Once. Twice. Three Times a Nob-End

in which I accidentally insult a baby, sexualise a professional encounter and perform a humiliating one-woman-show in a shopping mall

I’m trying to be conscious and clear at the start of this school term. It heralds a big and busy year for the family, and I’ve written a list at the front of my notebook: remember what you need. Once I start getting overwhelmed, the feelings can take over. And the small business of a family runs better when the CEO is not crying in the bath or stomping about muttering ‘ferfuckssake, people’ under their breath.

Here’s my reminder list of the things that keep me steady:

Quiet house

Clear surfaces

Put reading on the schedule

Stretch your back

Put the phone down

It takes some work to manage my silly brain, which wants to wander down rabbit holes unconnected to the various balls it needs to keep in the air. I have learned that I need to be super organised with lists. Lists on lists on lists. Like a serial killer.

Despite the lists, when I am a bit frazzled my internal monologue starts to leak out and Embarrassing Things happen. This week, there were three faux pas of note.

1. Insulting a Baby

I accidentally joked to a friend that her baby looked like Winston Churchill and later went into a spiral of regret. I texted to apologise, and woke up three times in the night berating myself for being an evil monster who would cause a fragile new mum to cry, before I got the text back that everything was fine.

1. Unprofessional Vulgarity

I used the phrase ‘raw dog’ in a professional email about one of the children; as in ‘they are going to raw-dog this school term without your help.’ I thought it was a fun piece of modern vernacular that meant ‘without anaesthetic’ as in ‘I’m going to raw-dog this unbuttered toast’. Nope, it means ‘to have sex without a condom.’ No sleepless nights for this faux pas. I only really worry if I think I have caused suffering. But I was sad that the rest of my carefully phased letter would be lost once the professional that received it googled ‘raw-dog’.

3. Confusing The Public

I ran into a rarely-seen friend in the shopping mall and had a chat. Afterwards, Mabel asked who it was. ‘I don’t know her that well,’ I said, ‘but the funny thing is, I always remember her name, and I get so pleased with myself that I use it an unreasonable number of times when I speak to her.’

I went on to re-enact the scene while Mabel, bored of my scintillating conversation, fossicked around in the trolley. I looked, therefore, like I was talking to myself as I said enthusiastically ‘Hi Julie, bye Julie, good to see you Julie, how are things, Julie?’ while I bobbled my head back and forth. Just as Julie walked past.

I said to Mabel that I’d hit three faux pas now, which should cover me for the week. Mabel said that I should do a really big one so it covered me for a month. Like when you were a kid, she said, and you thought you won the sports-carnival walking race, so you jumped around fist-pumping in celebration at the finish line before realising you had to do another lap.

Thanks for the reminder, Mabes.

I told Mabel that my friend Dim laughed until she cried when I told her that I had lain awake worrying about the Winston Churchill baby.

‘Yes,’ Mabel said, ‘it sounded bad when you did it but it’s quite funny when you think about it later.’

Yes! I told her. That’s art, Mabel! Turn your shame into something else and share it. Like Olivia Rodrigo. Like taking the worst, most embarrassing thing and writing a song about it and then other people say ‘oh, me too!’ and you feel less alone.

Oh - one more. Forgot this one. I had to have a pelvic ultrasound this week and while trying to make anxious conversation while dealing with a robot dildo (if you know, you know), I described this Tik Tok to the technician:

@get_raelJust a regular day at the OBGYN 🫣 credit: @nikadiwa #obygn #womenshealth #womenhumor #relatable #obgynlife

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It went down a bit strangely. But what is appropriate small talk when a robot dildo is involved? I’m really asking, comrades. For next time. I’ll add it to one of my lists.

Good Shows

Australian Survivor with the kids: a strong season kicked off with a blindside at the very first tribal council: bravo! I have loved Survivor since its first season. Nights on the couch debating strategy with the fam and laughing are the best nights.

Mabel and I loved Dance Life on Prime. Gorgeous filming and incredible athleticism to admire while lying on a couch with a fat dog on your legs.

Keith and I loved Vjeran Tomic: The Spider-Man of Paris on Netflix: the tale of the 2010 robbery of the Paris Museum of Modern Art. What a character! What a story!

Good Books

Recently, I’ve read and loved Acceptance by Emi Nietfield, The Iceberg by Marion Coutts and The Rachel Incident by Caroline O’Donoghue. I adored the spare, lovely, Garner-esque prose of Charlotte Wood in Stone Yard Devotional. When recording my audiobook recently, I stopped more than once to say to my patient sound engineer Dave: ‘What the hell! Who wrote this fucking sentence!’ Wood is the opposite of this.

I also read David Goggins ‘Can’t Hurt Me’: OK. This one needs unpacking. I have a soft spot for endurance and runner memoirs; David Goggins, known as the ‘toughest man on the planet’ is possibly the nutty king of them all. When Goggins berated himself: ‘I need to hem my vagina’ I had to pause and conduct a thought experiment. Was he bored with the fringing? Had he grown out of his vagina? What does a vagina that ‘needs hemming’ mean as a metaphor for ultra-marathon running? I never came to a satisfactory conclusion. I don’t really recommend Goggins. It’s all a bit too down-beat. However, my gateway drug to Goggins was ‘Living With A SEAL, by Jesse Itzler’, a rich cheese who invited Goggins to come hem his vagina, and this book was on the whole a much more enjoyable read than the brutal ‘Can’t Hurt Me’.

Born a Crime by Trevor Noah (listening to with child #2 while I work on my paint-by-numbers canvas; a lovely quiet part of the day.)

I hope you get what you need this week, comrades! Don’t hem that vagina. Let it relax, free and idiosyncratic, perfectly imperfect, individual and majestic as your fingerprint.

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