I’m writing to you today because I am deeply offended by your attitude and I think you owe me an apology.

You probably didn’t think I noticed, but I saw you looking at me in our Body Balance class this morning. I saw the way you turned up your nose every time you looked at that little roll of fat on my stomach. I know, I know – it looks like I taped a bagel over my belly button. I’m working on it.

While we’ve never really spoken about it, I know you judge the rest of my flaws. How about you give me a break? Yes, I know I have cellulite on my thighs and a few wrinkles around my eyes. Yes, my hair isn’t as thick as it used to be. Yes, I’m sometimes a little slow in the morning. I’ve been around for 43 years, ok? What do you expect?

I’ll have you know, you critical twat, that in spite of my many imperfections, I’ve run three marathons – three! Ok, the second one was pretty slow and they were taking down the checkered line when I finished the third, but I still did it. And while I may not be running any marathons again any time soon, I was able to walk to that Body Balance class this morning and walk home – that’s about a 5K, WITH hills – without even breaking a sweat.

You know what else? You may look at me and think I’m old and slow and fat, but I’ve given birth to two perfect children, and I mean PERFECT! They’re both cute and sweet and smart and funny, and you couldn’t find a flaw between the two of them – seriously, no handicaps, no syndromes, no ADHD, not even an allergy.

How dare you look at me and think I’m not quite good enough? I’m strong and happy and more than capable of doing anything I want. I think you should spend a little more time considering your own flaws, Ms. I Eat Cake and Other Carbs, Ms. I Play Fast and Loose with the Sun Screen, Ms. Is It Time for Wine Yet.

Just for the record, I’ll have you know that I’m going to go on enjoying being alive, even if you DO think less of me. I just hope you realise that your hateful attitude towards me is only hurting yourself.

Sincerely,
Your Body

Dear My Body,

You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry. I love you and I deeply appreciate everything you do for me and my family. Let’s be friends again.

Love,
Laura Fulton

2. I have no patience for angst, manipulation or drama of any kind, so don’t even try. If my son makes you insane, date someone else. For the record, I’m not crazy but I can see it from here. Mess with my boys and you’ll find yourself toe-to-toe with 40 years worth of pent up, vintage cray-cray. Trust me, you WILL be sorry.

3. If my son ever hits you or treats you without respect, tell me. Trust me, he WILL be sorry. However, if you hurt his feelings or make fun of him, I’m not above KICKING YOUR ASS. If your dad doesn’t like it, give him my number.

4. My boys only fight with each other. In fact, they get along pretty well with most people, so if you make my son so insane that he’s tempted to hit you or treat you without respect, it’s probably you.

5. My boys don’t have any physical or emotional disorders. They aren’t ADHD, they aren’t socially inept and they’ve never been abused. They were gently toilet trained and no one in our family is alcoholic or absent. If it’s not working out with you and my son, it’s probably you.

6. If my son tells you that he’s not that into you and you shag him anyway, don’t be offended if he’s STILL not that into you.

7. My boys know how to do their own housework, but if my son is paying your rent, don’t complain about washing his clothes.

8. If you really want things to work out between you and my son, it would do you well to stay in my good books, so put on a longer skirt and get your hands off my son’s junk (at least while I’m watching). And go wash something. At my house. With a smile on your face.

9. I’m a rotten cook so if you can cook with any prowess at all, you’ll probably score points with my son. Enjoy the free pass – it’s the only one you’ll get from me.

10. However special you think you are, you should know right now that YOU ARE NOT THE FIRST. Both of my sons have already been in love. Both of them have proposed to a smart, talented, funny, educated, compassionate woman who only turned them down because she was already married. Ok, it was me, but still. If my son loves you, count yourself lucky because he is one fantastic guy.

With a name like Wreck It Ralph, you might assume it’s a movie for boys, and it is. Ralph is big and smelly and more than a little destructive, so rough little boys love it. But the other main character is a super funky chick who races against a bunch of girly girls in a land made of candy, so girly girls love it. The toughest soldier character is also a girl, so bad ass girls love it, and one of the bitchy racers is a gay boy, so girly boys love it. There’s a whole Call of Duty sideline going on so bad ass boys love it, and the nice guy who fixes everything ends up with the hot babe in the end, so nice guys love it. Nerds love it because it teaches the very basics of rudimentary code writing and dads love it because it features all the old video games they played when they were little boys. And moms love it because everyone else loves it. 

2. It encourages kids to forgive in the end.

The bitchy little girl bullies are truly shitty to our heroine Vanellope Von Schweet, but in the end she forgives them instead of having them executed. Personally, I would have had them executed, but I guess Vanellope is a better person than I am. I can live with that.

3. It has some truly choice dialogue.

I love Calhoun’s line, “Doomsday and Armageddon just had a baby and IT IS UGLY”, but my personal favourite has to been when Ralph is just about to lay into King Candy, so King Candy puts on a pair of glasses and begs, “You wouldn’t hit a guy with glasses, would you?” to which Ralph pulls off the glasses and whacks King Candy with them. King Candy says, “You hit a guy – WITH glasses. Well played.” That shit is funny.

4. Most of the music doesn’t make me want to kill myself.

Ok, the boppy little Sugar Rush song pushes the boundaries of my sanity to its outer limits, but otherwise, I can live with the music without clawing my eyes out.

5. It teaches that it’s ok if you’re not perfect.

Ralph tries to embody this theme – despite his freakishly big hands and bad hair, he eventually learns to embrace his whole “I’m bad and that’s good” Bad Guy Support Group motto. But it’s Vanellope who really drives* the point home. (*See, she’s a race car driver so she drives the point home – get it? get it? That was funny, I promise.) Apparently the filmmakers created the character of Vanellope specifically for Sarah Silverman, the actress who does her voice, who recently published a book called Bedwetter about how she was able to take advantage of her greatest flaw. So basically, whatever your issue is, this movie teaches that it’s just a glitch and you can make that glitch your super power if you know how to work it and just be who you are. Which I think is nice, considering how many glitches I have.

6. It teaches that kids can redeem us.

Ralph’s final line is, “If that little kid likes me, how bad can I be?” In true life, the answer is “pretty bad” because kids have the amazing ability to forgive all kinds of incredibly messed up wrongs that have been done to them. Thankfully, my kids have this power too, so really, if I never become a successful writer or display any sort of talent for anything beyond laundry and keeping the towels straight on the bar, well, as long as my kids turn out ok, that’ll be good enough for me.

(I know this news comes as a shock to all of you who remember me as The Girl with the Perpetual Pedicure and What Do You Mean ‘Wash My Own Toilet’???)

It wasn’t so much that I went out for the traditionally sexy frilly stuff of porn magazines – lace is itchy, after all, and when since the 1800s were garter belts really practical? No, I was more a fan of the hearty cotton bikini briefs and the sturdy yet unpinchy elastic. But the real reason I stocked up during those 5 for $20 twice-a-year sales was because the labels in my practical yet cute panties said Victoria’s Secret. Nobody knew except me but the secret was that I was wearing quality undies, and that just makes a girl feel pretty.

Sadly, it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to afford my prize Vics. For one thing, there’s is no Victoria’s Secrets in Australia (not that I’ve found anyway). Also, with two (sometimes four) kids, a part time job and a house full of bills, who has the time or money to go shopping for expensive panties? Not, obviously, me.

It’s gotten so bad that my last batch of panties came in a six pack that was on sale at Target. They didn’t even have their own individual hangers. How has this happened? Oh how the mighty have fallen.

The good news, though, is that, after eight years of marriage and two (sometimes four) kids, a naughty puppy, a house, a bunch of bills and even more laundry, there’s only one thing that makes panties sexy at my house. It’s not lace or red spandex but rather my willingness to take them off.

Yep, at my house, it doesn’t matter how plain or sturdy or untrendy my undies are. As long as I’m happy to shuck them off, those babies are looking GOOD, even if they do say Target on the label. Which basically means ALL my panties are sexy.

See? Totally amazing.

• DAD: Look kids! I got you a dog!
• KIDS: Yay! Dad’s the greatest!

(Mom walks the dog, feeds the dog, gets up at 5am to potty train the dog, takes the dog to the vet, cleans up after the dog and replaces or fixes everything the dog chews up. Mom organises to have the backyard dog-proofed and pays to have someone install a dog door. Mom makes dinner for a second time when the dog gets up on the table and steals the food off the kids’ plates. Mom wakes up every morning smelling like the dog because Dad thinks the dog would really like sleeping in her bed. Mom washes everything the dog sheds all over and keeps the dog from terrorizing the children. Mom chases the dog down the street in her pyjamas when the kids let the dog out – again. Mom hates the dog. Mom wonders what diabolical mind would impose a dog on a cat person.)

• MOM: Will somebody come get this damn dog out of the trash? There’s crap all over the kitchen floor!
• KIDS: Geez, Mom, why are you so grumpy?
• MOM: Because I don’t get the point of this dog! I can understand dogs that run into burning buildings or guide blind people or let you know when you’re about to go into an epileptic fit. I’ve got no problem with police dogs and dogs that sniff out drugs and dogs that herd cattle. But this destructive food whore? I don’t get it.
• DAD: Oh, but she’s cute!
• MOM: Wanna see cute? This is our youngest son. Nothing and no one can out cute this kid.
• DAD: But the dog loves you!
• MOM: My children love me! AND they can tell me they love me without wiping spit or snot all over me. Every ounce of that dog’s love comes out her nose or off her tongue. It’s gross.
• DAD: But look at how loyal she is to you!
• MOM: She should be – I feed her for no good reason. And I have YOU to be loyal to me, husband dear.
• DAD: But look at how happy she is to see you when you come home!
• MOM: Really? Whose ego is that big? The one time in my life I was so happy to see a person that I had to jump up and down and pee myself, I was standing in front of Aerosmith. Do I look like Steven Tyler to you? I may, on occasion, be totally amazing but I’ll never be THAT amazing. Like, ever.

See? Do you SEE what I’m talking about? Dogs. Pointless.

Now cats make sense to me. A cat wanders into my life, I get it desexed and vaccinated, I put out food and a scratching post and I show it where to go to the toilet. From then on, I lead my life and the cat leads its own, NOT co-dependent life.

My daily schedule has nothing to do with the cat’s digestive system, and when I’m sitting still and ready for companionship, the cat will (probably) come and sit on my lap. Or not. Whatever. And when the cat is ready to explore new horizons, it moves on. I spend three days waiting to see if the cat comes back. If it doesn’t, I move on, too. See? Easy.

Somehow I’m the villain because I haven’t been converted, but the joke is actually on my husband and kids. I bought my stupid dog a bag of pork ears last week, and I am now her deity. She loves me so much she brought me a dead bird. I found it in the middle of my kitchen floor which was fine because the floor was dirty anyway. I’m not entirely sure if she killed it herself or just brought it to me, but the point is that, even though I’m still a cat person at heart, I’m her favourite.

So suck it, family.

At least no one will think any less of me than they already do.

I mean, I was a dorky 40-ish mom with bad roots before I laced up my rental four wheeler skates to begin with.

It’s not like the rest of the rink might have thought I was seriously cool but then changed their opinion when I started doing the two tricky skating moves I know (going backwards and that crossing-the-feet thing around corners). They knew what they were getting the minute I walked in the door.

Which is fine by me.

But let a guy my age put on, say, a pair of kicky bike shorts, hit the roller skating rink and spend two hours skating fast and singing loud. Everyone would think he was a paedophile. Seriously – the last couple of times I’ve taken my kids skating, I’ve seen that guy (let’s call him Creepy Roller Guy). Ok, so he does have a home-permed mullet to make up for his receding hairline and a 70’s handlebar moustache, but other than that, Creepy Roller Guy might just be a man version of me.

Well, if you can overlook those patterned bike shorts that include a sprinkling of fluorescent pink triangles. And we really sort of have to have a conversation about his Megadeth ‘wife beater’ style singlet top.

But it’s not fair to judge.*

He might be a perfectly nice guy who was a super cool roller hit back in the 80s when he still had a nuclear mushroom cloud of curls sprouting out of the top of his headband to go with his mullet. Maybe he’s had a groin injury and he really needs the extra support those bike shorts give him. Maybe his cousin plays for Megadeth. He’s almost certainly harmless.

(*I made my boys use the ladies room. Just in case.)

Today I have to give another big shout out to the Sunshine Roller Skating Centre. I’ve taken my boys there a few times presumably to entertain the children but really because it’s still the most fun I can have while the kids are watching me.

I especially love the teenage boys who work there. They’ve been given to believe that teaching children how to roller skate is their calling from above. On a mission from God, the teen boys stuck right with my five year old the other day until my son could actually properly skate – which meant I was free to whiz around pretending to be Olivia Newton-John in Xanadu.

I was actually so impressive with my speed and my two wicked moves that I attracted the attention of a group of ladies practicing for their roller derby team. I was SO incredible, in fact, that one of the gals actually approached me and asked if I was interested in joining their club!

Now, roller derby girls tend to have a particular look that involves a lot of visible tattoos and very short hair – which is fine – but they’re not really the sort of crowd I would generally look at from a distance and think, “Those ladies look like my kinda people”.

And then Eye of the Tiger came on and I found myself in the middle of a roller derby fantasy which was sort of like The Pink Ladies from Grease only with a lot more spandex.

There I was, imagining myself in my cute hot pink tennis skort with matching striped pink knee socks and hot pink knee pads. I was flying around the roller rink with two blonde high ponytails on either side of my head, growling at the other derby girls with a flash of my American flag mouth guard.

And because I was wearing mascara and my tattoos are all hidden under my clothes, I was totally the HOTTEST GIRL IN THE ENTIRE PLACE!!!

I was all excited about the derby invitation until I went to tell my girlfriends about it. The minute I tried to sit down, I was harshly reminded of the fall I’d taken in my first five minutes of skating. It was one of those spectacular falls where both skates went straight out in front of me and I was airborne for a couple of seconds before I landed squarely on my butt.

It’s been a week and I still have to type standing up because my bum hurts too much to sit. I’ve had to give up my roller derby dreams, but I think it’s safe to say that when it comes to roller skating, I’m still almost entirely totally amazing.

If you don’t know me very well, you might not know that this whole baking powder thing is pretty incredible. You may remember I’m the same woman who once suggested to my son’s teacher that if I were to pack only the foods I thought my child would like, he would have nothing in his lunch box every day but a can of cake frosting and a spoon.

I was also the one who got the free dress day wrong so many times that I felt it was my civic duty to donate a stash of spare uniforms to my kids’ school. I called it The Laura Fulton Fund For Moms Who Can’t Get Their Shirts Together.

But running low on baking powder? Now THAT is a sign that the tide of my maternal expertise is finally turning. In a good way, for once.

I’m not sure how I ended up being so bad at the whole wife/mother/homemaker thing. I should have been great. My mom is a pinnacle of all that mothering can be. Thanks to her shining example, I used to think baked goods paved the road to true happiness in life.

In fact, I bought my first can of baking powder in 1993 when I was young and single and trying to impress a guy. Even then, a little domestic goddess was lurking inside me, trying to vacuum her way out. It had all worked out so well for my mother – surely if I walked a mile or so in her three inch pumps, it would all come together for me too.

Now, you only have to watch five minutes of Sex and the City to know that the commonly accepted way to lure men these days is with $600 shoes and slutty moves your mother doesn’t know about. But there I was, baking and trying to win my boyfriends’ devotion by doing their laundry. If you can imagine, it didn’t go well. I think my first can of baking powder lasted from 1993 until I finally threw it out in 2002. It took me 15 years to find a guy who was more impressed by chocolate chip cookies than $600 shoes.

But THIS can of baking powder, the one in my cupboard right now, is less than a year old. And it’s almost empty! Which means I’ve produced, like, hundreds of teaspoons worth of baked goods in the last year – all for the same husband and children.

It’s only taken a year of ironing and school runs and a complete lack of attention to the state of my feet, but my inner Queen of Domestic Bliss is free at last.

Let’s see what sort of trouble she can get into this year.

2. When I signed up for my domain name last year, I gave myself a one-year deadline to earn back the $70 I spent on starting the blog. In that time, I have made exactly nothing from this blog, which leaves me owing rather than earning. Where are all the advertisers I was sure would come courting me??? I’ll tell you where – courting other bloggers who are (probably) better than I.

3. As I suspected a year ago, unless you’re getting some kind of revenue, “blogging” is just another word for “working for free”. I used to get paid to write, which means that somewhere – lurking – is a viable skill. If I’m going to volunteer my talents, I’d rather put them towards something actually useful instead of stories about widowed Barbie dolls and roller skating.

4, As I suspected a year ago, unless you’re contributing something useful to your readers (like my cousin-in-law does with her uplifting and insightful website), “blogging” is also just another word for “giving your ego a big squeeze”. My children, however, already think I’m brootiful and smart and funny so to ask all of you to boost my self-esteem by reading my blather and engaging in witty e-banter is just a little self-indulgent, don’t you think?

5. Every moment of my life I spend writing blog posts (and deleting spam, which takes up more time than writing blog posts) is a moment I could have been working on my book proposal or writing my novel. I really believe the book proposal could go somewhere, and the novel is just one of about 20 that I’m going to have to write before I die whether anyone pays me or not, so blogging is taking away from other, better, more fulfilling work I could be doing.

6. Perhaps not everyone thinks accidentally teaching the eighth grade about self-abuse and/or naming a dog Jesus are funny? Just in case, far be it from me to offend.

7. I have discovered dust in my house in places I didn’t think dust would ever think to go – in fact, as far as housekeeping goes, I’ve (probably) never been good enough. It might be a good idea for me to spend less time blathering online and more time A) teaching my children sight words, B) kissing my husband and C) dusting.

8. I’m very pleased with many (most?) of my blog posts, but I have to admit that some have been, well, maybe not my very best work. What if, by some accident of Stumble Upon or Facebook or Google, a proper publisher found himself or herself at my website only to read a post that left something to be desired? While my mom will still love me warts and all, publishers don’t usually like warts. Or so I’ve been given to understand.

9. Publishers also don’t like self-published books and those of you who have graciously paid attention to my website may have noticed I’ve devoted an entire page to my self-published book. If this book had seen a wild amount of success in terms of sales, I might be happy to flout it in the face of any unsuspecting publisher who happened to discover my site – as it is, despite the heroic efforts of my little sister (who has way better things to do than promote my book but does it anyway, bless her cotton socks) my self-published book has been shamefully, epically, horrifically unsuccessful in terms of sales. No flouting for me! Better to give it another close inspection and try to find a proper publisher for it.

10. In spite of all the spam, I’ve received a lot of really fantastic comments and feedback from friends and family. I’ve had e-mails from people who used to read my column in Abu Dhabi and have been reading my blog in the column’s absence. I’m so glad I’ve done something you have enjoyed, but for now, (probably) good enough, well, isn’t good enough. I think I can do better – I’ll let you know when I do.

To everyone who has read my column, my blog or my book – THANK YOU! It’s been fun and I hope I’ve made you smile. I can say without a doubt that you are not (probably) good enough – you are GREAT!!! Hopefully you can find my work in the bookstore someday. Until then, farewell friends!

I used to teach English at an international high school in Abu Dhabi, a school in which the boys were segregated from the girls and most of the kids were pretty innocent – chewing gum was a serious offense.

One day when the school couldn’t find a substitute, I was called upon to cover another teacher’s class for a period. I usually taught Grade Nine and above, so I didn’t know any of the boys in the Grade Eight class.

Trying to keep things simple, the regular teacher had left a video for the class to watch, so I dutifully turned it on and sat back to supervise. At some stage, the video featured a stuffed toy monkey. When the monkey appeared on the TV screen, I heard a goofy pre-teen voice pipe up from the middle of the darkened classroom.

“Spanking the monkey!” the boy laughed. “Spanking the monkey!”

I was horrified. It wasn’t like I was so innocent – at my advanced age, I knew infinitely more about self-abuse than these boys could even comprehend, but this was a private school full of well-bred children who had been taught better. Clearly, this kid was doing his best to offend me and didn’t care if I could hear him.

Imagine my surprise, then, when the same boy who’d made the comment came to me at the end of the class with a discipline sheet in his hand. He would have been in trouble once before and now had to get a clean report from every teacher throughout his day to get back into the principal’s good books. I signed his paper with a flourish and watched his face fall.

“I was ‘making inappropriate comments’? What did I say?” His eyes were wide and he looked every ounce the innocent child. Ha! I thought to myself. I would not be fooled.

“Oh please!” I scoffed as I flounced out the door. “Do you honestly believe I don’t know what spanking the monkey is? I’m sure you thought I couldn’t hear you, but you know better than to talk that way.”

The class ended with a 15 minute school-wide break, so I went to my office down the hall to wait for my next class. About 13 minutes later, the boy came rushing into the office with tears in his eyes.

Apparently, the poor child really never had heard the phrase ‘spanking the monkey’ before that morning. From his expression, he’d probably never heard of masturbation, either. In his confusion, he’d spent his morning break canvassing first his class of peers and then the entire boys’ side of the school trying to work out what he’d done wrong.

“Miss! I’m sorry! It’s a video game on the internet! I didn’t know what it meant!”

All I could think of (but didn’t say) was, “Well, you do now – and so do all the other boys at this school.”

Bad teacher – one. Innocent children – zero.