More than a haircut


Last night Mr Knees and I decided a quick trip to our local shopping mecca was in order.

Pants needed to be tailored, hair needed to be cut and let’s face it, what else do married people do on a Friday night?!

So to the fashion capital (Chadstone) we went. It’s here you should note that nothing, literally nothing, makes me more excited than entering this building.

Now usually when Mr Knees gets a trim, I stay at home, it’s not something I generally need to hold his hand through. On this occasion however, I tagged along. Partly because I had nothing else to do and partly because had I have strayed I may have maxed out our credit card.

Mr Knees doesn’t have a regular hairdresser/barber so just goes where there’s no line and it’s less than $30. Last night I found a place which cuts men hair for “just $48”. FORTY EIGHT DOLLARS, I had to sit down.

Anywho, he rocked into a place with a sign out the front stating “men’s $20 cuts”, perfect.

Or was it?

I don’t know what it is but sometimes when people start talking to me, I don’t even think they realise how much they are about to let slip.

This woman, holding a razor to Mr Knees’ head, had obviously had a long day. But the conversation that followed left us all quite shocked.

It started as any salon convo usually does ‘how was your day?’. It was probably at this point we should have abandoned any further discussion.

The hairdresser launched into a D&M about life, her life. Her marriage break down, her kids, being overworked, her parents, money loans, you name it – she was hanging out that laundry at the speed of knots, leaving no stone unturned.

Five minutes in and we had discovered she was living in the same house as her ex (but they hadn’t slept together in at least five years), unable to leave for a range of reasons, but mainly because of her two children. It was here I found myself offering advice. Mr Knees on the other hand was looking panic-stricken and super uncomfortable, probably because she was tossing around razors and scissors while looking at me.

We were there for perhaps 15 minutes. I may not have known her name, but I knew everything else.

Upon leaving she apologised for her rant, but I told her not to be silly and wished her all the best, while also reiterating the need for her to remove herself from the situation, and we went on our merry way.

The minute we walked out Mr Knees was like ‘What the f*** just happened?’ I was like ‘I’m not sure, but are you happy with your hair?’.

He finds it crazy that people tell people (particularly me) the things they do. I think maybe I have face that says ‘tell me EVERYTHING, NOW, and don’t forget the juicy shit’.

So peeps, what personal secret have you let slip/or been slipped by someone you didn’t know from a bar of soap?


Bogged down


There’s an issue at work.

I’m not sure how to address it so after thinking long and hard, I decided the answer was to write about it.

It’s the toilets. The female toilets. I know, when I first said that you were thinking I’d been sneaking into the men’s again.

Anyway, a few weeks ago I went into the bathrooms at my place of work where there are four female toilets located. For the sake of this we will call them toilets 1, 2, 3 and 4.

Toilet 1 is situated right behind the door that opens up to let you into the toilet block, so isn’t used by many people due to inconvenience, obviously. Toilet 2 has a dodgy light so for those of us fearing a flickering beam, it’s a second choice. Toilet three is most often engaged and using toilet four looks like you’re hiding something.

On this particular day all toilets were empty so I had my pick of the bunch. I selected number 3. I walked in, and immediately walked out. There were what I shall only describe as ‘leftovers’. I then went into toilet 2. Not even the dodgy light could hide the state of this loo. Wrappers and toilet paper covered the floor and there were droplets of you-know-what on the seat. Seriously, are you marking your territory? Toilet 4 was next. Now here’s where it gets strange. The toilet had clearly been used because there was wees in the loo. However, despite there being ample toilet paper there was none in the bowl. WHAT?! WHO THE HELL IS USING THESE TOILETS? Either we’ve got someone who’s a little confused, a chronic environmentalist or someone who doesn’t understand that flush is not just a gambling term.

Since then there’s been one disaster after another and I no longer feel safe going to the loo at work. Let alone the fact that when I do go, I have to resist the urge to tell everyone on the way out that I wasn’t responsible for any of the carry on in there, especially not the hair. Don’t ask.

Ok, I’ll tell you but only because you asked. There has been TWO occasions so far where nasty hair has been left on the seat. ARE YOU PULLING IT OUT? How the hell does it end up there? It’s just awkward and weird and I feel like no-one needs to be part of that.

What strikes me most is I work in a corporate office, with grown women. Do they do this in their own bathrooms?

It’s got to the point where I think it would be safer using the men’s, or even the public food court one downstairs. I know, surely that is the last resort.

So I’m leaving this one with you guys. What do I do? Put up a sign saying ‘ladies, are you kidding me?’ or potentially cause some form of internal damage and just not go at all?

The year of the banana

Me mid banana prep. Meanwhile, in the background a certain someone had to be a hero about it. Not everyone is comfortable throwing themselves into it, ok.
Me mid banana prep. Meanwhile, in the background a certain someone had to be a hero about it. Not everyone is comfortable throwing themselves into it, ok.

Anyone who knows me will tell you I can’t stand bananas.

They are disgusting. They smell revolting, they look weird, and don’t even bother coming near me if you’re in possession of one. I don’t want to know about it, and I’m sure I can give our friendship a miss if you insist on eating one when I’m around.

However . . . it’s now I must confess I recently ate one.

I’m pretty sure most of my friends/family think I’m with child because there is NO other logical reason I would do this. Alas, I am not up the duff, but merely curious, and a wee bit health obsessed.

You see, it’s been 16 years since one of these long yellow fruits has made its way past my lips. I’m talking no muffins, cakes, lollies, smoothies – nothing.

I can tell you this because I remember the exact moment I decided enough was enough.

Nikki, aka mum, was a banana feen.

I had bananas for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I had them whole, mashed, cut into bits. I had them on toast, in porridge, on ice-cream and made into ‘chips’. You name it, I ate it.

I was just 11 years old when I made the life-changing decision. No more bananas.

I said ‘Nikki, we’ve got to talk. It’s about these bananas. That’s it. It’s over. I want to say that it was good while it lasted, but I can’t. I want to say we’ll stay friends, but we won’t. I want to say it’s not your fault, but it is. You did this. Now you shall live with the consequences. Oh, and also, don’t bring that s**t inside this house again or we’ll be having words’.

From that day forward they virtually became extinct. Well, until about two months ago.

I had been have a few internal food fights and was in a bit of a pickle about what I could and couldn’t eat. I had randomly thrown the idea of bananas out into the universe, and funnily enough it was Mr Knees who managed to sway me.

He sent me a link to an article, filled with an obscene number of reasons to eat them and I couldn’t deny myself any longer.

Bananas are like the God of the fruit world. They are packed with iron, energy, fibre, potassium and EVERYTHING.

Any-who, Mr Knees and I were strolling up the road a few weeks ago when he suggested perhaps it was time. I agreed and a banana was purchased.

We then made our way back to the busy carpark to eat the banana. He wanted to eat it in the car, but I was adamant that wasn’t happening for fear of the car smelling. So we stood in the carpark while Mr Knees peeled it. Then I refused to eat the first bit, and the bit after that. Until I found a clean looking bit, which had to be hand fed to me. No way was I touching it.

I imagine my face to be like that of a small baby trying lemon for the first time. But after the initial shock, I’ll admit it was ok.

Since then I’ve probably eaten about eight. Sometimes I put them in smoothies and sometimes I eat them with Greek yoghurt. Last week I ate a couple by themselves. I still don’t like touching it so it’s a bit of a process, usually involving a knife and fork and half a box of tissues.

Needless to say, while it might look strange, I am now a banana eater. I have faced my fears head on and come out the other side to tell you this tale.

Also I just feel super cool saying ‘I’m hungry, I think I’ll eat a banana’. People definitely think I’m a health god.

Exercise overkill

Gym meme

It’s highly possible I’ve been hit by a truck.

This was my first thought Thursday morning as I awoke from my slumber, feeling as though I was stapled to the bed. I threw back the duvet cover and thought ‘brilliant, my arms still work’, but when it came to moving my legs it just wasn’t going to happen. I quite literally had to hold onto the side on the bed base and lift myself to an upright position.

I stood up, and it was worse than I thought.

I then spent the rest of the day wincing when attempting to sit on the loo and just generally trying to not stand up once I’d sat down. I dropped my hair tie on the ground and opted to leave it there. The pain of bending down just wasn’t worth it. Hair down it was.

You see what had happened was this: Pump and Yoga . . . in the same day.

Mr Knees and I have recently returned from vacation (I do apologise for the lack of posts in the past month, we were super busy gallivanting across Europe and eating and drinking our body weight in cake and beer).

So, upon returning home I decided serious action was needed to make up for said uncontrollable eating.

First things first, food. I went straight to the supermarket and only bought salad ingredients. Perfect. I even went as far as looking in other people’s baskets and then back at my own and smirking at them. What a jerk.

I ate salad that whole week. Yes way. The weekend however, was a slightly different story. We won’t go into that.

Then last week I thought ‘right, it’s time to reintroduce exercise’.

So I started with a walk home. A casual 7.5kms, felt pretty good the next day so said yes to lunch-time pump at the gym across the road with one of my girlfriends from work. I played it cool, selecting the lightest weights, knowing I was likely to die during this class. I didn’t die. But by God those muscles were moved. There is no way I did not burn some serious calories. We did 5000 squats and several hundred lunges, followed by arms, abs, or in my case flabs, and all the other food groups, opps muscle groups too.

I left there feeling great, energised and ready to take on the world. I had semi-forgotten I had planned another date that night, yoga with another GF. But it was all good, endorphins had kicked in and I was going to SMASH IT.

I definitely did not smash it. I kind of just whined and faked my way through it, commenting at one point that I thought I might have broken my special parts and perhaps this was the worst day of my life.

I limped home, had a nice hot shower and called it a day.

So there you have it, how not to exercise.

But, there is a silver-lining. I now don’t have to do any exercise because I’m still learning to walk again.


Preparing for the future

Image I’ve decided that being an adult sucks.

Along with having to make my own breakfast, lunch and dinner, pay bills, spend hours on the phone organising 5000 types of insurance and sorting alarms to ensure I get to work (that’s another one) on time, I now have to worry about my face.

In the past couple of months I’ve gone from feeling like my face was perfect-ly fine to finding a wrinkle every other day.

What the hell.

I’m 27, surely I do not need anti-ageing cream yet, surely.

Well, according to cosmetic surgeons it’s simply unfathomable I haven’t started the prep yet, or even thought about it. I’ve been offered botox, for free, three times now. THREE TIMES. Gees, I know when to take a hint.

Call me crazy but I’m pretty sure I’m not in desperate need of having a hundred needles jabbed into my face. Anti-ageing cream on the other hand, is looking a little more appealing.

So, two weeks ago a girlfriend and I set out on a hunt to find a miracle cream, one to rid us of our big black eye bags and weary wrinkles. And, we were spoilt for choice.

Aesop proved to be a clear favourite, mainly because the shop smelt nice and the man serving was divine to say the least. After sampling all the testers we came across the eye cream. Now while I was looking for anti-ageing cream, the whole looking-like-you’ve-been-smacked-in-both-eyes situation, isn’t ideal, but the discovery of their eye cream was really something else.

We dipped our fingers in and smothered that creamy goodness around our eyes, making note at the time that yes, it was definitely working, we could feel it already. Then we looked at the price. It was $305 people, $305!! The whole container was the size of a pack of tampons for crying out loud.

Safe to say we left the shop, sad and disappointed but with amazing-feeling eyes.

Two hours passed and the shopping trip came to a close. We made our way to the car, handbags filled with samples, and conversing about how nice our eyes felt. Once in the car I pulled down the visor to look at my eyes in the mirror and I am not even kidding when I tell you I looked like a supermodel. There was not a black bag in sight. I turned to my girlfriend and she literally gasped. It was at that exact moment we attempted to come up with possible ways to get our hands on this cream, without having to hand over a week’s salary.

It was a solid 25 minutes of trying to work out whether or not our husbands would find out, and then convincing them it was all for them anyway and did they want a hot wife or one with bags and wrinkles?

So peeps, any recommendations of life-changing eye creams or anti-ageing serums that won’t smash my bank?

Happy Mother’s Day



Growing up my mum (Nikki) put the fear of God into me from a very young age. 

One look was all it took for me to stop doing whatever it was that was upsetting her, whether that was having the television up too loud, hanging around the kitchen asking what she was doing or standing too close when she was drawing her eyebrows on and not giving her enough elbow room to move.

How she came to have this power over me I’ll never know. She’s five foot five, size 8 and compared to me, tiny.

None the less, we grew up never seeing eye to eye and constantly bitching and moaning at one another, secretly, I think it was because we’re so alike.

But not when it comes to food.

That woman may be small but my God she can eat.

Nik, as Andrew (dad) and I like to call her when we’re trying to piss her off, has a very set eating regime at night. This starts with dinner at 6.30pm, which is filled with meat and at least five different sorts of veggies piled high onto a plate. She will then have seconds. Now, that amount of food will generally feed a normal size person for the next two days, but not mum. At 8.20pm, before the 8.30pm program starts, she will jump out of her chair, ask Andrew what he wants to eat with his cup of tea and make her way to the kitchen.

This is where the fun part starts.

The jug is boiled, not once but twice. Toast is put down and tea is made. The first course usually includes two pieces of toast, thick with butter and honey. The second round is usually savoury again, a mug full of shapes, and to finish it off it’s more often than not a bag of chocolate fish, like a whole bag.

If I ate like this I would need to be crane-lifted from my house. Seriously.

Apparently, she’s into “lollies and chippies” at the moment. I can only imagine how horrendous their food bill is. When I went home she had nine blocks of chocolate in the cupboard. NINE.

Mum’s also a fan of the list. She has a whole basket dedicated to lists. It sits on the kitchen counter, filled with pens and notepads just begging her to be filled with ridiculous messages she must remember to tell me, her 27-year-old daughter, who lives in another country. There’s also a special list which lives on the fridge. This is the most important one. It’s the one she will go off when I’m at home for a visit.

‘Moosey, have you been to the dentist? Did you remember to call the bank? When was the last time you checked your superannuation? It’s Judy’s birthday in September, don’t forget that.’ Etc, etc.

The lists I can deal with, I’ve grown up with them and to be honest I’m pretty sure it’s part of the reason I too, am obsessed with lists. How else do people remember to brush their teeth and go to work?

But where we differ greatly is in routine. And Nikki’s routines are not a joke. 

Night-time is the worst, it starts with the food, the boiling of the kettle twice and the routine of eating each food in order. It then moves to the checking of the house. She walks around, checking and double checking every lock and door before making her way to the bathroom and eventually into bed. But it doesn’t stop here. She then reads for a bit, gets back up out of bed and checks and re-checks the entire house again. She told me she can check the doors anywhere between 38 to 45 times. I think we might have an issue.

I thought perhaps these quirks may have to do with her star sign. Nikki’s a Gemini, but she will tell you she’s actually a dog.

According to astrology, Gemini’s are a mix of the yin and the yang, and are represented by twins. The Gemini-born are ‘intellectually inclined, forever probing people and places in search of information. They can be wishy-washy, too, changing their mood on a simple whim’. Now we’re talking. When it comes to mum there are definitely two sides – one’s a psychopath and the other’s everybody’s best friend.

But mum prefers to go off the Chinese horoscope, telling everyone ‘I’m a dog’. So I did some research.

‘The dog is very righteous, and always is the first to speak out against injustice’. True. You do NOT want to be the checkout chick at the supermarket who tries to charge my mum $1.99 for rice crackers, which were CLEARLY on special for $1.59.

‘The dog is an agreeable companion – when they are in a good mood. But when panic strikes, they can turn nasty, and bark till they are tired’. Hmmmm, yes.

Then I found this: ‘Dogs are born old and get younger as they age’.

Well I guess that explains why my mum turned 50 and in the five years since has had eight or so tattoos, not including the time she thought getting tattooed eyebrows would save her loads of time in the morning, you know – not having to draw them on and all that. Mum also loves a party, (and she can drink anyone I know under the table), she loves a dance and thinks she does a better rendition of Celine Dion’s My Heart Will Go On than Celine herself.

At my wedding she met one of my friends Dan. This is a friendship I should have been worried about, but didn’t give it much thought since, you know, I was getting married and all that.

Since then, almost every time I talk to mum she asks after him.

This is a segment from our last conversation:

Mum: How’s Dan? Is he seeing anyone yet?

Me: He’s good, yea kind of, I think we’re going out for dinner with him next week.

Mum: I would go out with him if I was younger, yip, he’s right up my ally. He’s funny, yes I would definitely do that.

Well mum, judging by Dan’s latest snapchat to me, he’ll be waiting in the wings.


But in all seriousness, Nikki may be one crazy mumma, but I wouldn’t change her for the world. She’s my best friend, my mum and my dog.

Happy Mother’s Day you crazy beautiful woman X

Food allergy anyone?


I am literally in the process of an evacuation.

I won’t go into too much detail, but I think it’s an important step in the “getting to know you” phase.

I’m undergoing an evacuation . . . of the body. 

Now, in recent months I’ve become one of those crazies who claims to be allergic to almost everything.

I have become the soy milk loving, gluten free, fructose intolerant nut-job I’ve always hated.

Well guess what people?

It’s fo’ real. They aren’t making that shit up.

Being on the receiving end of it I can tell you, is a whole different ball game.

Take for instance breakfast.

The first meal of the day is my fav and on weekends it’s Mr Knees job to feed me.

We went down to our local cafe on the weekend and what took place I can only describe as a f**king nightmare.

‘Hmm, I’ll have the porridge, no wait, it’s got milk and raspberries’ (those sweet little suckers are full of fructose). Umm, oh yea I’ll have the avocado smash, no wait, it’s got feta, and chilli, and do you guys do gluten free?’


And that was after I’d walked in and been one of those smug soy latte losers (sorry to those of you forced to drink that sticky bean juice).

It’s safe to say I won’t be going back there for a while, it took the poor dude serving us seven times before we were ready to order.

‘Ah, I’ll just have some air thanks’.

Anyway, doc says we’ve got an issue. So we’re partaking in this evacuation process to see what little gremlins are have having a wee party with my insides.

So far I’m one round of “digestion liquid” down with just two more to go.

Let the weight loss begin.