The Slapdash Report - Fashion Edition!

Today's report is brought to you by Kylie Mole and Miranda Kerr's neck brace.

Because it's fashion week here at Slapdash Mama I'm broadening the net even wider to encompass some fashion world news as well as my usual in-depth current affairs coverage!

• According to the latest polls, Tony Abbott is preferred PM again.  Oh no, hang on, it's Julia Gillard again. Oops! Now it's Tony again - no, hang on, it's Julia! Tony! Julia! Tony! OMG. Lucky we only have 6 more months to go.  SO ACCURATE! Gah! Stop the polls I wanna get OFF!

• A group of high spirited and enthusiastic members of the public disrupted proceedings during Federal Parliament this week.  It was hard to make out but I've been lead to believe they were shouting words of encouragement to the Prime Minister. I'm no lip reader but I'm pretty sure they were saying something like "Julia Gillard we support you in your ROLE!" or "Julia Gillard you are funnier than Kylie MOLE!" It's just so fantastic to see people taking an active interest in our noble parliamentary democracy!

Got this from Tumblr. Don't know where it's from originally. Please don't sue me.

• Miranda Kerr had a car accident and is wearing a neck brace.  Everyone remain calm.  She's going to be OK.  Also, she still looks hot.  I know. Phew. Told you I would include fashion news! 

• The House of Representatives has passed the National Disability Insurance Scheme Legislation. Still has to go to the Senate.  It will mean we have a social insurance system for assisting people with a disability and their carers that all taxpayers contribute to. 

• There's trouble afoot in the Australian cricket team (look, I try to care about sporting issues).  Some blonde guy called Michael Clarke who is apparently the captain asked some other players to fill out their client service feedback forms and they said "Um, NUH!" and he became enraged and they got in t-ROUBLE and some other blonde guy called Shane Warne I mean Watson (why are they ALL CALLED SHANE?) chucked a mental and went home to his lady. Pretty sure that's accurate.

• Sigh, urgh, more SPORT drama.  The Cronulla Sharks have been having calf blood injected into their faces in a sort of new youth giving facial treatment.  Or was that Kim Kardashian? God knows.

• In a break from tradition, the Catholic Church has elected a gay black woman with 5 kids as the next Pope!  (I've written this part of the report in advance and just went with the MOST LIKELY scenario to be on the safe side!!)

There you go chaps, a little from column A, a little from column B. It's been a big week policy wise but I've only got so much space and time. I'm a busy and important woman, people! Time is money! And so forth.

Oh, I've gotten a bit sick of the OOTD stuff. But I haven't given up totally.

Here's a picture of me in my yoga outfit from last night.

Earth mother. Excuse the pot belly. I am not actually 5 months pregnant, I just ate a big bowl of spaghetti and drank a glass of wine. What, isn't that what everyone does before their evening yoga class?

Check it. Tree pose. I think. Maybe I should do a yoga video?

Don't do anything I wouldn't do. Like, exercise or go to the beach. Actually, ignore that. Do EVERYTHING I wouldn't do.

xx

The Slapdash Report, The (Swim) Brief Edition.

As predicted I am already running out of ways to make my Slapdash "A Current Affair" Report amusing.  Did you watch Shaun Micallef the other night? Another bastard stealing all my ideas.  Trust me, I had an absolutely hilarious Report prepared but he used all my jokes. I am not lying*. Some people are just so damned uncreative. If you want to see all my brilliant ideas, go here. I have sent him a terse email from my lawyer**.

In order to squeeze some mileage out of my tired old concept this week, I've decided to write the Slapdash Report from the perspective of Tony Abbott's budgie smugglers.

My other reports are available here.

[Source] Courier Mail. Leader of the Opposition Tony Abbott putting all us ordinary sloths to shame yet again. Doesn't he realise his fellow Australians are all obese junk food addicts who hate athletic over achievers? Who is his media adviser I'd like to know!?

Dear diary,

Woke up early this morning when Tony stuffed me into his exercise bag along with his musty old towel and running shoes. Sometimes I don't feel like this is a relationship of equals.  He treats me roughly and I just have to support him without question, physically and emotionally.  I want to leave, but I just can't. I adore the man. Nobody wears me better.  

 He was in a foul mood, probably because that red headed harlot Julia Gillard had announced she was going to spend a week in Western Sydney sucking up to bogans, when he had totally had the idea first.  He was angry with me for discouraging him when he first canvassed the concept, but it's not my fault I prefer the idea of a dip at Balmoral Beach to endless laps in the local murky Western Suburbs municipal pool.   

His temper was only made worse by those fools he calls colleagues when they squabbled once again about the refugee visa issue. I wish they understood how much they upset Tony when they fight, and then it's me who suffers when he's so distracted that he forgets to rinse me out in the laundry sink and I go mouldy.

Anyway, dear diary, I'd better go, Tony's shouting at me again. Oh God, what is it now? I'm exhausted from our session this morning, I can't handle another workout of angry swim/jogging.  Don't tell me someone's mentioned his "women problem" again. I wish those shrill feminists would just shut UP and leave the poor man alone.  Anyone who loves watching Downton Abbey with his daughters is obviously totally down with all that equal rights stuff.

Ever yours,

B. "Speedo" Smuggler

There you go guys, out of the mouth of babes togs.

Until next time.

Your faithful servant,

Slapdash Mama.


*I am actually lying. I do that sometimes. I know, despicable.
**Lying again. Practically pathological, really!

Party Planning.

Went for a walk this morning, and you know what it made me think of? Why, it was just like hiking around the Swiss alps! So INVIGORATING and BRISK! I felt so energised and full of vim and vigour after that, just like I was in a Norsca ad! I simply love to get my alpine on at any given opportunity.*

Summer in Queensland. You are a cruel mistress. I think I hate you. Come back winter, I'm sorry I was nasty. I'll never complain about being cold ever again.**

P dressed herself in a corduroy skirt and cardigan this morning. I know, I think I started schvitzing like a shmendrek just looking at her.  Whatever that means.

In other ACTUAL news, I hear that our glorious leader Julia's called a federal election for September. Interesting times.

I love a good election. Lots of people are speculating as to why old Joolz has given us all such a huge lead in time.  Well, it's obvious you dummies! This unusually extended campaigning period will give us all plenty of time to plan associated election parties, a la Don's Party. Frankly the last election (which was a state one anyway) was a fizzer socially and I for one am determined to improve things this year.  It was damned considerate of the PM to think about the most important part of the whole voting caper, the booze up afterwards.  Good work Julia.

The election party to end all election parties was undoubtedly the one we attended for the federal election in 2007. Without declaring my hand, politically speaking,  we were all very excited that year for some reason. Anyway, it was at my friend J's house. She was the hostess with the mostess. 

We all dressed in electorally themed costumes. There was a Pork Barrel, an Aspirational Voter, a Blue Ribbon Liberal, a Trade Unionist, a Blue Collar Worker and Kevin Rudd, Julia Gillard and Peter Garrett even put in appearances!

We played an amusing drinking game with colour coordinated shots. Blue for Libs, Red for Labor, Green for, well, the Greens.

There may have been a mullet wig that did the rounds as well.

It was so much fun.

I don't know if it can be topped but we should try. Although it might be more of a wake than a celebration. Just saying.

Save the date dudes.

EDITED TO ADD: Tune in every Friday for my Slapdash Election 2013 Recap.  Can't be bothered reading the paper? Too depressed by the news?  Disengaged, confused, bored, indifferent, downright APATHETIC?  Fear not my Slapdash Army.  Let me tell you what to think.

TRUST ME!


*Am using that old faithful literary technique IRONY again. As is my wont.

**We all know I'm lying here. Don't tell Old Man Winter though, I need to get into his good books.

Boobs out for Kochie.

I know everyone on the interwebs has already had a thing or two to say re: our old friend and well known wit and raconteur David Koch and the public breastfeeding thing, and I thought about not mentioning it, but I changed my mind so get ready for my two cents even if it isn't very original.

If you don't know what I'm referring to read it here.  Also I feel the need to add the caveat that I don't care if you bottle feed your baby, people have good reasons, but breastfeeding is really important to me and I feel strongly about it and about creating a culture of public acceptance.

I think for me it was actually today, when he tried to sort of apologise in a half arsed way, that was worse than anything.

This article and also this one are written by people more articulate than I could ever be, but I still want to say this.

Kochie telling women that they should make sure they are being "classy" whenever they are breastfeeding their child, is to me another example of the larger general and commonly heald belief that no matter what a woman is doing, she must AT ALL TIMES be aware of her appearance.  She must always ensure that she is pleasing to the eye, whether she is walking around the shops, getting on a bus, reading the paper at a cafe, running a marathon or God forbid, whipping out a boob to feed a hungry/sad/tired/grizzly baby in public view.  Everything she does must be in full consideration of others and what they might think about how she looks. And frankly if she doesn't make an effort to adjust her appearance then what can she expect but public comment/criticism/ridicule, because didn't you know it is your feminine duty to LOOK GOOD/CLASSY/ATTRACTIVE probably even when you are DYING OF CANCER or bloody sitting on the toilet or anywhere.

What a crock.  This is such a big deal people! I am so mad about it I could just about scream. What he is saying is that it is ok to breastfeed, as long as you kind of look like Miranda Kerr, drape yourself in a peach coloured muslin wrap and retreat to another room to do it in a CLASSY way.  So I'm thinking he wouldn't be ok with a really fat woman with, say, a beard, a hunchback and monobrow exposing an enormous breast to feed her hungry child in the food court or wherever because I don't think she would fit in Kochie's gross little worldview.   But you know what?? That woman has every right to get her breast out in public, and who is he to determine what is "classy" and what isn't?

The other day at the shops a young hooligan wandered past me wearing a muscle shirt that exposed not one but both of his man boobs and nipples.   His breast tissue is apparently classy enough to be exposed to the world but mine isn't.

I can tell you now, people, that all this hoo ha makes me want to keep breastfeeding Baby B in public until he is 15, just to see the looks on people's faces.

Get your boobs out ladies! The more we see breasts doing what they should, in public, the less people will even notice! The more boobs the merrier! I have been guilty of skulking around the toilets/front seat of the car to feed my babies. Never again! No wraps or covers for me, I am going the whole boob out.

It's a boob people. Deal with it.

Obama Mama. Waybuloo.

Spent nearly all Wednesday glued to ABC24 watching the US election result unfold.  I love a good election.  Love it.  And I always watch the ABC coverage, but far out, election analyst Antony Green always KILLS ME with his dorkiness.  Actually I think that's probably all part of the enjoyment for me, yelling at the TV, "Make a prediction Antony, would it kill you to TAKE A RISK??!!!" because he is forever saying things like "It's too early to call" and "There's no point making any predictions now".  No point?  Then, frankly, what is the point of an election analyst at all, Antony?  Hey?  There, I said it.  I keep thinking that the ABC should totally ring me up because I would be all over it like a rash, and I wouldn't be afraid to make predictions left, right and centre.  I'll be waiting by the phone, ABC.  Just so you know.  I am available.

My friend KLF put this up on her FB page.

Sums it up nicely I think.

The other morning P was reciting some bush ballads for us*.  Yes, you know what I mean.  Watching TV.

She was watching one of the ABC2 programs called Waybuloo.  I used to love this one.  It was very soothing.  It has these weird little creatures who float about and talk in soft voices and practice yoga (they call it yogo).  Cute.  But then all of a sudden I noticed it had a new and unpleasant development - a narrator!  Not just any old narrator, a very irritating one.  He was ALL WRONG for the vibe of the show.  His voice made it all seem a bit suspect, and frankly, a bit rude.  This particular morning I could hear him say "And now it's time for Yojojo's BANANA TRICK!" and later "Now, spread your legs, and bend over.  Hnnnrrrrpphhooaarr (the sound of him groaning)".  Ex-squeeze me? Baking powder?  What are we watching exactly? Because it sounds a lot like "Carry On Up The Piplings" or some sort of Benny Hill movie.  Not asseptable, as the Super Nanny would say.

The Waybuloo Piplings doing their weird floaty thing. [Source]

I thought his voice sounded a lot like Griff Rhys Jones so I looked it up, but it's actually someone called Dave Lamb.  I recognise him sort of.  Anyway when I Googled "Waybuloo Narrator" a whole lot of articles came up that showed me I wasn't alone!  The narration was loathed by parents and toddlers all around and when it was introduced earlier this year in the  UK the BBC had to axe the narrated shows the very next day!  The article I was reading quoted parents saying things like "What is this nonsense?" and describing the narration as "inane prattle!".  That'll show you, BBC.  Don't you know NEVER TO MESS WITH KIDS TV!!!  You will infuriate an already tired and crazy demographic - the parent of the small child.  YOU DON'T WANT TO DO THAT!!!!!

So how come we poor saps in Oz have to put up with it?  An outrage!  Maybe I should get all activist on their arses.  I sure do deal with the big issues.  A petition, anyone?

*No she wasn't.

Weather. Flab. Travels with Dad. Tolerance

The weather is doing my head in.  Yesterday - boiling, hot.  Roasting the living daylights out of our already dry and crackly garden.  Definitely bushfire weather.  I was so sure a storm was brewing. But nothing, nada.  Not a drop.  Rain, damn you!

This morning, cool, crisp, blowing a gale, blue, blue sky.  Gorgeous, but no rain.

As I write, it looks like this.  Fingers crossed it pours! 

Yesterday, I wore one of the dresses I got from my recent op shop visit, in this post.  It was the one that Mum suggested would benefit from some sucky-in undies, Bridget Jones style.  Well, my other resident fashion critic (ie. P) told me "Mummy, you've got a big tummy.  I think there's another BABY in that big tummy!".  I thought about pulling some giant pants on underneath, but frankly it was too damn hot.  What's the point of a cotton summer dress if you layer it up with sweaty old synthetic bloomers.  So I decided to embrace my mummy tummy.  I mean, really.  I know if I exercised every day and ate less ice cream it would be reduced, it's not brain surgery, but at the moment I don't do either of those things so I still have postnatal flab.  If you've got nothing better to do than feast your eyes on my jubbly bits then go ahead, I can't be bothered caring any more.

Spoke to Dad (Grandpa G) on the phone last night.  When he was here last week I showed him my blog.  Dad's first reaction was fairly predictable.  He looked the blog over silently, eventually remarking suspiciously, "It seems like an enormous amount of WORK, Sarah."  I tried explaining it was just like having a hotmail account or making a word document, and that it was quite fun and easy but he remained skeptical.

Last night on the phone I asked if he'd been reading it.  He paused, and said, "Yes, I've looked it over.  It just seems like you are putting so much WORK into it", naturally inferring that I should probably be putting more work into, say, raising my children or finding a new job.  If you are reading this Dad, don't worry, I've got it sorted, P's at kindy and I've just propped the baby in front of the TV with a bottle full of juice and "In the night garden" on repeat*.

While Dad was here we also reminisced a bit about the odyssey to the Old Country (ie. Ireland) that he and I made when I was about 20.

Dad (aka Grandpa G) representing in his navy Driza-Bone.

The trip was noteworthy for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was the obvious incongruity of a 20 year old girl trailing moodily around Ireland and the UK with her 50-something father while her contemporaries were arguably "living it up" backpacker-style.

It led to such amusing anecdotes as "That time Dad and I accidentally went to a gay bar together" and "The Fiat Punto was a bad choice", whilst simultaneously giving rise to such inciteful geo-political commentary as "Celtic Tiger My Arse!".

The "gay bar" visit showed me up for the gormless and graceless youth that I was.  Clutching our Guinness factory souvenir bags in my hands, I followed sulkily after him as he strode down a Dublin road in search of a pub where he could get a pint and a toasted sandwich.  Spotting one ahead, he made a beeline for it and disappeared through the doors.  As I entered and peered into the somewhat dimly lit establishment I could see that he had made himself comfortable in a corner booth, so I sort of flounced over and slumped down across the table from him.  Dad went up to the bar to order our lunch, and when he returned to our seats we both sat in silence watching one of the bar's employees putting up Christmas decorations.

As my eyes adjusted to the gloom I began to notice the other two or three patrons.  They were all dressed in variations on this theme...

http://www.hollywood.uk.com/

I began to notice some pictures on the walls that looked a bit like this...

http://www.jollyswagman.com.au/mardi-gras/ 

"Daaaaaad, I think it's a GAY BAR!!!"  I hissed at him, what little grace and poise I had going out the window at what I saw as the most embarrassing place to be with your uncool middle aged father.

"So what?" he said, utterly unfazed, finishing off his sandwich. I sank further down into my seat, counting the seconds until we could escape.  As we left, I looked up at the sign above the door.  The bar was called "Out on the Liffey", which is a cute pun, and after consulting my trusty Lonely Planet it was revealed to be the trendiest and most happening gay friendly joint in Dublin.

I reminded him of this story when he visited last week.  He said earnestly, "I remember! They did an excellent toasted sandwich, the beer was cold and they weren't too busy."

Good on you Grandpa G, you are a paragon of tolerance and you don't even know it.  Shame you had to be there with your red-faced and spluttering daughter because she totally brought the tone down.


*Not really.  I was just using a dramatic device known as "giving cheek to your sainted parents". I wasn't voted "Most Sarcastic" at high school for nothing.

Peter Slipper, the secret gourmet.

Ever wondered what's going on in the minds of those lofty individuals we entrust to run the place, our learned pollies?  What do they think about, dream about, hope for?  Is it world peace?  Employment statistics?  Bipartisan agreement on climate change?

To answer these questions, we turn to former Speaker of the House of Representatives Peter Slipper, and his now much-publicised text messages.  As we delve deeply into the psyche of the man, past all that fuss about those nasty female genitalia references, we can glimpse his passions, his wisdom, his lofty idealism, and can only hope to emulate it in our own lives.

http://www.peterslippermp.com.au/gallery/

http://www.peterslippermp.com.au/gallery/

http://www.peterslippermp.com.au/gallery/

http://www.peterslippermp.com.au/gallery/

Well, well, well!  Turns out the former Speaker is just a man after my own heart, an armchair gourmet.

And as M says, we see here that Peter Slipper's interest in food extends well beyond mussels!!  Trust the media to focus on that!

Credit must go to my very thorough husband M.  Luckily for me,  his idea of a fun night in consists of trawling through endless text message evidence for shits and giggles.  Good work babe.  

Diarising. Shuffling. Swearing. A night off.

As advised by experienced colleagues (that is, mainly my talented friend L) I think I'm just going to make this blog like a diary.  But, you know, an awesome one.  Funny and erudite and stuff.

So, here we go.

Saturday morning I indulged in my new habit, which, unusually for me, is a good one.  Running.  Or more accurately, shuffling.  I'm enjoying it.  It helps to have a marvellous playlist on the old Ipod, I find it helps trick my brain into thinking it's doing something pleasant.  Interestingly, as I shuffled along the path it occurred to me that my carefully assembled songlist is not dissimilar to the one I listened to when I was in labour with Baby B.  Except  this time I'm not leaning over a hospital bed, alternately moaning, crying and dry wretching.  OK, maybe there's been a little bit of dry wretching.  I bet you are all dying to know what I listen to on my little sojournes.  Well, fret no more, here is my super jogging playlist.  Eclectic, to say the least.  Make of it what you will.

Elton John - "Tiny Dancer"
Everything But The Girl - "Mirrorball"
Everything But The Girl - "Missing"
Florence + The Machine - "You've Got the Love"
Florence + The Machine - "Dog Days Are Over"
Gotye - "Somebody That I Used To Know"
Gotye - "In Your Light"
Gotye - "Eyes Wide Open"
New Order - "Bizarre Love Triangle" (Thanks to my 80s loving husband)
Old Blind Dogs - "Is There For Honest Poverty"
Silverchair - "Straight Lines"

I spose you've probably never heard of Old Blind Dogs.  Well you are missing out, they are Prince Charles' favourite band.  Do yourselves a favour people.

As you can probably tell from the number of songs on the playlist, I can't shuffle for very long just yet.  But I'm getting better.

On Saturday evening we had some new friends over for a BBQ, the family of P's lovely kindy friend H.  P, unused to socialising after dark, got overexcited and  tried indulging in her latest hobby (nude trampolining) whilst  shouting "Poo-poo!" at random intervals.  The little exhibitionist.  Luckily we managed to avert too much nudism and the smalls played nicely together.  I, being equally unused to night time socialising, also got overexcited and started swearing like a madwoman.  I was dropping the f-word like it was going out of fashion.  I'm sure our lovely genteel guests were expecting me to break out the Winnie Blues and crack a VB at any moment.  How embarrassment.

I've always been a swear bear.  It's like the pressure of repressing my swearing urge while hanging around small children all the time just got to me.  After they left, I said to M, "Gosh, I feel like I was swearing a lot tonight".  M said thoughtfully, "Yes.  I did notice that." Dear oh dear.  Uncouth.  No wonder P spends her whole life talking about poo and bums, she obviously inherited it from me.

In a first for our family, yesterday afternoon M took P off to Brisbane to stay overnight with her cousins, N and S, leaving me ostensibly with the night off.  You know your life has changed forever when being left alone to look after a 7 month old baby for 24 hours can be considered a night off.  Ha ha, she laughed hollowly.  No, but seriously, it really was quite relaxing.  I got him off to bed at 5.30pm (yessss!), which left the whole night stretching in front of me.  I really made the most of it, prowling around the house looking wistfully at P's empty bed, sipping a glass of wine, eating cheese and biscuits for dinner, locating and then devouring M's secret chocolate stash and finishing off a packet of leftover BBQ chips.  I topped it off by fiddling round on the interweb and then watched "Call the Midwife" on the ABC.  I love that show.  I really do know how to enjoy myself, I'll say that much.

I guess most other people in the known universe watched the Rugby League grand final, but as I may have mentioned before, I generally do not indulge in this past time.  I used to be fond of saying that my worst nightmare was to wake up one day to discover I'd accidentally won a backyard BBQ with the Broncos as a prize for something or other.  Tres uncomfortable, as they don't say in France.

P's abandoned bedroom. Sob.

This morning I felt so bad about my awful dinner last night that I got up and made a "Green Smoothie".  I'm not kidding.  I blame Instagram for this.  It's full of pictures of healthsome people and their luridly green breakfast smoothies.  I'd never even heard of them until I got on the IG bandwagon.  Basically it's a smoothie made from fruit etc. with some sneaky greenery added.  This morning I added green kale.

It was surprisingly tasty, but as you can see mine isn't green, it's brown.  And served in a beer glass.  Typical.  Still, I felt virtuous, even if it did remind me of Aunt Loretta from "Grandpa in my Pocket" and her "Green Gloop".

Naughty Grandpa, this time you've gone too far! (Click for link)

Poor old Loretta. (Click for link)

So, how about that Alan Jones, eh?