So. Here is where I discuss the weather for a bit. Now I always assumed discussing the weather was the great go-to topic when you couldn’t think of anything else interesting enough to discuss with another human being. Until I moved to Melbourne that is. Here, it’s not just small talk; it’s a way of life.

And I’ve been here, in Melbourne, St Kilda to be exact, for nearly two weeks and I can honestly say, I do not know what in the fuck is going on. This place fascinates me, scares me silly and makes me wonder if people actually ever sleep. Wherever I look, there is something going on. I have been able to experience it as relatively single lass, a mother, a consumer, a drunkard and an outsider. The best part? There is no right or wrong way to do it.

The thing is, apart from about a thousand trips to Bali in my younger years and various interstate trips; I have never known anything other than the Gold Coast. And I love my home town, it’s part of the reason why I am the way I am today, but to me, right this very minute, it is thrilling to be experiencing something so vibrant.

Having said that, things are different here. Good different, but different all the same.

Example:

There is less fuckwittage on the streets. Now, I know, I’ve only been here for a couple of weeks, but I have driven an insane amount of peak hour traffic in that time in both fabulous and horrific weather. And you know what? People are cool. They let you in, they acknowledge you when you let them merge and as a general rule, just calm. the. fuck. down. I have also come to learn that Punt Road is one letter away from being very aptly named.

Example:

The service. Second to none. The other day, the waitress brought me a latte instead of a flat white which I was happy to take. I mean, one comes in a glass and has more milk, one doesn’t. Essentially. They gave it to me for free and 20% off my bill because they made “such a shocking error”. Um, no, a shocking error would be leaving a decapitated finger in my scrambled eggs. It’s cool. 1000 other scenarios have ensued since I’ve been here. Well not 1000. Sorry, I like to exaggerate a little, but you get my point, 99% of people in this town want you to walk away satisfied. Hmm. I’m not touching the adult stores in that sentence.

Example:

The weather. As I mentioned above, and I know Crowded House wrote a song about it but we all know the minute you can interpret the lyrics to any Crowded House song you have discovered the meaning of life and therefore, your life is over, so this does not help AT ALL. So, I digress, yes, the weather. So far, in two weeks, I have witnessed, without a doubt, winter, summer, spring and autumn. One day, when sitting in the Laundromat, I honestly thought the leaves I could see dropping rapidly outside the window was snow. It got that cold, windy and dark, THAT freaking quickly I started to freak out. Similarly yesterday, it was about 29 degrees. Everywhere you looked people were losing their shit at the unexpected fair weather. There were g-strings on grassy knolls, white legs exposed and dudes who had clearly been waiting an entire year to show off their polished guns, getting about inappropriately in their singlets. We went swimming as the bulk carriers out to sea made their way to Tasmania. It was insane. And lovely.

It isn’t all roses, just yesterday after a tough day, I had my first pang of homesickness and can honestly say I was prepared to pack up, tuck my fluffy tail between my legs and head home. Partly due to the fact that I miss Maddie like I’m missing a limb, partly due to the fact that it’s all just incredibly fucking hard. And I’m not one to complain, I just do, but sometimes, like yesterday, I just wanted to stop doing and go back to the easy.

But tonight, as I sit here and type this in the darkness of my 3 x 3 metre motel room with my family slumbering behind me, adjusting themselves from time to time due to the keyboard noise, I realise this is exactly what we need. What I need. A change. Will it work? Who knows? Is it scary as all hell? Yep. Will we ever regret giving it a go? No.

Aside: Phil and the boys joined me on Sunday. Was incredibly nice to squish each and every one of them after so long. Maddie will be down when she graduates.

Squishing the shit out of Jack. Clearly he’s loving it.

When the post-it note appeared on the fridge with the words ‘Book V Clinic’ scrawled across it, I knew my baby making days were all but over.

It appeared my husband knew me better than I knew myself and even though at that point in time (ie. Three months pregnant with baby number three), I had no intention of having a number four, he knew all it would take was a mere sighting of a cute baby and I’d be back on the newborn express.

See, babies are my crack. One whiff, one sighting, one hold and I am hooked and need a more personal fix. My husband was onto me, hence the post-it note.

He had also done some logical thinking, damn him. Going from a family of five to a family of six would mean more than adding a new name to the Medicare Card. It would require a seven-seater car. It would mean a four bedroom home (at the very least). It would also mean that we would probably not retire until we were dead (although to be honest, we are fairly prepared for that scenario anyway).

Are these reasons, which essentially are material based, valid enough to veto child number four, five or even six? If you had caught me off guard in the post baby haze, three years down the track when the memories of vaginal tearing and sleep deprivation were conveniently forgotten, I’d have said, no, not a good enough reason. In the cold light of day however, knee deep in shitty nappies and having cleaned up my body weight in vomit, I’d probably quite happily snip the offending sperm carrying tube myself. So yes, I guess I’m saying three is the magic number for us.

It almost feels like three is the new two. Most of all my friends have three children and, like us, they went back for more punishment bliss at that comfortable, fuss free time of their lives when their other children were basically self-sufficient. And I can’t even say we had our third child because we wanted a child of a particular sex. We already had a pigeon pair and they were/are good kids. And then, perhaps just to teach us a lesson to mess with fate, we had the now Mr Four, the hurricane on two legs.

This boy came out born ready. He took no more than two hours to make his way out, nine pounds and I didn’t even require a single stitch. This either means I was totally ‘one’ with my breathing during labour or, probably closer to the truth, I was just a total loose goose. I digress, the fact is, this kid was jumping out of trees and breaking his wrists before he could tell me ‘No’. And he tells me ‘No’ A LOT.

Do I still hanker for another addition? Honestly no. I love that my friends are having babies and I am getting to enjoy them in an ‘Aunty Bern’ capacity. ie. I’m getting to give all the hugs, kisses and long holds and then sleep for eight hours. Sometimes nine.

In hindsight, that 20 minute trip to the clinic where the doctor pulled out his glorified soldering iron and burnt the pathways to fatherhood to render my husband infertile was both sad, yet necessary.

Where did you draw the line? Have you?

*Note – I had to google ‘vasectomy’ to find a picture for this post. What I have seen cannot be unseen.

They say getting married and moving are two of the most stressful events you will face in your lifetime.

Let’s just say that I’d dance the funky chicken at my 19th wedding rather than move house one more time. Because this time, we aren’t just moving house, which for some insane reason, we seem to do about every 4 years, we are moving State. Lots of states. We are moving to Victoria.

Have you ever talked so much about something that it actually turned into reality? I mean, like something so massive, so life changing, it will not only interrupt your own life but all of those around you as well? It seems that I may have done this.

A few months ago my husband and I sat down and realised we were getting nowhere. Building and construction here on the Gold Coast has basically stalled. People are sitting on their hands waiting for something to happen. In turn, Phil hasn’t worked a solid week since Christmas 2010. I’m pretty sure this is the story being told by any tradie on the Gold Coast right now. Confidence is thin on the ground, the Real Estate Bubble burst a while back and people are scrambling to sell at much less than they did two years ago. We could see it coming, but we’ve rode this out here a few times before.

The last time was in 2001 and we only had one child at the time. Phil moved to Sydney where he was offered a great job. I stayed behind and it was relatively easy. Well for me. Although to be honest, we were kind of running two households, flying to and fro and what not. And although I was fine working, running Mad to day care and looking after ourselves, Phil didn’t fare quite as well. What should be every man’s dream was his nightmare. I mean, nights to oneself, pub dinners, beers with mates and complete control of the remote control sent him nuts. So he came home.

So this time around we were realistic. The mines were an option, but that involved FIFO and weeks away from the family. No go. So we started to investigate. Before we knew it, Phil was offered a job. In Melbourne. Whoa.

So, in just over a week, I alone, will set off in my little car and drive away from the only place I’ve ever known. Away from my brother and two of my best friends in the world, my wonderful boss, all of our lovely neighbours and other friends and family and drive in a semi-straight line to Melbourne. In the mean time, I have, oh, one thousand, four hundred and fifty nine things to organise and very little time to do so. But winging it has always kind of been my MO, so I’m hoping it works for me this time.

As we sat out on our deck, in our modest little seaside home this afternoon and had a beer, I wondered out loud if we were doing the right thing. The logistics are huge. Phil looked at me and simply said “Mate, if it’s not right, we can always come back, what have we got to lose?” Oh, just my sanity, but apart from that, nothing.

Have you ever made a massive move?

I remember being given a copy of ‘What To Expect When You’re Expecting’ when I was first pregnant. On the front cover, sat a serene woman in sensible shoes, rocking away in her wooden rocking chair with a fairly sceptical look on her face. Clearly she’d already read what was going on inside, ie. the very vanilla, straight laced version of what was actually going to happen when she got pregnant, had a child and then raised said child (followed up in the aptly titled ‘What To Expect In Your First Year’ and ‘What To Expect In The Toddler Years’). I can save you forty bucks. Just expect your life to change. Massively.

But here are a few more expectations I personally have found to be true:

Expect labour to hurt – a lot

Pinch that soft fleshy bit under your arm. Hard. Harder. Feel that? Hurt? That doesn’t even come close to the absolute agony that is labour. In fact, go outside, put your foot under a 4WD tyre and ask someone will very few scruples to reverse over it a couple of times. Painful? Nope, still not even close. Shit out a watermelon. Yeah, that comes kinda close.

Expect to never sleep in. Ever again

Look, just think of those last uncomfortable months of sleeping whilst pregnant as training. Training for the Tired Olympics. Believe me, your training will be so intensive you’ll be almost a dead cert for the gold medal. Expect to never sleep in past 6am ever again. Oh, wait, I take that back, *just* when your body is used to waking up at that time and can no longer physically break the 7am barrier, your child will start to sleep in. Until midday. This will enrage you.

Expect to be embarrassed in public

“Mum, why is there a snake coming out of your bottom?” I’ll set the scene. Public toilet at some brightly lit Megaplex in the burbs. Me, in sudden need of a toilet and believe me, if it could wait until I was in my own home, it would have. The 3-year-old, standing in front of me while I try to efficiently do as nature intends. He, when not trying to escape under the door, is peering into the toilet and in his best big boy voice, alerting my stable mates that I am doing a massive shit.

Expect to never see the bottom of your laundry hamper. Ever again

You know, if someone was smart, they’d make a laundry hamper with a big picture of your celebrity free pass at the bottom. Give you some incentive to make your way down there. Mine would be Jason Bateman or Mark Ruffalo. If someone was doubly smart, they would make it your husband’s Free Pass. Therefore I would find Natalie Portman at the bottom of ours.

Expect to feel guilt at code red levels

Mother’s guilt really needs its own postcode. Are we working too much, feeding them too little, not enough? Allowing them too much screen time? Are they eating enough dirt? Too much? It’s guilt central and we are our own harshest critics.

Expect to become the master of empty threats

You will need to find your currency when it comes to kids and threats. ‘Stop it or you go to your room’ rarely cuts it. ‘So freaking what, all my toys are in my room, do better Mum.’ So you have to find what they love the most and threaten to take it away from them. More often than not, these are empty threats. I mean you want to go to Dreamworld just as much as they do, but you can’t let them know that.

Expect to lose your train of thought. Which has just happened to me right now.

The year was 1995. John Howard had become Leader of the Opposition again, Bill Clinton was “not having sexual relations” with Monica Lewinsky and Peter Andre had a top 40 hit. It was shaping up to be quite the screwy year. It was also the year I met my future husband.

You don’t know it at the time of course. That this person you first spy across a crowded room, exchange words with, kiss shyly, will one day be your husband, wife or partner. Although some people will say that they did know. That from the very minute they met them, they would be with them forever. I can’t say that was the case with me though. In fact, I really wanted to flip my future husband off and tell him he was a complete tosspot the very first time I met him.

It was a summer’s day and I had just pulled up to the beach with my girlfriend. I immediately clocked him sitting with my brother on a seat watching the surf. He slowly gave me the once over and then returned his gaze to the surf. We walked over to say Hi. His only words to me at the time were “Would you like me to call you a cab so you can get back to your car?” I turned back to look at my Mazda 121, which granted, was parked a little farther from the kerb than necessary but certainly not smartarse comment worthy. In response to this, I asked if he’d like for me to call 1987 and see if they wanted their Top Gun Sunnies back. I was also tempted to kick him in the shins and run but I was nothing if not mature. See, the first couple of times I met my future husband; he was quite the arrogant wanker. Sitting smoking a cigarette quietly in the corner of any social situation, answering my questions with short, sharp and witty observations that made him sound both untouchable and seemingly, a bit of a cockhead. A very attractive cockhead, but a cockhead none the less. All irrelevant of course, we were both in long term relationships, not like anything could happen anyway. Right?

I don’t know about you, but I’ve always been intrigued about a couple’s story. How they met. How they got together. Was it fate? Was there just a teeny, tiny bit of stalking involved? In fact, it’s usually my first question when I meet a new couple and not because I’m a fan of small talk, I honestly want to know their story. Because there is always a story.

Here is mine. It’s pretty quick. It’s not at all romantic and it certainly won’t be something I’ll be regaling the grandchildren with one day.

So, like I said, it was 1995. Tommy Lee and Pammy Anderson had just spontaneously gotten married down the beach and given women all over the world new lofty romantic ideals. I was 19 and in a relationship with a guy, who although nice enough, wasn’t my lightening bolt. He wasn’t even my flickering light bulb, he was just my first real boyfriend. And the bong smoking and drinking wasn’t really doing it for me anymore. We’d stalled and my eye had started to wander. It genuinely took him by surprise when I told him it was over. It was sad. It was rough. I’m pretty sure he’s never forgiven me.

So of course, like any good single 19-year-old girl, I, along with my best friend, proceeded to go out and get completely shit faced at a friend’s birthday party. And whattya know, who should be there celebrating also, but Phil, being as big a bastard as ever. He made some smartarse comment to me and I returned the favour in kind. It was then that he gave me a look that I’ve never quite forgotten. It was almost like he registered me. I was after all, his mate’s little sister. Who’d grown up. Suddenly it was on. Like Donkey Kong.

We all proceeded to get quite merry and before I knew it, we were dancing in Cocktails and Dreams. He was dancing. I was dancing. Suddenly we were dancing together. Hands in the air, getting rather into it on the dance floor type dancing, revolting and in hindsight, unrepressed dirty dancing that needed to be relocated to a private room type dancing. Sadly, we couldn’t find a room so we went down the beach. And yep, I was the girl who slept with the guy on the first, well, not even date. Turns out it was the longest one night stand in history.

But from that night on, we were inseparable. Every time I saw him I felt sick and happy and like the hours spent away from him, would most definitely kill me. I think that is the technical description of love. We got married 4 years later. Complete with 5-month-old baby in my belly. You can say it – Shotgun, although to be honest, it wasn’t forced at all. Because I knew I wanted to marry him from probably the 5th time I met him.

So I guess the moral of the story here is this: every small snippet of time adds up to something. Possibly even something big, like meeting the person you will fall in love with. And you probably won’t recognise it at the time, but in retrospect, you’ll see how the puzzle came together, piece by inexplicable piece.

What is your story? Please, at least one of you, have a story about meeting your lover in Paris when they saved you from being sucked under a bus. Give a girl something to dream about tonight.

My husband and I have been together 16 years in March.  Sixteen years.  We’ve been married for nearly 12 of those years. 
 
I have curious younger friends who question when I knew he was the one.   I reckon it was from day dot.  Not kidding, it just was.  Well, actually, no I romanticise the situation, it was from probably the 4th or 5th time I met him.  The first three times he was a complete arsehole.

So I guess the playground rules still exist.  You know – the one that picks on you the most just really wants to be your boyfriend.  That or he truly is an arsehole.
  
From  then on in, and after one particular night of excessive alcohol consumption and inappropriate groping, we were an item.  Rarely spent a night apart since and haven’t really wanted to.

But the honeymoon period only lasts so long.  There has to be reasons why you stay interested.  I’ve compiled a little list of things to watch out for, so you know he’s a keeper….
 
He is always more than obliging when you call him on his way home and say, no honey, we don’t need any milk, but could you please buy me some Super Jumbo tampons?  And then he buys them entirely on their own, getting the brand and size correct, and even manages to makes eye contact with the checkout chick when purchasing.

He, albeit reluctantly, trots off to the chemist and requests out aloud, in front of all the eavesdropping waiting oldies,  for some “cream for scabies”.    Even when the wide eyed salesgirl pretends not hear him and makes him SPELL OUT the affliction, he doesn’t run.   And to his credit, he doesn’t even appear to notice the looks of disgust that are being daggered his way from the clearly repulsed chemist staff.  There’s nothing good about scabies.  Or so I’ve heard. *cough*

He will keep the kids entertained when you have a hangover.  Even if he had an equally large night, he will be able to function and most importantly, make sure your children, are fed, bathed and don’t escape onto the road.  I got to test  this out on Fathers Day last year. Yes.  I am well aware of how much of a truly shit wife that makes me.

He will wrestle with his children on the floor until he makes one of them cry and possibly need medical attention in his attempt to win WWF night.  Although I don’t recommend this, a recent study has shown, these are the kids that are going grow up smart and social.  It’s his version of homeschooling.

He will not tell you how to drive and/or park your car.  Oh wait, nope, he does this, Retraction.

He will not sympathy vomit when your child does.  Even though said child may appear to be doing their best imitation of Linda Blair and roundhouse spewing bright green chunks, he will solider on, taking control of the situation and cleaning it up so you can get down to dry heaving yourself and comforting the child.

He accepts that even though you have given birth to the children, they are equally his and as such, must partake in such activities as making dinner, preparing lunches and showering them.   Oh, and reading them The Very Hungry fucking Caterpillar again and again and again and…

He will sit through a very bad rom-com even though you will rarely sit through one of his movies that more than likely involves The Rock, explosives and swear words even I refuse to write.

And last but not least, he will ask you for a cuppa if he is getting up to get himself one.  I have been known to wait him out for hours for this, knowing full well he will crack before I do.

Of course, they are my observations and don’t get me wrong, we are far from perfect. Perhaps there are things your partner still does. After all these years. That make you appreciate them and remember why you fell in love in the first place.  Feel free to share them below.

My husband and I just had the conversation where he got to tell me “I told you so”. 
 
By my very nature I am a sceptical person.  So when I started using twitter, I took it slowly. I followed people I knew, knew of or I was interested in.  And it wasn’t long until I was on my way. 

Phil was dubious.  “What are you doing, meeting dudes on there?”  And I guess, if he starting talking or tweeting to random people on the internet, I too would be a bit put out.  But it has never been about that.  Not for me anyway.  I talk to lots of people about lots of things.  And I’d like to think I’ve made some very strong and real connections since mid last year when I started “social networking”.  I’m not in it for the networking side, just the social bit.  Oh and the fact I am a bit of a news junkie, I find that the news travels to Twitter way quicker than TV or radio a lot of the time. 

I’m not looking for new best friends.  I’ve already got mine and they could never be replaced. 

It’s kind of hard to know though, when people are just showing you a facade on the net.  I mean, there are endless avenues to secure fake photos, personas and lives and basically turn themselves into anybody they would like to be. 
 
A year ago, I didn’t even really know what a blog was.  I was introduced by an acquaintance. She told me I should check out hers and gave me the web address.   The first thing I noted was that it was kind of like an online journal of her life.  I was intrigued.   So much of her life was on there.  I mean I knew her, she was also my neighbour and whilst I wouldn’t say we hung out, I knew a fair bit about her.   Her blog displayed lots of crafty things she made.  She is very talented and absolutely gifted at holding kids parties.  But then again, if I did nothing all day, I reckon I could whip up a pretty outstanding Lego Man party myself.  It wasn’t long until she started to rant.  About stuff that I could see she was clearly being hypocritical about.   She made out she was the worlds biggest earth mother and dutiful wife, whilst in reality, she was good at keeping her husband firmly planted under her thumb and borrowing tools and gear off her neighbours and then hastily turning around and talking smack about them.    At one point, she called her husband home from work one day to clean her sons arse.  True story.

In short, her on-line and real life personas, just did not match up.  It was easy to make herself into something she wasn’t.  What struck me though was that in the end, she was only deluding herself.
 
So, having said that do I change my mind on subjects?  Yes.  Do I say stuff in one breath and then maybe contradict myself in the next?  I don’t intend to but maybe I do?  When you are trying to entertain and be funny, sometimes situations are made to look more entertaining than they actually were. Let’s face it, me saying I stood in line with a tantrumming toddler whilst someone took too long at the ATM is not as funny as the way I blog about it.  But all in all, I’ve stayed true to who I am and what our family represent which is basically organised chaos. 
 
For instance I could not have made up the last year I have been through.    I just couldn’t have.  Cancer, broken bones, surgery, breast cancer scares, teeth pulled, tampon painting. Could I put all of that out there just for the fun of it?  Well I couldn’t.  You have to have a good memory to make it as a good lier.  And my mind is like a freaking sieve.
 
OK, so what this really is about is my last 48 hours.

During that time, it has come to light, someone I follow on Twitter, someone I have actually met in real life (only 1 of 2 I have actually done this with) turned out to be a total scammer and a fraud.

She led me, and a lot of other people to believe a lot of things that are simply just not true.  Basically, she sucked a lot of people into believing she was incredibly sick with cancer.  She made up fake people online that she used to con money from unsuspecting, good hearted people.

I should have followed my gut instinct.  That something was off.  That and the fact that she was incredibly rude to the majority of the retail assistants she spoke with that day.  But hey, she was meant to have cancer.  You can’t call bullshit on someone with cancer over a “gut feeling”. 
 
Where the lies start and end, at this point in time, are undefinable.  It was elaborate.  It was started at least over a year ago and a lot of good, smart and trusting people were sucked in.  The sad thing is, at the end of the day, if she really was sick, we all would have embraced her.  Probably even helped her out financially eventually should she have needed it.   But now, well now, she’s fucked herself.  And she’s tarnished a lot of what I thought was cool about this whole “community”, which is really sad, because I reckon 99% of the people I know, follow and speak with, are really fun, smart, and genuine people.

I think this may very well be, the modern day scam.  And I think I’ve had my very first taste of the evil side of the net.

You would think having 10+ years of parenting experience under my belt I would know better than to say stuff I don’t want repeated at inappropriate times. Or that having said amount of years experience, that it would lead me to at least lessen the ways for my children to embarrass me in public. Not so.

Here are some examples:

After hearing me tell Phil that the chick who smashed my car and did a runner was giving me death stares and was a “loop”, Sam asked her the next day on the way into school: “Are you out of the lunatic asylum?”

Today, I purchased a pack of 4 tennis balls for Jack. “I can’t wait to show Sam my big balls” Jack bellowed in the Reject shops corridor.

Sam, after hearing his father had a vasectomy, walked up to him mid-conversation at a BBQ about a week later, in front of our friends, and said “So, Dad, how are your nuts?”

In the ABC shop today, Jack started saying, “Ow, Ow”. I asked him what was wrong (sitting in his stroller). Jack: “My doodle is just too big mummy”. You need to understand, none of this is whispered.

My daughter apparently told her teacher, when questioned, that her parents wouldn’t be attending the religious assemblies because they aren’t “Jeezos”. Shit.

What about the time Maddie decided to tell her facebook community that she was Booooorrrreedd and her mother couldn’t take her to Zumba because she had “had too much alcohol last night”.

What about when Jack used to substitute the Tr in Truck with a F? When he would crack it in Kmart and yell “But I want a big fuck mummy!” Run Mystery Mum, don’t walk, Run.

Or Sam, telling off the orthopaedic doctors when checking his brothers broken arms “Geez Doc, don’t give him a Chinese Burn, he’s already got broken arms”.

Today I took a trip to Pacific Fair with Jack the 3yo demon. He was actually fairly contained, quite good. Oh except for when he “accidently” dropped his iced chocolate and it exploded like an A-bomb inside the coffee shop. His immediate declaration of “Awww bloody hell, Stupid aciddent”.

The thing is, sometimes, we just forget that they are the absorbent sponges they are.

Today Sam, who is nearly 8, asked me what I would do if he couldn’t remember his reading words tonight for homework. I said, “Um, well, nothing; we’ll just keep reading them, til you get them”. He visibly wiped his brow. I looked at him in the rear view mirror and asked “Why do you ask mate?” Sam replied

“Oh, it’s just that Dad said he’d use the phonebook if I didn’t concentrate tonight”. What? Is my husband’s last name Soprano all of a sudden? I rang my husband in somewhat of a pissed off state.

“Did you tell Sam he would be whacked with a telephone book because he was having trouble reading?”

Phil: “What? No, no, we were playing last night before bed, Mafioso. It was his game!!!! And I said I would arrest him and he would be meeting my friend the telephone book, if he didn’t co-operate”. Right.

Imagine if he of gone to school and told his teacher his dad was going to “telephone book” him. Hello DOCS.

What about the time my 7yo daughter (at the time) was telling her teacher she stayed with her dad each weekend and her mother during the week and even wrote her school journal accordingly? All of this, even though we’ve never even been out of the same house for one night, let alone separated? Where in the fuck did that come from?

So what have we learned?

I’ve learned if we want to whinge, bitch, scratch nuts, say the word fuck, threaten anyone mafia style or speak about delicate genital operations, we do it out of earshot of the little people. Or gag em.