Hits & Old Skool

What Not To Wear

A friend of mine who has three kids yet has somehow managed to maintain a go ahead career and something resembling a social life has invited me along to the Dita Von Teese burlesque show – Strip, Strip Hooray!

Given the need to get my voluminous butt out of the house I agreed. Now I find myself shelling out good money to watch a woman disrobe. That’s just not normal for me. Dadabs reaction when I requested a leave pass was ‘so Dita is going to tease you for a couple of hours is he?’

‘Urm…. Dita’s a woman.’

Guess Dadabs feels cheated that I’m going to a girlie show while he minds the kids. Anyhow the whole burlesque thing isn’t meant to be pervy (so I tell myself). Its about sensuality, glamour and style – qualities I lack in droves.

At forty five I’m in the worst shape of my life and I’m tired . My stripper name should be something like Frau Von Frumpenstein Das Hausen Wiven.  My signature move – kicking off my house slippers with reckless abandon and backflipping onto the couch.

I’m not sure that watching a gorgeous and well maintained woman cavorting in a martini glass is going to do much for my ego.


This is helping me – how?

Meanwhile a more pressing question is what does one wear to such an event? A rhinestone g-string and nipple tassles being out of the question. Any suggestions would be fully appreciated but it’ll have to something stretchy (which rules out a corset!).

Dita-Von-Teese in corset

What I won’t be wearing to see Dita..

Hits and Old Skool 

The car radio is currently on some music station – I think its 2day fm. Being the turbo nerd that I am I’d prefer ABC 702 but its not worth the kids whinging. Its not that I’m complaining about the music of today (I’d quite happily go Downtown with Macklemore or Eat Cake by the Ocean with Joe Jonas. Even Bieber is approaching tolerable lately).

The problem is this station’s slogan -‘Hits and Old Skool’. The don’t have the faintest notion as to what ‘old skool’ actually is. ‘And coming up we’ve got some old skool R&B’ the announcer will declare before dragging out some Beyonce or Rhianna. I’ve got no beef with either of these but THEY ARE NOT OLD SKOOL!!!!!! In fact if it happened after 1990 it ain’t Old Skool!

I still think Blur’s Song 2 (1997)  is a radically fresh beat – Wooohooo, Wooooooohooooooo!


Blur are on flek! Not at all Old Skool!

To my mind Old Skool is Mick Jagger not getting any Satisfaction.


I call bullshit! Mick Jagger gets oodles of Satisfaction on daily basis and has done so since 1963.

Old Skool is Marc Bolan getting it on, banging a gong.

Marc Bolan.jpg

T-Rex putting the glam in glam rock circa 1971.

It’s Chaka Khan knocking you out at 20 paces with the sheer might of those vocals. (The Jasmine Thompson cover of Aint Nobody was a travesty)


Chaka Khan – Old Skool soul queen.

Nevertheless the cognizanti at 2-Day Fm insist on calling stuff that was released this century ‘old skool’. Someone needs to skool them…


This guy could teach a thing or two about Old Skool.

Netflix and Chill

Kids these days. Not only do they not comprehend the concept of ‘Old Skool’, they use the term Netflix and Chill as a euphemism for doing the business, hiding the salami, getting nasty, taking the skin boat to tuna town, banana in the fruit salad, attacking the pink fortress and jamming the clam.

To me this is debasing the noble act of vegetating in front of the tele. In middle age an evening reclining in front of box is a more enticing prospect than metaphoric netflix and chill except perhaps when this is on………


Errrrrmaaaaagaaaaaaawd!!!!!! I am ashamed that this masterpiece of hunksplotation escaped my attention for this long.  However now that I am aware of it I am honor bound as a cougar to spread the word. So here goes –

Outlander focuses on an unreasonably hawt  man swashbuckling around the Scottish highlands circa 1740 in a kilt.

Outlander 2014

Meet my latest fancy – Sam Heughan

I won’t go into the complex machinations of the plot save to say that if this crumpet had a dating profile he’d list his hobbies as sword fighting and folk-dancing (of the horizontal variety – talk about a Highland fling – Oh my!) It’s quite remarkable how much netflix and chill goes (ahem) down in 18th century Scotland considering that Netflix was not founded until 1997 and Don Draper invited chill in the 1960s.

My husband sums the whole thing up with  comments like ‘this is descending into soft porn’ and ‘this guy sees more action in one episode than most men do in a month.’ Yes well – I wonder why? Take my sage advice cougars – you need to cop an eyeful.

Meanwhile its mildly disconcerting that Dadabs is watching Outlander with me but won’t sit through Vikings. Must be all of those Scottish tits……

You may also like –



Aiden Turner does the hardest smolder since Mr Darcy

and Peaky Blinders


Cillan Murphey’s a sharp dressed man. 

Have you been a burlesque show?

What’s your definition of Old Skool?

Got any Netflix and chill recommendations for this old cougar?



Bonus Material – Buffet of Crumpets (Oooops – I mean Game of Thrones ) discussion.

Warning: Contains Spoilers and is deadly boring for non fans.

It’s no secret that I, like millions of middle class people with too little excitement in their lives, am obsessed by Game of Thrones. Not obsessed enough to actually read the books – God no! I want to actually see the crumpets.

Anyhow Season 6 is in full tilt and I am completely enthralled by the goings on in Westeros (and indeed Essos) despite some of the plot points being quite preposterous. I mean the Pyke stuff is eye roll inducing – Balon Greyjoy  pushed off a rickety suspension bridge? This is NOT the Star Wars canon….

That aside there are some engrossing developments afoot. The storyline I am cheering hardest for revolves around my 2nd favorite character* – that kick ass dame Brienne and that big hunk of ginger lurve – Tormund. I just adore what the internet is doing with this pairing.


People have time to do shite like this – it’s awesome!

Unfortunately now that something kinda’ sweet is happening I fear the worst because Benioff and Weiss are assholes.  I’m deeply concerned that

a) Brienne will get killed off before she gets to experience pure unbridled wildling passion


b) Worse still – Tormund will finally wear Brienne down and she’ll finally cop some sweet lovin’. The Bri-mund consummation will happen at exactly the same moment Jaime decides that twincest is for chumps and rides out to find her. Oooops. It never rains but it pours….

Jaime and Brienne

I told you before – this is NOT the Star Wars canon!

*Tyrion – FTW!!!!!


Job Interview Hell

It is oft said that ‘hell is other people.’ To me this phrase is a bit vague and nebulous. Other people (red headed actorly crumpets for instance) can be heavenly. A more accurate idiom would be  ‘hell is other people interviewing you for a job’.

I have a great and inglorious track record when it comes to stuffing up job interviews and unlike the Split Enz song* – history has been repeating itself of late.

I hope history does not repeat this look.

I hope history does not repeat this look.

In a quest to a add a bit more work to my work/life balance I turned my attention to the online job sites once more. The good news is that I seem to have this cover letter/ resume malarkey worked out and scored several call backs. The bad news is  that I’ve endured a handful of interviews. Sadly the process is not becoming easier with age and experience. On the contrary interviews are becoming even more painful as middle age erodes my tolerance for bullshit and wankery.

The circle of hell known as the job interview

The circle of hell known as the job interview

One dude, who was (at least superficially) a successful middle aged executive, told me that he pretty much had me sussed on the basis of the crappy personality test I’d filled out before our meeting. Given that this probing multiple choice questionaire had provided all the information he needed, the purpose of the interview was to see if I behaved in accordance with my ‘authentic self’. Yes – the 50-something balding dude in a suit with a strong track record in accountancy actually said this.

He went on to explain that if I was not my ‘authentic self’ he would know because he has an uncanny knack for picking up fakery. Kind of like having a well tuned Gaydar but for fakes not homosexuals. He could sense a fauxmo-sexual at twenty basis. Righto – I suppressed an eye roll (my God it took some strength) and considered myself warned.

Then he asked the killer question – ‘what would you do if you could choose any job in the world?’ There is no way in hell an irrespressible cougar like me can answer this question ‘authentically’. I rattled off a rehearsed spiel about how I love being on the coal face of small business. Its so much more rewarding than laboring as a nameless cog in a soulless multi-national corporation doncha know. I guess dude’s Spidey senses detected the inauthenticity I was spouting.

A more authentic career aspiration for me is a head features writer for  The Onion. If only I could thrash out gold like ‘Seagull with diarrhea barely makes it to crowded beach’, I would know complete professional fulfillment.



Alternatively I see myself as a Hollywood casting agent with a very comfy couch specializing in male leads. (But don’t we all).

Failing the above, I would reinvent myself as a wardrobe assistant on the set of Vikings. The thing is I would be rather incompetent. Clive Standen’s shirt would regularly go missing. With hard work and study I am sure I could progress to losing Travis Fimmel and Alexander Ludwig’s shirts as well. Perhaps I could orchestrate the series first entirely shirtless episode. Cougars everywhere would applaud my artistry.

Here's Travis Fimmell - dressed by a competent wardrobe assistant.

Here’s Travis Fimmel – dressed by a competent wardrobe assistant.

Anyhow I am sure you understand that there is no way I could be authentic about any of this in an interview situation with a middle aged accountancy dude albeit one with Spidey senses. Needless to say I did not get the job.

A week later I found myself sitting opposite a tall dark handsome crumpet with geometric sideburns. That bit was OK. The annoying thing was that Mr Sideburns wanted to set two hours to extract my entire life story – without evening buying me a drink. Seriously Hunky McSideburns said he had to follow company protocol which meant deconstructing every fucking line on my resume.


Here’s the thing – I am 45 years old and I have been known to enjoy an adult beverage. The nineties are kind of a blur. I simply can not remember my life story. I

I was fudging along OK when Hunky McSideburn’s boss walked in. This dude was wearing a tailored suit of blue and white check and sporting – a blonde man bun!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

WANKER ALERT! WANKER ALERT!! – the warning siren going off in my head was so damn loud that I am surprised the entire office floor did not hear it.

Call me old fashioned but for the man bun is like so 2013 and only acceptable if;

a) You are a Viking.

b) You are a hawt barista in a hipster cafe.

c) You are this guy.

He would be right at home on the set of Vikings

NEVER EVER should the man bun be teamed with a suit – let alone an obviously tailored number in edgy blue and white check.**

Anyhow that it turns out that you can judge a book by its cover. Blondie McManbun revealed himself to be a long term resident of Wanker Town. He referred to himself as a ‘digital nomad’. This does not mean he has wandering fingers – which admittedly would be interesting. Rather he viewed himself as some kind of internet age gypsy who swans about spending summers at Byron and winters at Aspen. The work/life balance see-saw is definitely tilted towards ‘life’ as he checks in on his stable of internet businesses  between swimming/surfing/skiing/sinking expensive piss/boinking etc etc Every couple of months he’ll jet into Sydney or NY to talk to his people before heading off on his merry way. His carbon footprint growing larger and larger with all the indulgent air travel and the hot air emanating from his LinkedIn profile. Don’t you just hate it when wankers are having a thoroughly better time than you?

Needless to say I turned the job down in favor of another position. The interview for that one only lasted 20 minutes and they shouted me a coffee!!! The choice was a no-brainer.


Is your tolerance for bullshit decreasing with age?

What’s your ideal job?

Man buns – hate ’em or rate ’em?



*History Never Repeats 1981 – Jezuz! I am old.

*Kit Harrington is the only individual permitted to rock the suit/man bun combo on account of his excessive hawtness. Oh my! Talk about putting the erection in resurrection Jon Snow.

kit and nikolaj

Kit with his man bun and some Nikolaj because this is Mumabs and I over-deliver.

But what about Jared Leto ? – I hear some cougars cry… Can Jared Leto not rock the man bun along side Kit Harrington?


To that I say NO!! Jared Leto is a wanker. A beautiful wanker but a wanker nonetheless.









All the celebrity deaths

If it seems like celebrities have been dropping off in unusually high numbers lately, there’s a good explanation for that. It’s because they are. According to the BBC – five obituaries were broadcast in the first quarter of 2012. This year the number skyrocketed to 24  – and that was before Prince. Writing celebrity obituaries is a growth industry it seems. (Sadly the only growth area in journalism).

Of course this trend has been analysed to (ahem) death. My Facebook feed is overflowing with pieces from New Scientist, IFLS (I F*$king Love Science) and other turbo nerd publications elucidating  the phenomena.

According to the boffins, the celebrity death spree is down to two factors. 1) A timing issue – many of departed rose to prominence during the 70s and 80s and are getting old. Old people have a higher propensity to die than the general population. 2) Its a numbers game – for better or worse (I’d say worse) there are more celebrities nowadays. Back in the 1960s you had Elvis, the Beatles, the Stones and a hand full of movie stars. Fast forward to 2016 and just about any turkey with a webcam can become a global super star.  It logically follows that in a growing celebrity population, more of them will be available to cark at any given time.

What does this mean for YOU? Perhaps you’re life will become a litany of despair as more and more of your favorite crumpets shuffle off in a conga line of doom. You’ll dread switching your phone on in the morning for fear that yet another of your idols has slipped away depriving you of both eye candy and inspiration.

Or perhaps (and I think this more likely) ‘celebrity death fatigue’ will become a thing. Personally I would feel more bereaved by the passing of Prince if it had not been for the double whammy of David Bowie and Alan Rickman back in January. That was a hard month for us all and it depleted me of most of the hoots I had to give. The sad news about Prince was greeted merely with a loud ‘Oh Shit!’ and a subsequent side eye from my husband for swearing.

For my husband who was not a huge Prince fan (he likes Coldplay which proves that he saved all of his good taste  for choosing a wife) the event was a reminder of our own mortality. ‘Its a good thing we’re not getting close to that age’ he said ironically. I pointed out that there was a big lifestyle gap between ourselves and Prince to which he responded ‘not in my imagination.’ Oh dear. My husband is a man of many talents – none of them musical. His name is David and he’s not funky. (To be fair I doubt Prince could fix anyone’s computer problems).

We can safely conclude that Dadabs wasn’t greatly affected but I kinda was and now I’m going to to tell you how I feel…

David Bowie

My High School girl posse was introduced to Bowie’s more avant garde works by a shady group of boys from a neighboring school. That lot listed their hobbies as listening to Bowie man, smoking weed  man and railing aimlessly against our soulless capitalist society man. Those dudes faded out of my life and into their own drug haze shortly after but my appreciation of Bowie continued to grow. It peaked in middle age when I starting mixing Bowie and NZ pinot noir to self medicate when world events became to heavy. The prospect of a ‘Star man waiting in the sky’ was a comforting one.

smokin' Bowie med

Smoking is not cool kids – wait a minute….

As this is the Mumabs blog respect must be paid to Bowie’s divine hawtness.  David Bowie was one outrageously smokin’ hawt individual. That magnificent bone structure, the otherworldly mismatched eyes, the graceful line of his slender body. Angelically beautiful yet downright dirty. (Phew is it getting hawt in here or is menopause kicking in?).

When Facebook heralded the news of his passing, it was a shock. Afterall he’d just completed a comeback album and was looking fiercely fine for a man nearing 70.

I doubt there’ll be another Bowie – he was an innovator in some many ways and he informed much of the post punk, new wave and British indie music I was drawn to back in the day. Ashes to ashes…funk to funky. Vale Bowie..

Bowie med

He’s the same age as my Dad! How is that fair!

Alan Rickman

So the gaping Bowie shaped hole in my heart was still weeping when a few days later THWACK! comes the news of Alan Rickman’s passing. “Oh No! I really liked him’, I told my husband. What I did not tell my husband and what the avalanche of tributes and obituaries did not say was ‘Damn that man was sexy!’

Yes someone has to say it and that someone is the Mumabs. Alan Rickman was so freakin’ sexy!  Even playing a penis-less angel in the 1999 film Dogma he was sex on legs. (Something I fear GoT actor Alfie Allen will not achieve for Theon Greyjoy ) That film also featured Ben Affleck and Matt Damon – Alan blew those light weights away.

My fandom began with Die Hard. The movie was on the TV one evening. I wasn’t really watching but I overheard that voice pontificating at Bruce Willis. If anyone deserves to cop a good monologue its Bruce Willis. My ears pricked up. That voice was the richest, creamiest, sexiest I had ever heard. It was aural sex. Of course I had to check out the visuals and I was not disappointed. Soon I was rooting (in a manner of speaking) for the bad guy Hans Gruber.

Alan Rickman’s darn freaking sex appeal is the key takeaway of Die Hard, the entire Harry Potter franchise, Sense and Sensibility, Truly Madly Deeply et al (Galaxy Quest not so much).  The world is orders of magnitude less crumpety for his departure.

hans-gruber med

Hans Gruber – sexiest screen villain ever.

Sense and sensibility med

How Kate Winslet resisted him in Sense and Sensibility is a mystery.


As anyone who’d experienced him in concert would attest, Prince had super powers. I had that privilege during the 1992 Diamonds and Pearls tour. During one number his Royal Purpleness sat down at his grand piano, guitar strapped to his back and began banging out some magic. Then he leaped atop his piano and started up an intense guitar solo. He jumped again, guitar firmly in hand, did a somersault, landed in the splits and continued playing.

Prince med.jpg

There are certain things that only Prince could do – this look is one of them.

In my view that’s impressive. Only a handful of people of people possess that combination of musical genius and athleticism. Lenny Kravitz (the next artist I saw live) certainly didn’t – playing his entire gig obviously stoned as a crow.


That’s just gratuitous Mumabs.

Intensely private, it was difficult to gauge what the real Prince was like or whether he actually owned a pair of tracksuit pants. But its irrelevant really. Just as the girl in the raspberry beret knew how to give a kiss Prince knew how to write a song. I’d go as far as saying he was the best song writer of our generation.

I’m sure most people’s desert island playlist includes something from Prince’s expansive catalogue. My all time favorite is Little Red Corvette – ‘honey you’ve got to slow down. Honey I said the little red corvette, cause if you don’t you’re gonna run your body right to the ground.

If only he’d taken his own advice.

Little red corvetter

My fav Prince track!

Who do you miss the most? Any bets on who’s leaving the building next? My money’s on George Michael.








School Concerts – the Agony & the Ecstasy (but mostly the agony)

The Primary School Concert – an annual event which has been striking fear into the hearts of parents, teachers and students for decades. Frankly its time somebody stood up and asked ‘Hasn’t this gone on long enough?’

Dadabulous vividly recalls being forced to play the glockenspiel in front of an audience at the Sutherland Entertainment Centre during the late 1970s. Surely this must have contravened the Geneva Convention. That he made it to middle age without  psychological scarring is testimony to his strength of character. My memories are unarguably even more traumatic. In 1981, at the Gymea Bay Primary School Hall, my 5th grade class was coerced into miming along to a medley of Rolf Harris songs. Oh the humanity!

Implement of torture.

Implement of torture.

The early 80s was an unenlightened era. We failed to recognize true perversion even when it was staring us  in the face. ‘Two little boys had two little toys’, ‘Tie me kangaroo down sport ‘ and shudder ‘Jake the peg with my extra leg’ all seemed perfectly normal at the time. It is only with the benefit of hindsight that we can see how sick and twisted it truly was.  Fortunately things were better for the rest of my school – but not much. For instance a 4th Grade class was made to do a lack luster dance routine to The Captain and Tennille. Whilst love kept the whole thing together  – just, all I can say is DONT do that to me one more time. (Boom Tish)*

Won't somebody think of the children?

Won’t somebody think of the children?

Obviously Australian society has failed to learn from the mistakes of the past and the Primary School Concert baton has been handed to to a new generation. Our turn rolled around last Friday evening. It was two hours of my life that I would have otherwise spent scrolling aimlessly through Facebook and drinking Shiraz.

The anticipation had been mounting for weeks, particularly for my eight year old. Many hours had been dedicated to rehearsing and getting every detail just right. I even participated in a costume making bee – sans alcohol. It was a tough afternoon of sewing but I ploughed on, without alcohol, for the sake of the children. Finally the big night arrived and families converged en mass upon the Parade Theatres at NIDA. (Of course it was at F%#king NIDA! This is the Eastern beaches doncha know!).  The venue so reeked of artiness that all of the bar men were dressed in black and bespectacled. I spent half and hour in the queue for a champagne as one does at the theatre.

Richard Roxburgh went to NIDA and he is really HAWT!

Richard Roxburgh went to NIDA and he is really HAWT!

I barely had time to skoll my bubbles before the performance bell rang. We ambled to our front row seats to spend the next 90 minutes with our necks crooked at an awkward angle.  The show revolved around a loose narrative about two kids being swept up in a world of ‘imagination’. The storyline threaded together a series of unrelated and yet remarkably similar dance routines.

The children journeyed through the jungle where they were confronted by bear like creatures shimming to “I like to move it move it”. They evaded pirates and ended up on the bottom of the ocean where scores of jelly fish and sharks grooved away to the disco hit Working At the Car Wash. In keeping with the oceanic theme the Kindy class performing ‘Somewhere beyond the sea’ almost had an epic fail. The entire group of twenty simply stopped mid routine. The tension was unbearable for a moment or two before they rebooted and finished the number. The biggest laugh however came from a Year One class who were doing a disco version of the Oompa Loompa song. (Yes – such a thing exists). It took them several attempts to position themselves correctly before the act began. The shuffling about elicited whoops of laughter from the crowd and a mighty cheer once the music started up.

The disco Oompa Loompas were a huge hit.

The disco Oompa Loompas were a huge hit.

Finally 90 minutes passed and everybody emerged with their dignity largely intact (unlike 1981). I tip my hat to the school teachers. Getting young kids to dance in unison is like herding cats. Even with months of rehearsal they simply lack the coordination to move in time with 20 class mates. Additionally most people are not natural performers. The prospect of shaking groove thang in front of 700 parents is terrifying. The majority of the kids moved stiffly like footballers mouthing the national anthem. Around 5% relished the attention, played up to the audience and wiggled like their lives depended on it. Raw talent played no part in determining which children fell into which group.  It’s a metaphor for life beyond the school ground.

The debrief continues at Chez Abulous with my girls requiring a deconstruction of their performances. ‘Mum. Did you see me?’, Mum was I the best in my class?’, ‘Who was the best in the class?’ The only answer is of course ‘You were beautiful darling. I loved it’. Meanwhile your soul is drenched in deep relief that you dont have to endure any more of this until next year.

School concerts haven’t they been going on long enough? Love or loathe?





*  A bad play on Captain and Tennille song lyrics that anyone under the age of 40 probably wouldn’t get.

On second thoughts DONT!

On second thoughts DONT!





Book Week Mayhem

So, as if you didn’t know its Book Week. I could was lyrical about how this event is a wonderful way for the young and the young at heart to celebrate the magic of reading. But this is Mumabulous. I’m going to blog about how for most parents Book Week is a pain in the derriere.

I’m sure you can relate to the following scenario – You are flat out juggling your high powered career (meaning two menial part time jobs) with family and you’re ability to cope is less than stellar. Your house is a bomb site and your blog is deader than Jon Snow. (There’s a 75% chance that Jon Snow will be resurrected, Mumabulous not so much).  Worse still you’ve suffered an horrific weight gain because you cant get to the gym but won’t stop drinking to compensate. Then you skim the school news letter and discover that Book Week is fast approaching.

You think to yourself “Sod Orf School! The last thing I want to do is procure two book character costumes outta my wazoo. That would eat into the dwindling reservoir of time I have to faff about listening to Richard Fidler podcasts and googling Clive Standen shirtless. Ah Clive its been so long I can barely remember what you look like…

It's all coming back to me now. And incidentally - Errrrrmaaaaaaagaaaaaawd!

It’s all coming back to me now. And incidentally – Errrrrmaaaaaaagaaaaaawd!

You then immediately feel pangs of guilt for entertaining such impure thoughts – the ones about Book Week not Clive. You do after all want to be a “hands on” parent and your kids get some much enjoyment out of this dressing up shite. You feel like the Grinch that stole Christmas which luckily doubles as a costume idea.

You initiate a brain storming session with your eight year old by suggesting that they go as the “bum that went psycho” from Andy Griffith’s The Day My Bum Went Pyscho”. The eight year old rolls her eyes at your in horror. You are secretly relieved that you don’t have to paper mache over two balloons.  You include your five year old and gather around the book shelf for inspiration.

Of course Dadabs built it and is responsible for the art work on top.

Of course Dadabs built it and is responsible for the art work on top.

The five year old pulls out this tome and says cheekily “Here’s a good one”.

the emperors new clothes med

This once again demonstrates that P2 not only looks like me, she thinks like me. Lock up your sons now!

You suggest that they both go as Snuggle Pot and Cuddle Pie but this idea is regarded as “daggy” rather than retro chic.

Its an antique - just like me.

Its an antique – just like me.

The eight year old decides she wants to be the Cat in the Hat and the five year old eschews Little Red Riding Hood for Snow White. Conveniently she has a generic Snow White dress from K-mart. Easy but lame.

You wonder to myself how parents who work full time cope with this crap. When the day of the Book Parade rolls around you get your answer. Harried working parents cope in two ways

  1. They  put their child in a generic dress up from Target or K-mart regardless of whether the outfit as anything to do with literature.
  2. They throw money at the problem.

At this year’s parade our school yard was awash with Harry Potters. Iron man was out in force, as was Spiderman and Batman. I spotted one Superman and a Thor. Whilst I dont have an issue with the Comic book universe coming under the umbrella of literature, I’d hoped some of its hawter elements could be represented. The hawtest comic book element is of course Loki but Chris Pratt as Starlord is closing in fast from the rear (Oh my!!!). Paul Rudd’s Antman is also very, very hawt.  Disappointingly all three were absent.

Chris Pratt almost out hawts Tom Hiddleston.

Chris Pratt almost out hawts Tom Hiddleston

There was however, a gaggle of Darth Vaders accompanied by an army of Storm Troopers and ship loads of miscellaneous pirates. They mingled with a coven of witches with outfits recycled from last Halloween. A large contingent simply donned  animal onesies – I mean there’s got to a book about a giraffe somewhere right? Most surprising was the excess of minions. I had no idea that the Despicable Me franchise was based in literature but there were at least two minions per class. The playground was a symphony of  yellow and blue.  Strangely one girl came dressed in a black body suit with a matching face mask. She was carrying a whip. I thought she might have been from 50 Shades of Grey but its turns out she was Cat Woman. At the other end of the spectrum there were a cast of Lord of the Rings, King Arthur and Robin Hood type characters whose parents obviously shelled out the big bucks at a fancy costume hire place.

As is the case every year a small number of parents used the occasion to show off. We had a smattering of highly original and skillfully put together pieces from families who apparently do “have time fo’ dat”. We had the wardrobe from The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, the house that Alice in Wonderful exploded out of and the Magic Bus. A dozen sixth graders carried a magnificent rainbow serpent like dragon dancers on Chinese New Year.

For me the parade itself was ninety minutes of sitting in the sunlight worrying about work that wasn’t getting done. At least the music which obviously reflected the senior teachers personal taste, was completely on point. There was nary a tune produced after 1985. When AC/DCs classic “Its a long way to the top” began playing our mild mannered head master started head banging. P2’s teacher head banged harder but he’s charismatic. A daggy Dad standing behind me started singing loudly “Its a long way to the shop if you want a sausage roll”.  When a boy shuffled past with a fake bald head and enormous plastic ears shuffled past the same Dad yelled out “there’s Tony Abbott’. Fair enough Tony Abbott does have his own book – Battlelines.

How was your Book Week experience? Did you enjoy it? Or did you find it just another thing to cram into an already overstuffed schedule?




I cobbled together the Cat in the Hat outfit and P2 decided to go as Anna at the last minute. I know - f%#king lame.

I cobbled together the Cat in the Hat outfit and P2 decided to go as Anna at the last minute. I know – f%#king lame.


Here's what happened 30 seconds later.

Here’s what happened 30 seconds later.


Charlie Hunnam as King Arthur is welcome at my Book Parade.

Charlie Hunnam as King Arthur is welcome at my Book Parade.


Discipline Fails

Mumabulous admits that she’s a lousy disciplinarian. She’d never be a hit (pun intended) on the BDSM scene. Let me elaborate.

Definitely NOT Mumabulous.

Definitely NOT Mumabulous.

Exhibit A for the prosecution: The punishment debacle

One would think that we could make the 3 minute car trip between Chez Abulous and the local shopping mall (the very glamorous and salubrious Royal Randwick Shopping Centre – truly a local hub of excitement) without a fracas erupting in the back seat. Unfortunately computer says NO.

I had just loaded everything and everyone into the car when it started.

P2 (aged 5): The first person to poo their pants wins. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrt. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrt!

P1 (aged 8): You’re a baby. You pooed your pants.

It is important to clarify that my youngest child was merely simulating the act of pooing her pants. I note however that various high profile footy players have lost their jobs over less vulgar actions. I thank my lucky stars that neither of them were holding a mobile phone at the time.

Anyhow at this point things escalated.

P2: Thwack!

P1: Muuuuuuuuuuuuuum. She hit me.

Meanwhile I was deep in thought, contemplating questions of great cultural significance like just how hawt Tom Hiddleston would look in snug britches*. I roused myself from my reverie to utter a half arsed “don’t hit your sister.”

P2: But she was teasing me.

Mumabs: You have to admit Wooz** you kinda walked into that one by pretending to poo your pants.

P1 looked around grinning smugly.

Mumabs: You – don’t tease your sister.

P2: But she hit me.

Much like the Sunrise program I was blaming the victim and that much like parliament the argument was going nowhere. It struck me that now was a good time to pull out the big guns which led to a mental image of Clive Standen because Oh My! Big Guns! Nonetheless I managed a coherent sentence.

Mumabs: Wooz you’re banned from Reading Eggs if hit your sister again and Grace no more ABC 3 if you tease Wooz.

Reading Eggs and ABC3 being the girls’ current obsessions. Removing them, I reasoned, would be an effective punishment.

I will encourage P2 to enter the legal profession as she is displaying a precocious talent for finding flaws in my arguments.

P2: But Muuuum, if I am banned from Reading Eggs how can I learn?

Mumabs: The thing is you’re not learning on Reading Eggs. You’re just playing with the avatars.

P2: I am learning. I’m up to Level 7.

P1: It’s not fair that I get banned from something fun and she get’s banned from homework.

Mumabs: Well none of this will be a problem if you dont hit or tease each other.  Easily solved!

I experienced the longest 3 minute car ride of my life as the two girls continued to point out the unfairness of the punishment. I counter argued that if they behaved themselves the unfairness of the punishment would be a moot point.

Later that evening over dinner the girls appealed the matter to the High Court – ie Dadabulous.

P2: Daaaaaaaad. Mum says I’m banned from Reading Eggs and Grace is banned from ABC3.

Dadabs: Banning her from homework is a lame punishment.

The verdict was  unanimous. Mumabs is a idiot. Mind you both the girls have since sought private consultation with me in order to agree upon a more suitable punishment for the other.

Not my kids but you get the idea.

Not my kids but you get the idea.

Exhibit B for the prosecution: The tuckshop-gate scandal

Since starting school this year P2 has been quite impressed with the school canteen. I had a vague awareness that she had been pinching gold coins from my sharpa stash and using it to buy treats and lunchtime. I overlooked the very minor thievery figuring it was giving her a useful insight into the world of commerce.

One day the school Office Manager approached me and said “You know your daughter is so cute. I just adore her. She’s always offering to buy me things from the canteen and I say ‘no darling. Its alright’ but last week she bought an icy pole and gave it to me.”

At school pick up time I said to her “Wooz. I have an issue to discuss with you.” I went into a speil about how I knew she was just trying to be kind but kids don’t need to buy things for adults.

P2 (with a dismissive eye roll): Well I really don’t see what the issue is.

I thought that was an end to the matter but at parent-teacher night the tuckshop-gate scandal reared its head again. Apparently P2 had moved on from buying things for adults and was buying for the other kindy kids instead. One day she’d even brought in $30 – it was quite a party. I don’t know how she managed to get out of the house without jangling.

It was however comforting to learn that P2 was not the only one. The entire class was at it apparently. They’d organised their own crime syndicate – stealing parental coinage and buying up tuckshop contraband in bulk. I can’t say whether P2 was the ring leader but she was deeply involved. Needless to say the sharpa stash has since been moved out of reach.

A member of the kindy canteen syndicate.

A member of the kindy canteen syndicate.

Exhibit C for the prosecution: The inappropriate video

When you’re five years old and beginning to read and write a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing. This is especially so when you apply your new found skills to Google. One recent evening when I was distract by housework and Dadabs was distracted by video games important business P2 typed “poo” into Youtube. The result was a minecraft animation in which the keyword was being used (very effectively) as a weapon of mass destruction.

Dadabs: Mum. Come here and have a look at this.

I entered the office to find the three of them laughing at the video of chaos and mayhem in the streets due to flying poop. Sure it was disgusting but it was also very comical and I had seen way worse on South Park.  I let out a hearty laugh.

Dadabs: Fine example you’re setting by laughing at this.

Mumabs: You knew I’d laugh. Why did you call me in here?

Dadabs: So you could apply some discipline.

Meanwhile Dadabs was having a hard time containing his own giggles.

Mumabs: Turn it off now Wooz. It’s inappropriate for kids.

P2: But its funny.

P1: Muuuuum. How are you going to punish her for watching inappropriate videos?

Have you experienced any discipline fails lately?




* Pretty darn hawt – move over Mr Darcy (but don’t move over too far Mr Darcy!)

The only problem I have with these britches is they're a bit too loose.

The only problem I have with these britches is they’re a bit too loose.


** My nickname for P2

NB: In case you are blissfully unaware Reading Eggs is an educational program for Primary School kids.



Back To Reality

I shouldn’t be blogging. I really don’t have time right now. I am the sucker who acquiesced to a slumber party at Chez Abs tomorrow night instead of simply shelling out the big bucks for Sky Zone gig. What’s more the soon to be turning 8 P1 has told everyone, and specified on the hand drawn invitation, that it’s a theme party. Not just your garden variety Frozen party – Anna and Elsa are like soooo lame once you pass the age of six. P1 is opting for a retro classic with a touch of  psychedelia – Alice in f*&king Wonderland! I suppose I should be proud. It would be a rockin’ idea for a 25th with no parental improvement.

Rest assured the bong will not feature at P1s party.

Rest assured the bong will not feature at P1s party.

Here’s the thing about theme parties at this stage of my existence – in the immortal words of Sweet Brown.

Notime med

The reason I barely I have time to scratch my toes (I sit here with itchy toes as I write) is that I have recently joined the ranks of the employed. I’ve had a hefty dose of the reality that everyone else is complaining about. To all you working mothers out there – before I sympathized. Now I fully understand.

Where do I begin with this topic? Getting out of the house on time in the morning contains enough stress for the entire day. By the time I have wrangled the girls into their uniforms and implored them to brush their teeth for the millionth time I’m exhausted. I’ve discovered that children simply getting dressed is an event that defies the laws of physics. Breaking the light speed barrier is easier.  The regular catch cries in Chez Abs are “stop jumping on the bed, singing Everybody Dance Now and get dressed”, or “stop flashing your butt and get dressed” or “stop hitting your sister and get dressed”. Then when after an epic struggle they do get their basic uniform in place they refuse to put on their jacket. This is especially the case when conditions outside are Antartic. Lets hope global warming will soon relieve me of this problem.  Of course the second we get out of the door someone will have to go back and fetch some forgotten essential item like a hat or a library book.

The house is in a permanent state of disarray because household duties has fallen to the very bottom of the priorities list. More to the point I’m too much of a tight wad to fork out for a  cleaner despite the urging of many friends and  acquaintances. The hiring of domestic serfs would take a hefty bite out of my unspectacular remuneration making the whole thing unworthwhile.  First world problems – I got ’em.

Perhaps I can justify a cleaner after all.

Perhaps I can justify a cleaner after all.

Meanwhile dont get me started on childcare. I thought having two kids in school would save me some coin. Sadly what I’ve saved in long day care is being chewed up by after school care. Earlier in the week I had heart dropping moment when I say my bill for Vacation Care. Its going to cost me more than I’ll bring in for the fortnight (plus the gosh darn pupil free Monday on the first week back). Normally I could have rationalized this set back. However it came the morning after the devastating events of the Game of Thrones finale. I was despondent about Jon Snow* and the bill shock was too much for this fragile petal to bear. I would have run straight for the chocolate alas I am on a diet.

The Mummy guilt thing is kicking in. The kids often tell me that they don’t want to go to after school care although they usually appear to be having fun when I pick them up. They are constantly imploring me to collect them early. Extracurricular activities during the week are virtually off the agenda and the homework window is narrowing. I have an irrational sense that I am curtailing my kids’ potential.

Yes Mummy guilt is being felt. Luckily the guilt is counter balanced by the fact that my job isn’t exactly glamorous or high powered. Therefore I get to juggle Mummy guilt with a deep seated sense of career failure. As Hannah Montana sings “its the best of both worlds”.

Excuse me while I spend my last couple of remaining hours off this week cleaning the house.

How’s work life balance travelling for you?



Don’t read this next little bit if you care not for Game of Thrones.

* Are you butt hurt about Jon Snow? There simple has not been enough internet discussion about this very important issue over the past week. This world contains two types of people a) those who are obsessed with Game of Thrones and b) those who don’t get enough crumpet in their televisual diet.

I fall well within the first category and I am totally butt hurt by the events of the recent finale. My pain makes no sense given, as the purists repeatedly point out, Jon’s death was in the f&*king books and no one expects him to stay dead. He’s not even my favorite character for Chrissake. That honour goes to Tyrion. Anyhow I am butt hurt nonetheless.

Game of Thrones has form when it comes to killing off smokin’ hawt characters – Robb Stark, Oberyn Martell etc  however Jon Snow was exceptionally, astoundingly, ridiculously, improbably hawt. I don’t know how he could have spent so much time standing on that 700 foot ice wall without the whole thing melting and raising sea levels around WestorosHe is that darn hawt.  Really by rights the lands beyond the Wall should be a tropical paradise by now given Jon Snow’s proximity.

Secondly we’ve sat through five seasons worth of hints about Jon Snow’s parentage and potential possession of dragon wrangling power. It’s the world’s worst kept secret that Jon is really a Targaryen and hence has a direct claim on the Iron Throne.  We were all speculating that he is third head of dragon as per the prophecy yada yada yada. But gosh darn if he is really permanently dead this theory will crumble to ashes and means that someone inevitably less hawt is the real third head of the dragon.

Thirdly Jon Snow is one of the only people who has an idea of the true gravity of the white walkers situation. The very survival of the realm is at stake and Jon was critical to its defense (by virtue of his mystical powers and Valyrian steel sword). The realm will have to rely on Team Daenerys now and Lord knows they have issues.

Got Meme