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I mean rich in life experience.

Your laundry piles up. You sneeze at the sink and you are still getting older. The only redeeming factors are that you can still read the New York  Times without glasses and you get a kick from the odd Red Bull you sink. The Red Bull that you you steal from your oldest son that is. He’s 6″4″ and still growing like a motherfucking Kauri tree. 

At least I didn’t wet myself when I last sneezed.

Not that that is on the cards. Ever see the clip of an Asian honking out a ping-pong ball from her privates? The kids are all like Mom, you’re still young enough to give us another bother or sister. And I’m like, the womb is mothballed and shit is purely for entertainment from now on. Get it 🙂
Duck.
Dive.
Oh fuck. I’ve gotta practice being rich. In life experience and growing the young trees. They’re beautiful and growing strong.

 

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The Enlightened Housewife’s Day

Would ideally go like this:

1. Give herself an uninterrupted 7& 1/2 hours sleep.

Good fucking luck with that. There’s always something in need. The brats and Hubby. Houseplants. The Laundry. Or as I prefer to think of it. The Fucking Laundry. Actually something quite exciting happened this morning. I paired two pairs of socks that had last been paired in 2005. Just goes to show that one half of anything will eventually find it’s matching mate. Like Shit and Shinola. Bonnie and Clyde. Mork and Mindy. Etc Et al.

No I do try to live healthily. So I start the day with a ginger green tea and honey hot drink to soothe my inflammed digestive system. So it can do battle for another day. Well. At least, I sit the tea bags in the hot water and go and flick the milk frother on so I can slam back a coffee, following my vegan tea.

I do one thing to emulate Gwyneth Paltrow and her goofy Goopiness (everyone needs a paragon of virtue to look up to, and she that Acting Goddess of my generation, with her  inspirational product line is mine.

I have a decent breakfast.

Healthy Breakfast. Oats, Fruit and yoghurt.

Not the best photo. If you look closely, you’ll see I’ve taken a munch of the pear in meal preparation. But it’s a good example of the ideal breakfast. Low GI carb, ie Oats, Calcium and a protein source: yogurt or milk, and berries and fruit. I mix berries and high mineral content pears and bananas.

In my times of torrid reflection where I spend a lot of time in paranoia or brooding how everything went horribly wrong. (It didn’t) Life can be proof of disaster being averted at the last minute and the blessings we take for granted. Despite certain turns my life as taken, I’ve got a pool guy FFS. And a housekeeper.
We can both take turns at cleaning the shitters. She’s quicker than I at going around the house and I’m a hoarder so I do plenty to keep her busy. What did I say? You always find your other half. Your Mate. Buddy. Housekeeping Alpha and Omega. Life is designed to pair up.

Life can also be full of agents (people, places, and shit sandwiches hurled at you by life  inadvertently can seem to spike your dreams or make you too cautious to proceed honestly. You have to ignore this and plow on regardless.

Or as Brene’ Brown says:
“If you’re not in the arena getting your butt kicked too, I’m not interested in your feedback”

In recovery circles, you often read day by day readings called something schmucky like just for today or daily reflections. So Here is the Enlightened Housewife’s version:

Just for today I won’t care what anyone thinks, and if they do come to mind or try to curb me and my personal visions and dreams, I’ll think “Fuck ‘Em.”

And if I can’t do that, when the time comes, I’ll clench my pelvic muscles to have a torcher of an orgasm. Hence the need to “Sleep Naked”.

Then “Dream Freely”, and in the morning “Breathe”, and start the day again.

Fucking Laundry.

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Anyone want to debate gun control?

Two days after we landed in the U.S. , I was in the Golden Gate Park standing by a Bust of Francis Scott Key (author of the Star Spangled Banner and I was struck.

I was a stone’s throw from the Pacific Ocean. It was a similar clement day as in the photo above.

And as I took in my surroundings; it dawned on me:

“Fuck”! This is a nation of people with the Right to bear arms and if the need and necessity arose, as a citizen of this nation, your rights would be fought for and in turn you would fight for other’s rights.

That’s Patriotism, folks.

It brings out the fighter for truth and justice:

he Second Amendment (Amendment II) to the United States Constitution protects the right of the people to keep and bear arms and was adopted on December 15, 1791, as part of the first ten amendments contained in the Bill of Rights.[1][2][3][4] The Supreme Court of the United States has ruled that the right belongs to individuals,[5][6] while also ruling that the right is not unlimited and does not prohibit all regulation of either firearms or similar devices.[7] State and local governments are limited to the same extent as the federal government from infringing this right, per the incorporation of the Bill of Rights.

Yep. If some pissant Johnny Come Lately up and formed a threat to all that is peaceable and worthwhile protecting to this Brave Nation then the citizens have the ultimate right to rise up and defend their fellows and rights. There won’t be a debate about who started what shit. When. Or throwing the peoples monies to some far off, Fucked up Monarchy who are as inbred as fuck.

An Aside: Thank God for Megan Markle to bring some new blood into British Royalty. I just hope we get to see more of her chest at the wedding than we did of the Precious Kate. What a passion killer that wedding was. Makes me long for the days of Fergie and i don’t mean the popstar. She bought more ginga and hilarity to the Royal Family.

Second Amendment freedom is about tying the freedom of the press to the right to bear.
As a journalist, I can’t walk away from that. The free dispersal of information is integral to true Democracy.

“Be never construed to authorize Congress to infringe the just liberty of the press, or the rights of conscience; or to prevent the people of the United States, who are peaceable citizens, from keeping their own arms; or to raise standing armies, unless when necessary for the defence of the United States, or of some one or more of them; or to prevent the people from petitioning, in a peaceable and orderly manner, the federal legislature, for a redress of their grievances: or to subject the people to unreasonable searches and seizures.[9]

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If you do decide to drink, make sure you find a comfortable place to sleep for the night!

Happy Monday. I’ve got a zit that’s bugging the crap outta me. And I have a teen and a preteen with zits.
And fucking school is out at midday.

I need to have me some cake for breakfast.

Bazza isn’t giving interviews on his trip to New Zealand this week: What a fucking copout. Who’s leaning on him not to talk?
You cough up over a cool half mill to attend. And you can’t even take a selfie!

http://Former US President Barack Obama will enforce an extensive ban on media and publicity during his visit to New Zealand this week. There will be no interviews and media cannot report from inside his event.

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Mabee. Maybe not. I’ve got a lot of motivation to write when I hold the topic of anxiety in my mind. It’s the cruelest fucking disease IMHO. Get’s a lot of us. And there are two ways of keeping the tyranny at bay that I’ve tried. One is being rigid. One is being medicated (but then you end up realising you don’t have thoughts that are YOU. And I’m not anti med’s by any means. I’ve got a great SSRI: Trintellix  Robbie Williams takes this.


He credits this medication and therapy for saving his life. I started the new year taking Trintellix but I was worried I was getting fat and losing motivation to get to the gym. So I stopped.
And now I feel like shit and I think I’d rather be unhappy with my weight but happy with everything else in life and not neurotic as fuck. Okay. Less neurotic. It will never go totally because I’m genetically female and cursed with bitch-arse hormones that take you out in all sorts of unexpected ways.

Fuck, Robbie’s a dote.
If I had a need for two husbands I’d want him to be the second. A second wife would be more useful though. Women clean the toilets. Men keep everything else clean if leaned on (which is a great leap forward for evolution) but I’ve never known a man to clean the Shitter. I’m sure you are a few of you beautiful souls out there but I’ve never lived with one. 🙂

Yes, I could totally do with a Sister-wife.
Oh fuck, let me bitch about toilets for a bit. We’ve got a big house and I have to keep six of the fuckers clean. We added two after moving here because four fucking toilets isn’t enough right?
The insanity of first world problems.

So my skin looks like shit. (Hormones and worries about money.) Your average first world worries. We’ve got a virus in the house. I’m up worrying at 4am because I forgot a children’s birthday party today to take my twinnies to. (Now yesterday. Sunday 18th) And I forgot my oldest’s Ortho appointment on Friday.
And the world hasn’t fucking ended. I’m just a bit of a dipshit. But I can be so crappy to myself. I would never treat a friend as badly as I treat myself. I beat myself up incessantly. And others make fuck-ups and I let them off the hook and/or think their escapades are hilarious. Most likely I’ve been along for the ride going right back to my twenties.

Met a lovely Mental Health Caregiver in John Muir, Walnut Creek.
Pretty atrium right? but I was in no fit condition to appreciate the view 🙂 I was admitted to acute care. To my motherfucking surprise; I was worse than I thought I was.
Drank too much (not in one go but I was letting my self care go; it was the Holidays,  and my sodium and potassium levels bottomed. Bad for a woman with a history of a head injury) Low sodium can lead to seizures and low potassium dicks with your heartbeat.
I was fine after they gave me some Ativan and good nutrition for a few days. Really.

Sorry if that is TMI but whereas some folks are introverted; I’m an extrovert and am at my best when disclosing all. And I write like a coked up maniac. I write some good shit. 🙂 I hope It will help someone struggling.

Haha I will tell you about the time I was detoxed (reluctantly) a year previous in the next post. I got a butt shot of Ativan. Had a wee sleep and discharged myself  five hours later.
And the hilarious encounter with an SFO cop. (Did I tell you I met two FBI agents detoxing 🙂 
Fuck, back to the ICU incident. that was the most boring of all the stints I’ve done to clean up. No one else to chat to. It’s just one vegetable to a room. And nurses are too busy (bless them, to talk) And the shitty feeling of knowing you’ve got yourself in a pickle rather than being slapped around by nature like I was with a stroke a decade previously.
Talk about being a vegetable and wanting to get back to life. Over a decade ago. That is shit to worry about. Not the random everyday shit. I was pumped full of morphine and unable to lift my head for days. Completely paralysed. And the mindfuckery of having a head injury. More about that in another post.

Okay. Back to the medical health caregiver. She said to me: Before you go to bed at night, tell yourself four good things about yourself.
It’s so fucking hard to remember. I’ve tended to go to the other options to beat anxiety. Stick cake, booze or nicotine in my face to get the world off my back for a while. Or rigidity. The childhood thing: “Step on a crack and break a back”.

Let’s all be nice to each other going forward.  And ourselves.

I got scared shitless by my experience, and I’m worried about losing friends who might read this (I always make sure there is a responsible adult caring for the kids and mostly I walk the dog, stay off the grog but I do slip),
But honesty beats the fuck out of struggling and not putting it out there. A good doctor friend of mine said: “Monique, everyone has stuff and in this neighborhood, there is a lot of alcohol abuse.

She totally let me off the hook knowing I was putting the fucking effort in dealing with bad mental health and I will tell myself bad shit to keep dangling.
I know others in my neighborhood who have kicked this Fatal Attraction to the kerb. It will be okay.

Oh fuck I just rechecked my calendar and along with forgetting Ozy’s ortho and a birthday party, I forgot my fucking mammogram.
Just one more thing to stress about. At least I’m current with the smears. (Gross as fuck are smears.) I have an aversion to anything but for toys intentionally bought and fully paid for up my
V-jay-jay:
I’m trying to make you laugh here. Humor is the best medicine.
Maybe I should just get the tits lopped off. (Except they’re exceptional and it cost me $20k  to get the implants and fix up the abuse childbearing had inflicted on my body (a tummy tuck and by the way, while you’re stitching my stomach muscles together; lets add 350cc’s of silicon to the titties ) Having kids. Breastfeeding.
What we women do! Oh Fuck; you guys are awesome too. But can you imagine clamping a child to your nipples and all the fucking hassle that goes along with that?
🙂

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Because there is always a Part Two in any fetching Play. Shakespeare being the Master.
So I’ve been subjected to a Trial by Fire to date, due to any mixture of factors. Genetics, upbringing or What The Fucking Ever.
I can start by telling you about my dealings with many types of people.
From underworld Kingpin http://www.stuff.co.nz/national/4508646/Shadowy-figure-on-edge-of-crime-dies
An article about NZ  underworld kigpin Duncan McFarlane who I had the pleasure of knowing in a business capacity before his death.
There is a whole another story in that. A lot of stories actually.

“Wellington businessman Duncan Barry McFarlane had a taste for stylish clothes and top-of-the-line Mercedes, and once owned a Russian MIG jet fighter. But to some, he was the closest thing the capital had to an underworld kingpin.”

I got to know him when I had him up for not paying me rent and accused him of running a brothel from an apartment I was leasing to him. (He was, the canny Bastard) There was any number of times I turned up to collect the rent in cash and the girls and their “protective agents” were just hanging out and shooting the breeze.
I texted him after the first month of letting our apartment to say I’d have the Police on him for running a commercial Op in a residential area.
I had got a little pissy as he wasn’t paying me rent. When I texted him to tell him I was going to get the police involved. He texted me and I quote: “Who are you to threaten me. I’m the Master of Threats”.

It’s a personality thing. Instead of reacting possibly normally ( I was a disabled thirty three year old and should have been scared as fuck) but instead of backing the fuck off, I thought: “Game On”!
Mutual respect was the outcome. For the next six months until he left. It was a bad time financially (the height of the Global Financial Crisis) and he couldn’t afford to rent our apartment and we couldn’t afford to take a hit to the tune of $200 a week.
Sadly he died of a massive stroke. The same type of stroke I survived at the age of thirty one.

McFarlane did me a lot of favours in the short time I knew him, probably because I stood up to him and gave me some great advice:
“Monique, if you’re too nice, People will think you’re weak”.
“Me and you both know that’s not the case as you cheated death. And here you are giving me a hard time”.
Which I did and he repaid me by evicting some twatty occupants from an apartment in Christchurch.

More on that in the next post. “How I walked in and found out my apartment was going to the dogs”. And it was the sleeping homeless guy I kicked who gave me the Heads Up on the little shit who was putting holes in the walls of my apartment”.

Too long a title for a blog post. I’ll rethink that after lunch 🙂

But how fucking funny and ironic is it that Aliens landed in Wales on St Pat’s Day 🙂

 

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Haha. The original title of this post was going to be: ” I met two FBI agents in detox”. But i dropped too many caps.

I’m not shitting you. The first was a female FBI agent. She worked breaking peadophile circles with the Irish Defense Intelligence Section. She worked out of the U.S. reporting back to Ireland.. The second FBI agent I met had worked on the Mexican border stopping border crossings and was a post 911 agent. Following that he worked on meth drug circles proliferating out of San Diego.
Anyhow. We all ended up cohabiting due to different circumstances. Slightly different. We’d arrived at the point of alcohol dependence.
Alcohol  Dependence! Gasp. Sorry if you know me personally and think less of me for it. It’s awful to think that I might be judged. Especially as your average Suburban Mom. Okay, maybe, not so average. My husband made some dosh from a start-up internet business and moved us from Johnsonville Wellington, a suburb I love but a friend sledged as a place not to live in as it wasn’t Khandallah. (New Zealand in Joke 🙂 to Alamo, California. She eventually left for Nelson and everybody else in the Baby Group ended up in Whitby.
(The cash is all gone BTW :, just in case you’re thinking of breaking and entering, 🙂 we spent it on three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and upgrading our pool)
Me! A small town girl casually talking about upgrading her pool! Whoda thunk it!

And know we have to pay a fuck ton of property tax. Average rates in New Zealand picks your pocket over to the tune of roughly $2800. Here we get a tab of $18,000 a year. I might have to Housewife and get a paid job.

Alcohol Dependence. What a Shitter.
Heaven forbid you admit you have a problem right?And once it finds you it will stay with you. I’m just being honest here.
So anyway, I first went off the drink at age 25.  I was royally twelve stepped and I loved the fuck out of it. I was the Poster Child of AA. I was on every committee in at least three Twelve Step Fellowships: AA, Overeaters Anonymous and the last two I can’t say. Ok: I will:
SLA and CA. One’s for sex addicts and the other is for Cutters. I’ll let your imagination go to town and 🙂  The cutting thing was more a piercing stage where I ended up piercing  two holes in each ear and pierced my nose. My Nana told me off and it fell out one day and I never replaced it.
I might pierce my nose tomorrow in rebellion if my kids put up anything more like this on my fridge:

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Trump is on his way tonight to the Little Kingdom He beats the shit outta Putin.

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Argh. Someone needs to blow the lid on this. I mean, how hard is it in our situation. Raising a family and keeping house and everything else our situation entails. To be perfectly honest, I post sporadically because quite often I function from the default of being really anxious. So anxious I had to miss some medical appointments this week. I just texted my housekeeper to tell her to come in two days time. I was in tears yesterday on the phone to a friend from anxiety.
She asked me if I had anything to take (like Librium or Valium/Xanax. I’m not into pills and so I said no. She said she was anxious too. and I think of her as so together. Not someone who might succumb to anxiety. We talked some and then I freaking begged her for some cigarettes. And I’m not a smoker! And she isn’t either.
Anyhoo. Half an hour later I got a text: I’ve dropped some Virginia Lights into your mailbox 🙂 Loving my community. And My Mom who arrived here yesterday. So glad to have my Mom 🙂 Big Ups!

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Time is an illusion but those damn toys aren’t. If I ever step on another piece of random Lego in the middle of the night in sockless feet I might just shut myself in a room. With all the Lego. Build a wall Lego around me: (like Trump’s Mexican Wall) to keep people out. Short labor intensive people for whom these toys were all bought. With a peephole. I’ll take enough books in with me to last the duration and my Barbie and swimming pool set from the eighties to keep me company. I’ll probably get my weights and do some free weights so I can emerge from my self imposed exile. Stronger. Fitter. Like Linda Hamilton. And with the conviction to gather and dispose of all the bloody toys from Christmas’s past. Except my own: My Barbies, My teddy bears and my pink Rainbow Rabbit.
Heck, the kids wouldn’t even notice the clear out. They live online these days. In a kind of virtual reality where they primarily interact with their peers on line and drop out periodically to take care of their physical needs.   Like all others of their generation, my children are obsessed with their screens. The best brains at this apex of human civilisation has spawned a game called Slime Rancher. Where you spawn slimes. And yup, ranch them. On a planet far from Earth called the Far Far Range. Sigh.

I’m not worried about my kids nor do I censor them unless they’ve really pissed me off or trashed property. It’s a hopeless exercise. Their Dad was on his first computer at the age of ten. He was teaching himself to programme. Not to ranch slime but he dedicated himself to teaching himself mastery of  an ancient PDP-11 made by Digital Equipment Corporation and especially imported to New Zealand by his Dad who passed the Thirst for Knowledge gene onto his son and hopefully some of our kids. And hopefully they will eventually wind up employable despite the unfettered screen time.  Or we’ll all be successful Ranchers of Slime. They may never move out of home but the boys will stop peeing on the toilet seat at some stage. That is all I ask for. A clan of boys that can pee straight and girls who can ranch alongside the best of them.
Note here: (It’s actually Legos in Northern California. (We say “toemato” and the  rest of the world says “tomato”!
We’re special here in these parts. All Californians are a bit special. At the extreme end on everything. Aspirational. Extremely political. Always on the take. It suits me perfectly! I’m political, intense and interested in money. I guess it’s natural that California is such a singular entity. It’s a State of bounty and extremes.  Fires don’t burn, they rage. We don’t have seasonal droughts, we have five year droughts. We don’t have standalone cities. We have a Megalopolis that is Northern California stretching down through the sparsely populated San Joaquin Valley and meeting LA and the urban surrounds. LA is the most notoriously built out and sprawling urban area but here in the San Francisco Bay Area we’re well acquainted with this phenomenon.  San Francisco joined up with San Jose a long time ago which in turn has stretched up through Santa Clara County in the time we’ve been here. Resulting in a burgeoning population as everyone realises we’ve got the best weather over here on the East Bay. This side of the Bay Bridge used be called the “bedroom communities”, as in it’s where you slept and San Francisco or San Jose is where you lived. Now we’re a thriving popular destination in it’s own right. Thanks largely to having a reputation as a good school district and great access to Mt Diablo and cycling and walking trails.
Like the bigger cities, here where I live is also borderless,
Walnut Creek/DanvilleAlamoSan Ramon. The cities all run together. All around the Bay Area. It’s like living in one big doughnut shaped city.
To me growing up, in New Zealand. In a village, a city was a bunch of houses surrounding a business district with an industrial area public amenities like museums, a library and parks. A municipal area  and a mucky part of town where the comedians hold gigs and prostitutes ply their waxed wares and entertain the politicians. Roads running into the town and out but there are distinct borders to normal towns and cities beyond which is bare land to the horizon or a natural feature like a Mountain Range or the Sea.
Here in the Bay area, where the cities have all merged together, I live on the border of two of the above cities. I shit you not. The cities are divided down a road. On one side of the road the residents are zoned for one city and on the other side, just like a miracle or using platform 9 3/4’s you step into a neighboring city.

Surprisingly. This doesn’t preclude the existence of wildlife. We’ve encroached on their territory and they’ve responded by taking up residence in pockets of undeveloped  urban areas. I am told on good authority we have a family of bobcats living within a mile. They’ve made their home in a neighborhood gully. I went walking Saturday morning with friends and we took our dogs. An EBMud (drains, water and infrastructure service ) Guy drove passed, stopped and wound his window down and warned us he’d just seen a coyote off a local road. He was really concerned and a really nice guy. He offered us his pepper spray. “I’m like, wait did this guy just show us a can of pepper spray, fuck! brilliant”! Meanwhile he’s telling us wasp spray is the next best thing to deter coyotes. We chat for a while about the local who is feeding up the local predators by trapping ground squirrels and leaving them out for the coyotes because he hates those gosh darn squirrels. Shaking our heads about the fate of the squirrels, me and the other Moms continue walking unperturbed by the possibility of encountering a coyote. No bobcats before breakfast today. Just good conversation and the anticipation of great coffee here on the foothills of Mt Diablo in the Far Far State.

 

Your local friendly bobcat. But do carry pepper spray just in case. The smaller size not the bear size. Wasp spray works just as well.

 

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