Grr! I am starting to get really fed up with personal maintenance.

 There was a time when all a woman had to do to get ready in the morning was have a wash and pop on a bonnet. These days, the time required for personal maintenance could qualify as a full time job. It’s impossible to keep up with the list of demands, and I for one, am about to revolt.

 I accept that one’s crowning glory requires considerable time and care, what with all the cutting, colouring, blow-drying and styling. However, the irony is that the look of the moment is ‘natural’, so women are lining up for a treatment known as ‘balayage’. It might sound fancy, but it’s essentially paying a hairdresser $300 to give you dark roots – something you’ve spent thousands of dollars over the years trying to avoid.

 Then there are those pesky fingernails that only give you a few good days out of a manicure. That perfectly buffed-and-polished look requires a fortnightly commitment to the nail technician’s chair.

 Spray-tan devotees enjoy a week of flawless, golden glow before they need to scrub off the streaky brown stains and book another application. And I haven’t even touched on the subject of body hair yet – all I’ll say about that is, let’s hope we never enter an ice age, ladies, because we won’t have any insulation…

 You’d think personal grooming would have been simplified for modern women whose lives are busier than ever. Instead, we put more pressure on ourselves to be perfectly turned out. I was falling so far behind with my personal maintenance recently, I snapped. With split ends and no time to visit the hairdresser, I had what can only be described as a hair breakdown. I fixed it up nicely for a party with way too much gel, and, when I got home that night I decided not to wash it and went straight to bed. The dishevelled do stayed the way it was for three days simply because I didn’t have the energy to deal with it.

 Although this is behaviour not seen since pioneer women disembarked the First Fleet in Botany Bay, it was strangely liberating (albeit itchy). Lacquered with so much hairspray it was more a helmet than a hairdo. I didn’t have to give it a thought for ages. It was only when I started to resemble a bird’s nest that I finally released my locks from their lacquered strangle-hold.

 I had so much more time to do other things during the whole hairdo experience, I’m now making a determined effort to decrease my maintenance in all areas to free up some ‘me time’. I have to say though; it’s not easy for a woman who’s been a slave to these rituals. Even as I write this, my attention is drawn to a wayward cuticle…It’s taking all my willpower to leave it alone.

HOT CHOCOLATE FOR THE SOUL.

 I am not sure who wrote this, so I have no-one to credit. It was sent to me this morning and just spoke to my heart. It is a delicious metaphor and I wanted to share it with you and wish you a lovely weekend with lots of sweet, warm hot chocolate…

 A group of graduates, well established in their careers, were talking at a reunion and decided to go visit their old university professor, now retired. During their visit, the conversation turned to complaints about stress in their work and lives. Offering his guests hot chocolate, the professor went into the kitchen and returned with a large pot of hot chocolate and an assortment of cups - porcelain, glass, crystal, some plain looking, some expensive, some exquisite - telling them to help themselves to the hot chocolate.

 When they all had a cup of hot chocolate in hand, the professor said: “Notice that all the nice looking; expensive cups were taken, leaving behind the plain and cheap ones. While it is normal for you to want only the best for yourselves, that is the source of your problems and stress. The cup that you’re drinking from adds nothing to the quality of the hot chocolate. In most cases it is just more expensive and in some cases even hides what we drink. What all of you really wanted was hot chocolate, not the cup; but you consciously went for the best cups…And then you began eyeing each other’s cups.

 Now consider this: Life is the hot chocolate; your job, money and position in society are the cups.  They are just tools to hold and contain life. The cup you have does not define, nor change the quality of life you have.  Sometimes, by concentrating only on the cup, we fail to enjoy the hot chocolate God has provided us. God makes the hot chocolate, man chooses the cups. The happiest people don’t have the best of everything. They just make the best of everything that they have. Live simply. Love generously. Care deeply. Speak kindly. And enjoy your hot chocolate.

The 80’s ripped us teenagers off!

 The longer I live, the more convinced I become that my generation got severely ripped off as teenagers growing up in the mid to late'80s. Compared with the '60s and '70s with their almost compulsory drug use and free love, or the late '90s and '00s where girls dressed like porn stars and oral sex was "the new pashing" - the '80s was a friggin' disaster!   "Girls wore baggy sweaters to cover their rear ends, drugs were evil and everyone was terrified of AIDS," US sports columnist Bill Simmons writes. A girl's idea of sexy was a Billy Idol haircut, cage-fighter fingerless gloves, a pair of those poop-catcher harem pants, grandpa's fisherman jumper and Doc Martens that took longer to unlace than some relationships lasted.
  Blokes got around with the famous "Flock of Seagulls" haircut, eyeliner, winklepickers and cheese-cloth singlets. Androgyny reigned - and ain't that a recipe for good times, eh - when you can't tell the boys and girls apart? Was it any wonder? Half our rock stars were gay men, singing about gay sex, but we didn't know it.
  When George Michael enthused about making it big and Depeche Mode sang Just Can't Get Enough, well, we should have known better. We did with Boy George, but it didn't help our confusion. I asked another female veteran of the '80s what was going on with the shoulder pads and Rupert Bear tartan jodhpurs so favoured by her peers and she described them as "man repellers". "If guys were cool enough to get it, then they were in," she said. Not that "in" counted for much in the first paranoid years of the AIDS "epidemic".
  Simon Reynolds and his Grim Reaper ad might have woken us up to the spread of the disease but it pretty much ruined the rooting years of millions of Aussie teens. Seriously, this was a time when Michael Jackson was a sex symbol, so you can imagine how much chance a bloke had for intimacy prancing around in white socks and kung Fu shoes.
  Gen Y should get on their knees and thank the whimsies of culture that they've come of age in an era in which women consider see-through leggings as pants and sex is often a precursor to an introduction. Still, there were a few saving graces being a teen in the '80s.
  There was no photo ID - you could get into a bar at 15 with a photocopy of your best friend's cousin's mate's birth certificate. Responsible service of alcohol meant that when a 16-year-old schoolboy collapsed on the dance floor after nine tequila laybacks, the bartenders would high five each other.
  Midnight Oil cranked out albums such as Bird Noises, Place Without a Postcard and 10 to 1, one-day cricket was chock full of Aussies you actually liked and Greg Evans's rise to fame gave short men hope all over the country. Still, I'll always be filthy about those baggy jumpers.

What did you love and hate about the 80s?

I hate going shopping for a bra!

 Don’t know about you, but I believe with my whole heart and soul that the most horrid thing in the world to do is go bra shopping. I’d rather have my eyelashes pulled out one lash at a time by a toothless sheep herder who hasn’t had a bath EVER. In fact I think I hate bra shopping more than men hate being asked to pop down to the shops to pick up the wife’s tampons.   So it was no surprise to me to find out that 70% of women are wearing the wrong sized bra, which can be a pain in the neck, back and shoulders, can cause shortness of breath and highlight another one of my pet hates: BACK FAT!
  Most women share this hatred with me, and it starts from the good old training bra. How hideous was it going to the bra section with your mum proudly telling all and sundry that like a flower you were budding, and having your new little twin peaks poked and prodded by some old duck with minty breath. Then the boys at school stop playing footy at lunch and make a sport of flicking your bra straps or just plain staring at them during maths class.
  I’m in the habit of finding a style I like and buying one in every colour so I don’t have to think about it until the bras develop Baggy Back, which is a bra term for loose at the back which causes a see-saw affect at the front. Noice. Apparently there are quite a few terms for different bras:
The Catholic bra: one that supports the masses (mine).
The Salvation Army bra: lifts the fallen.
The Baptist bra: makes mountains out of molehills.
  One helpful website suggested that when buying a bra, one should compare it to buying a pair of shoes. Excuse me? Buying shoes is a joy, a delight, in fact when I get to heaven I’ll be surrounded by shoes. Being in a fluoro-lit change room, trying to find a bra that doesn’t squeeze my back fat, feels more like hell.
  Buying a bra is like entering a battlefield. Wrong cup size, your boobs bulge over or worse, don’t fill. Wrong chest size and, yep, back fat or zero support which equals black eyes when you go for a run. Wrong cut and you can’t wear certain clothes. Under wire supposedly causes cancer, yet no under wire and you sag (ewww). Wrong material and you itch. Frilly and pretty or plain and versatile. Seamless or stitch. Lift or separate. Padded (misleading) or natural (depressing).
  Are you starting to feel sorry for us yet boys? If only we needed to wear bras just to impress men. Although they appreciate them, what boy leaves a bra on long enough to realise it took two miserable hours to select. They all exclaim they look lovely, but a whole lot better on their floor.
  Sadly we need to wear them to maintain perkiness. In fact I once read that we should wear a bra to bed if we wanted the girls to be higher than our knees at 60. Agh the horror.  And guys, so sorry for the bra rant, next time I’ll give you tips on how to un-clip a bra with one hand whilst pissed and in the dark.

Do me a favour: sign your life away for me.

 I’d like to invite you over for dinner tonight – on one condition. You have to sign a waiver. It’s not that I think you’ll cause any damage. But better to be safe than sorry. After all, everyone’s doing it.   The first cases have come to light in America (well gee surprise surprise) where mothers are being asked to sign a waiver before their children are allowed into friends’ homes for play dates. In one instance, it was four pages long. Seems the woman was concerned about other kids being hurt on her backyard trampoline. What is the world coming to? It makes you wonder what’s next!

Defamation: I heard your son call my daughter “fatty boombalada”. Then he made piggy sounds. My neighbour overheard it. That’s defamation. You’ll be hearing from my attorney.

Food poisoning: That mayonnaise you served with the lobster smelled off. Now my tummy’s grumbling. It was a lovely dinner, but if I get food poisoning you’ll be the one coughing up.

Allergies: The muesli bar you gave my son contained traces of nuts. Hellllooo! She’s anaphylactic. It could have killed her. Then she stepped on a bee and her throat swelled up. Don’t you spray? I’ll see you in court.

Phobias: I had no idea you lived in a jungle. Little Lachlan saw a spider in your backyard. A spider! Sure, it was only one of those leaf-curling ones. But didn’t you know he suffers from arachnophobia? He’s been wetting his bed all week. I’ll be sending you the bills for his ongoing counselling. And the new sheets.

Keeping up with the Joneses: You have an elevator in your house? A swimming pool? And a cinema room? Suddenly my kids have class envy. We’ll have to go into hock to upgrade to a better house. I hold you responsible.

Sporting injuries: I can’t believe you allowed the children to play soccer. Now their hamstrings are tight. I’ll tell my physiotherapist to send the bills directly to your address.

Cancer: Thank you for your hospitality last night. My husband thoroughly enjoyed the barbecue. However, an edge of my steak was burned. I have since discovered this may lead to cancer. I have enclosed a document which I implore you to sign, acknowledging full responsibility. Thanking you in anticipation.

 It was so much easier when we all lived in caves. So, before you read my next blog entry, I’d like you to sign a waiver. That way, if it causes any psychological damage, you only have yourself to blame.

Beer or whine?

 It seems the 24-can question is, does Australia have a drinking problem? When it comes to this particular alco pop-quiz, I think there are three possible answers:

A) Yes, and it’s time to put politics to one side and have a sensible debate on how to ensure Australia drinks safely and responsibly.

B) No, the only problem we have is the possibility of the booze running out. (Please pass the lemon and salt.)

C) What’re you lookin at? Yeah you. Why don’t ya take a picture? It’ll last longer…Excuse me I think I need to be sick. Sorry about your shoes man…I love you, I really love you.

  Now I enjoy a drink as much as the next person – but if we’re going to have a productive debate about our drinking culture, we first have to acknowledge that it’s fairly well ingrained. After all, we live in a country where our two most famous sporting statistics are 99.94 and 52 – the former being Sir Donald Bradman’s batting average; the latter the amount of cans David Boon is rumoured to have consumed on the flight to London for the 1989 Ashes tour.
 Before an honest review can take place, we have to accept the fact that most Aussies aren’t wowsers. A lot of us enjoy a drink. I know it’s not politically correct to say so but, when done responsibly, drinking can be fun. The dirty secret of the drinking debate is that many people drink to excess because it’s fun. Yes, it can also be dangerous and destructive, but if we’re going to move forward on this issue, we have to recognise this simple but important point. Some of our fellow countrymen see the recommended alcohol limit on the side of a bottle not as a warning, but a challenge. These are people who, when they read the label’s advice to ‘Enjoy in moderation’ they think ‘moderation’ must be some groovy new nightclub in the city.
 Seriously, more Aussies know the words to the VB ads than the national anthem. We’re now a country girt not by sea, but by drunken footballers’ wee….We’ll never be able to fully combat the problem of binge drinking until we admit that a lot of ordinary Aussies, on occasion, drink to get drunk. Whatever the government might say to try to convince us, our problems aren’t going to be solved by raising taxes – not unless we deal with the fact that we live in a culture where, if a news report suggests it’s healthy to drink two glasses of wine a day, we think, well, imagine how good I’ll feel if I drink two bottles? 
 That’s not to say we shouldn’t do more to crack down on clowns who can’t drink properly, but I don’t think the latest suggestion to put cigarette-style warnings on the side of booze bottles will help. Who wants to see a nice bottle of wine plastered with a photo of a plastered Mel Gibson? We know cigarettes harm unborn babies, but will it have the same effect to tell people that drinking beer will give them a gut that makes them look as if they’re having a baby?
  And how would people feel if they ordered a bottle of Grange Hermitage in a fancy restaurant, only to have the waiter ask, “Would Sir prefer the rotting liver or the rugby league player vomiting in the gutter?” What would these warnings say? “Warning: may make hot chicken rolls from 7-Eleven appear delicious.”
  “Warning: may make you think it’s a great idea to put an orange traffic cone on your head and pretend you’re a witch on the way to a rave.”
  “Warning: may result in you spending the night in New York’s Scores nightclub, then being elected Prime Minister of Australia.”
  “Warning: may lead to smoking, and we all know how bad that is for you – I mean haven’t you read the warnings on the packets?”
  However, I do agree with the suggestion alcohol ads could be more realistic. I’m sure we’d all enjoy a VB ad that goes: “You can get it being kicked out of the cricket while wearing a watermelon on your head; you can get it while not getting it up in bed; you can get it naked in a field in the middle of the night tipping over a cow; matter of fact, I’ve got it now.”

1/2 boy 1/2 man Our Australian Soldiers‏.

 The average age of the military man is 19 years. He is a short haired, tight-muscled kid who, under normal circumstances is considered by society as half man, half boy. Not yet dry behind the ears, old enough to buy a beer, and old enough to die for his country. He never really cared much for work and he would rather wax his own car than wash his father's, but he has never collected unemployment either.

  He's a recent High School graduate; he was probably an average student , pursued some form of sport activities, drives a ten year old jalopy, and has a steady girlfriend that either broke up with him when he left, or swears to be waiting when he returns from half a world away. He listens to rock and roll or hip-hop or rap or jazz or swing and a 155mm howitzer..

He is 10 or 15 pounds lighter now than when he was at home because he is working or fighting from before dawn to well after dusk. He has trouble spelling, thus letter writing is a pain for him, but he can field strip a rifle in 30 seconds and reassemble it in less time in the dark.

He can recite to you the nomenclature of a machine gun or grenade launcher and use either one effectively if he must. He digs foxholes and latrines and can apply first aid like a professional.......He can march until he is told to stop, or stop until he is told to march. He obeys orders instantly and without hesitation, but he is not without spirit or individual dignity. He is self-sufficient.

He has two sets of fatigues: he washes one and wears the other. He keeps his canteens full and his feet dry. He sometimes forgets to brush his teeth, but never to clean his rifle. He can cook his own meals, mend his own clothes, and fix his own hurts. If you're thirsty, he'll share his water with you; if you are hungry, his food. He'll even split his ammunition with you in the midst of battle when you run low.

He has learned to use his hands like weapons and weapons like they were his hands. He can save your life - or take it, because that is his job. He will often do twice the work of a civilian, draw half the pay, and still find ironic humour in it all. He has seen more suffering and death than he should have in his short lifetime.

He has wept in public and in private, for friends who have fallen in combat and is unashamed. He feels every note of the National Anthem vibrate through his body while at rigid attention, while tempering the burning desire to 'square-away ' those around him who haven't bothered to stand, remove their hat, or even stop talking.

In an odd twist, day in and day out, far from home, he defends their right to be disrespectful. Just as did his Father, Grandfather, and Great-Grandfather, he is paying the price for our freedom. Beardless or not, he is not a boy.

He is the Australian Fighting Man that has kept this country free for over 142 years.

He has asked nothing in return, except our friendship and understanding. Remember him, always, for he has earned our respect and admiration with his blood. And now we even have women over there in danger, doing their part in this tradition of going to War when our nation calls us to do so. As you go to bed tonight, remember this shot.

A short lull, a little shade and a picture of loved ones in their helmets.

A Prayer wheel for our military...

Prayer Wheel

'Lord, hold our troops in your loving hands.
Protect them as they protect us.
Bless them and their families for the
Selfless acts they perform for us in our
Time of need. Amen.'


When you see this, please stop for a moment and say a prayer for our troops in Afghanistan, sailors on ships, and airmen in the air. There is nothing attached...This can be very powerful...Of all the gifts you could give an Australian Airman, Soldier, or Sailor, prayer is the very best one.

What men will say to get laid.

 A girlfriend of mine recently went on a date with a man who talked all evening about his love for babies and his desperate desire to settle down and get married. While the dinner was delicious and the man was hot to trot, my girlfriend left the restaurant feeling rather perplexed. "Surely he was pulling my leg?" she asked in confusion. "I've heard he's a big playboy - has he suddenly changed? Or is this just his tactic he uses to get women into bed?" She was smarter than I thought.

 I'm often flabbergasted by comments I overhear men spewing out in order to get laid. They'll lie about their jobs, ditch dinner in a bid to get their date drunk faster or use high-fangled pick-up lines which are supposedly guaranteed to work every time. But lately, there seems to be a new strategy hitting the dating circuit, which is getting clucky women's g-strings in a knot. Introducing the "breeder" tactic. Let me explain....

 Biologically, women are supposed to be more inclined to date and sleep with a man who is viewed as a potential father of her children. In other words, she'll find more sex appeal in a potential provider, as opposed to the party boy who just wants to have fun. (Which throws out the bad boy theory!)

 There was a brilliant explanation of this in the UK's The Telegraph which says: "The men who shout from the rooftops that 'I'm-desperate-to-settle-down!' are, quite possibly...luring women into their lascivious embraces by posing as Potential Husband and Father Material."

 And it seems the Players amongst the single blokes have caught onto this little tidbit of science, and are running with it as a newfound bedroom tactic. Take Hugh Grant, who told Vanity Fair magazine a few years ago that he was hanging up his bad-boy ways as he was now ready to get married and have children.

 "If I went to a party tonight and bumped into a fantastic girl - whereas three years ago it might have led to a short-term relationship - now I definitely keep my thoughts open to the idea of settling down and breeding," he quipped. (Perhaps the suaveness of Will, the character he played in the film About A Boy who pretends to have a son named Marcus so he can meet hot single mothers, may have gotten to his head.)

 Either way, the tactic seems to be working like a charm. Then there's the tale of a male model named Adam Perry, who after posing bare-chested while cradling a baby, became so popular, he went on to sleep with a whopping 3000 women. (Or so he claims. Remember the "magic number" rule: men lie about how many women they've slept with by doubling the number.) Either way, Perry got crowned with the title of "the world's most promiscuous man", with many suggesting it was his billboard image as a "Potential Husband" that greatly increased his appeal. (It could have just been those biceps, but hey, that's just my opinion.) So, considering women are said to be hard-wired to be drawn to men who can "invest in parenthood", are those men looking for a casual romp using this piece of knowledge to their advantage?

 UK gent Greg Martin (the son of legendary Beatles producer Sir George Martin) certainly thinks so. Known in celebrity circles as being able to nab any woman he desires, UK's The Telegraph reports that he's reputed to have three chat-up lines, which he delivers in quick succession to every women he meets: "What's your star sign?" "Do you want to move to the country?" and "Do you want children?"
 Finally, there's the theory that divorced lads are in hot demand while children in prams are the ultimate male "chick magnet". While I'm not sure how to take in all these theories, I've put together other lines I've heard men use to get women into bed which begs the question, have you been duped?

Lines men use to get laid:

* "I don't want to sleep with you, I just want to spoon."

* "I just need to get something from my place on the way to the next club. Do you mind coming up?"

* "Let's skip all the formal dinner shenanigans. It's so boring. Want to come to my place later?"

* "Want to watch a DVD together tonight?"

* "Want to come over and chill?"

* "Invite me over!"

* "We have great chemistry."

* "You and I have so much in common?"

* "Want to get out of here and go somewhere less noisy? I promise I'll behave."

* "I love your accent."

* "God, you're so hot"

* "Did I mention you're hot?"

* "Great rack. Want to head back to my place?"

* "Are you on the pill?"

* "We're having an after party at my place."

* "I locked myself out - can I just stay at your place till my roommates come back?”

Malls.....

 Is it just me, or are malls now so confusing that you have to leave a trail of breadcrumbs so you can find your way back out again once you are done? I’m starting to think the reason you see so many old people on benches at the local shopping centre isn’t because they love shopping, it’s because they stumbled in when they were young, got lost, and now live in Bras and Things. In fact, I think I smell a TV show idea: Survivor Westfield.   “Your challenge today is to use your evasion skills to avoid being stopped by any of the mobile phone salespeople, or people selling really expensive sand you can wash your hands with, on your way to the food court. The first person there will be rewarded by getting to eat the free samples on the plate outside the Muffin Break!” My main problem at my local mall is I can never find the car. Forget having a GPS in the vehicle, I need to carry one around to find my way back to it. I swear the minute I walk through the automatic doors they spin the entire building around. And I am still convinced the carpark levels rotate on some sort of rotisserie.
  Of course I am sure you have guessed this design confusion is entirely intentional. What is meant to happen is the layout is so confusing that your eyes glaze and your jaw slackens and you buy anything no matter how ridiculous. Which is also kind of what happened to me during the movie Donnie Darko. (Seriously, can someone explain that film to me? You know those ads on the tele that say: “Marijuana: You don’t know what it will do to you”? I know what it will do, result in you making films like Donnie Darko!) You may have noticed most malls you go to have hexagonal floor plans. That’s because they are the most difficult to navigate.
  If retailers could get away with it, the minute you walked though the door of the mall they would blindfold you, spin you around in a circle three times, take off the blindfold and say: “Let’s go shopping!” Tricky bastards, aren’t they? I remember the old days where the only things you had to take shopping with you were a bag and your credit card. These days you also need a compass, trail mix and a Sherpa. Sometimes when I’m walking around my local mall I get so lost I half expect David Bowie to jump out and start singing: “Dance Magic Dance!” (Yes, that was a Labyrinth reference. What, too soon?)
 And of course there are no clocks. The only time you will ever see the time in a mall is if you try and buy a watch, and even then they are all set to London time, or New York time or Hammer Time. But all that said, I must confess there is also something completely compelling about a proper shopping mall. It’s a condensed consuming experience.
  I still remember when the first big shopping mall opened where I grew up. For the first ten or so years of my life if you wanted to buy different things you had to go to different shops in different places, but all that changed with the arrival of Leichhardt Marketplace. 
  I was so excited when it opened. Twenty years later I still remember the TV ads spruiking: “Leichhardt Marketplace, where it’s always 21 degrees and fine!” You know a place doesn’t have much going for it when the best thing they can come up with to promote the place is: “We have air-conditioning!”
 That would be the equivalent of Bunnings not mentioning they sell tools, and instead changing their slogan to: “Bunnings- we have doors that you can walk both in and out of!” I mean I can understand that being a selling point if they had been opening a mall on the surface of the sun, but on Earth is it really a surprise to anyone that an indoor shopping centre is climate controlled? Was there anyone thinking: “It has air-con? Whew, that is a relief! I mean I was at my local mall the other day and almost lost my kids in a tsunami!”
  “Well that’s nothing mate. You know that charcoal chicken you can smell in the air? That’s because there is currently a bushfire in Nandos!” “Well don’t go near the Pets Paradise then guys. There is a tornado in there and I just saw a shitzu fly by like that cow in Twister. Hey you know where we should go? Leichhardt Marketplace…I hear it’s always 21 degrees and fine.”