien Lewis, Eddie Redmayne, Rupert Grint and Alexander Ludwig**. There is a shameful bias against Rangas on this site. Whilst it featured Tom Hardy a plenty (not a problem) there was NO Colin Firth! How could any self respecting Porn for Women exclude Mr Darcy in that shirt?

No Darcy on Porn for Women? That's a feminist issue!

No Darcy? That’s a feminist issue!

To the mainstream media I say – whilst things have improved dramatically for women over the past few decades there’s still a long way to go. I want to see articles dealing with issues like the under representation of women in leadership both in business and government. We need more discussion about work/life balance. More seriously some of the measures in recent Federal Budget will be catastrophic for the most vulnerable women in society – eg cuts to funding of women’s refuges. We need the feminist press to make a big loud noise about this NOW.

Am I looking for wisdom in all the wrong places?

What do you think of the current feminist dialogue?

Who are your favorite commentators?

I welcome your dissent but not if you disagree about Colin Firth.


*  Clementine Ford is a fierce campaigner against violence against woman and has copped much flack on social media for daring to have an opinion. Some of it has been threatening and quite vile. On the whole I admire her courage but I dont agree with everything she’s written.

** Google him – YOU wont regret it.