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.