Lady In Red (Waffle Doona Cover)

Next time you offer me a frozen margarita or permit me to sleep in your home, be careful:  you may be just fueling my unreasonable expectations of the world (and of you).



The NDM Cordially Invites You…

… to come over to JustB and make some noise about camels. Because I know you all have a lot to say about camels. Well, at least *I* have a lot to say about camels and you could, like, say stuff too. About camels. Or not.

While you’re there, you might like to read this other post I wrote for the nice people at JustB. Sadly, it is camel-free but that’s not to say you couldn’t leave a comment mentioning camels. Just sayin’.

Happy Mother’s Day

Yes, I’m everywhere but here.

This time I was paid in wine and clocks to write this guest post for the coolest shop in the West of Melbourne. Clocks, I tells ya. CLOCKS!

Wish I Was Here…

… except I’m over here instead:

Oh, and here too:

Houston, We Really Do Have A Problem

Typical. No sooner was my boss Houston poised to become a household name on this blog than he’s gone and taken himself another job.

I shall miss him, mostly because conversations with him tend to go a little like this:

ME: You will have received two emails with the same title. Delete the first one and keep the second one for your records.

HOUSTON: There is only one minute between the emails. What happened in that one minute?

ME: (embarks on long explanation about not having saved a document before attaching it to the email and blah blah blah)

HOUSTON: Are you still talking? I stopped listening half-way through.

ME: You asked me what happened, so I told you.

HOUSTON: Just because I asked doesn’t mean I want to hear the answer.

ME: You really need to reexamine the purpose of a question in conversation. Just sayin’.

HOUSTON: What? I wasn’t listening.

And, for the record, a typical text message exchange will go something like this:

Also for the record, there really is a ‘Slack Bitch’ board in my workplace where people are routinely written up as being a ‘slack bitch’ (usually those people who aren’t in the office to defend themselves) and Houston’s office *IS* in the girls’ toilets. It’s a long story and perhaps some clue to why he is leaving. Whatever.

Anyway, the point is I really will miss him. Why, I was so saddened by the news of his imminent departure that for a long time I could only communicate with him via Monsier Poupée – a small crocheted finger puppet and the latest in a long line of ‘upward management tools’ I’ve been developing. Again, it’s a long story and perhaps even further clue to why Houston is leaving.

On the upside, however, Monsieur Poupée is thinking of applying for Houston’s job.  That’ll teach him for leaving. That’ll teach him real good.

Giving Houston the finger puppet.

Prayer for the Working Mother


Blessed are the missing school shoes.
Because you really haven’t had enough variations on the following conversation minutes before you’re due to leave the house:

MOTHER: Why haven’t you put on your school shoes?
SMALL CHILD: Because they’re not on the shoe rack.
MOTHER: Did you *put* them on the shoe rack when you got home from school yesterday?
MOTHER: (hisses) Then why would they be there?
SMALL CHILD: (hopefully) Because mummy put them there?

Blessed is the child who *thinks* they might be “a little bit sick”.
Because there can no longer be indulgent ‘mental health’ days awarded to such a child. Necessity dictates that they need to be firing out both ends (with extreme force) and/or burning hotter than the sun before a sick day is permissible. Fact.

Blessed is the note discovered languishing at the bottom of the school bag that makes everyone cry.
Because dressing three children in national costume and providing three different plates of allergy-free food for ‘Multicultural Week’ is entirely possible with only twenty minutes’ notice.

Blessed is the muesli bar.
Because, even though it contains more sugar than a three litre bottle of Coke, it has the word ‘muesli’ in it and can therefore be used as a last minute breakfast substitute for the child who has refused all offers of breakfast and claims they are not hungry… until they enter school grounds .

Blessed is the school’s lost property bin.
Because, small child, Mummy can not go home just to get your hat and, for today at least, you will need to pretend you are ‘Ibrahim F’ or ‘Bethanee W’ if you want to go outside and play. Deal with it.

Blessed is the orange petrol light flashing on the dash board while driving over the Westgate Bridge in heavy traffic.
Because when you’re constantly rushing between A and B, there’s never a good time to stop for petrol.

Blessed are the dishes and the laundry and the shopping and the housework.
Because the fuckers won’t do themselves while you’re at work.

Blessed are the small children sitting on the other side of a flimsy curtain while you have your biannual pap smear.
Because nobody wants to sacrifice two hours of annual leave to sit in a waiting room just so a doctor can shove cold metal up your vag.

Blessed is the woman who tries to do everything and ends up doing nothing particularly well.
Because sorry, Mummy has to go to work and sorry, I have to leave now to get to the school on time and sorry, darling, we’re having fish fingers and frozen peas for dinner. Again.


The Administrator

The rumours are true: I have returned to gainful employment (as opposed to the apparently gainless unemployment of full-time childrearing) as an admin shitkicker for a small not-for-profit company.

Mostly, it is a very happy situation.  I like them and they like me. Or at least they SAY they like me. They certainly like the baked goods I bring in and they support my use of The Chicken Of Persuasion as an upward management tool.

HOWEVER, they will not let me have my own business card. They SAY it’s because I never actually leave the office and meet anyone but *I* say it’s because they read my post-from-a-previous-life about self-laminating my business cards with sticky-tape and handing them to [famous] people. I mean, as if I’d do that. Shuh!

Subsequently, they SAY I can use the ‘generic’ business card should I ever need to give someone a business card (for example, the lady who collects the sanitary hygeine unit),  to which *I* say (while stamping my feet and pouting a little in a most professional manner) that I intend to personally hand write my name in glittery pen on Every. Single. Generic. Business. Card until I’ve made all those generic bitches my own.


As compensation, my boss said I could come up with my own job title. I was delighted as I’d only recently confided (read: complained) to him that ‘Admin Assistant’ was not a title befitting a woman of my age and experience (read: ego).

My face must have given something away because he was quick to add to his offer that it needed to be “within reason”.

“For example, you can’t choose a job title like ‘Queen [NDM] The Best’,” he said.

Of course the minute he SAID ‘Queen [NDM] The Best’, it became the job title I’d wanted, like, ALL. MY. LIFE. especially when I saw how good it looked in my email signature in Comic Sans font – centre-aligned, of course. And then, when I wrote it on a generic card with a little crown instead of the dot above the ‘i’ in my [actual] name, it felt like all the pieces of the puzzle of my life had come together… to form an ‘i’ with a crown instead of the dot.

In the end, however, I settled for ‘Administrator’. It must be said, though, that I pushed quite heavily for ‘THE Administrator’ (like The Terminator in an “I’ll be back… to photocopy your board papers” kind of way).

And it should also be noted that I subsequently awarded my boss a similar courtesy and allowed him to choose his own blog nom de guerre. He chose ‘Houston’. He SAYS it is in honour of the recently departed Whitney but *I* say it’s Houston as in “Houston, we have a problem… with our Administrator.”

History will decide.