Budgets for Millionaires

I am a millionaire. I am. I have won lotto more times then I can count and the feeling of excitement, the bubbles and the butterflies are always the same. The stupid grin on my face never changes and I always spend it the same way.

Firstly, I divy up equal amounts between the five kids – a million each. In trust funds of course. They get weekly payments from their 18th birthdays which increases with age – decreases with stupidity – with the full amount being accessible by the time they turn 25. Unless they’re arseholes – then they get nothing. Conditions: do good with your life. Find happiness. Don’t be an arsehole.

Secondly, I get my family together including my in-laws. We call a secret meeting to tell them we have important news and they have to be here to hear it or they miss out. We are always standing in my Mum’s house I don’t know why but we always seem to end up there. Vinnie and I hand them all special little envelopes – all pastel and pretty – we count to three and tell them to open them together. Imagine their surprise! Always a million each for our parents and half a million to our siblings. Conditions for our parents are: they must spend it! All of it on getting amongst the living and holidaying! Conditions for our siblings: be happy and enjoy.

Thirdly, we pay Pink a million dollars to do a private concert for us – with just our family and friends – somewhere remote like El Questro. Yes, I said Pink. I spend a mill on Pink every time I win lotto.

Yep! It’s true love!

Fourthly, we donate a million to our two favourite charities. But we don’t just give it to them, no that’s too easy. We buy things for them. Life changing, treatment transforming machines for PMH. Accommodation/entertainment/camps/fundays for Camp Quality. We make it get put to real good use and see where it has gone!

Camp Quality – my other love!

Princess Margaret Hospital – loving our kids!

Fifth on the list is property. I always buy property. Usually a renovators delight – which I renovate with absolute delight as I please. I also build a themed village – with each home styled in a different style that I love … Industrial, hamptons, country, vintage, chic. I would then let them out to families, women or men who are going through tough times. Conditions for them being: they must be willing to choose to smile more, be grateful and welcome awesome new opportunities into their lives.

Renovators Delight!

Sixth and last on the list is us. Our dream home. An automatic car. A new dining table that seats 8 comfortably and a lounge.

https://plus.google.com/114198251164156273366/posts

That’s it.

Then I wake up.

What’s your lotto dream?

One love,
DRK xxx

#thisdoesntmeanyes

Consent.

Consent is a word that I will teach my sons. Consent is a word I want you to teach your sons and share the word together with all the men and women of this world…

Something else I’d like to share is that whether we believe or dont believe there is such a thing as rape culture, victim blaming and slut shaming all of the obscenities, all of the fallacies standing alongside these things should be abolished. Detonated. Destroyed.

Rape culture is disputed. It’s disputed because it’s “feminist”. But rape is not about feminism. It’s not about men v’s women. Rape is not about equality. What it is about and what surely cannot be disputed is that what women say, wear or post via social media is interpreted by some people, possibly a lot of people, in all their unholy judgements that she either ‘wanted it’, asked for it’ or ‘deserved it’. 

Rape culture victimises the victims. They are not taken seriously by all walks of human life and they then become the questioned. Dodging humiliating bullets of “What were you wearing?”; “How much had you had to drink?”; “Did you give him your number?” Rape culture blames the victim, trivialises sexual assault, scrutinises the victims clothing, attitude, history and continues to objectify women. 

Whether she wears a short skirt, a tight dress, bares her midriff, whether you buy her a drink at the bar or 10. Whether she plays with her hair and sends you flirty signals, licks her bright red lips or comes homes with you, consent is the only active guarantee that what you are about to participate in is legal. LEGAL.

Let me repeat that…

Consent is the only active guarantee that what you are about to participate in is legal.

It’s an all embodied passionate yes. A ‘yes’ is consent. A ‘yes’ is hot. A yes is a yes.

A short skirt cannot say yes. A hair flick cannot say yes. Swapping phone numbers does not say yes.

Consent.

Only consent can say yes.

Drunk does not mean yes. Drunk means be a fucken gentleman and make sure she gets home safely. Be an even truer gentleman and call her the next day to see if she is ok. How she pulled up. If she wants to have breakfast with you.

Drunk does not mean yes.

Walking the street late at night is not a yes. It is, unfortunately, dangerous sometimes but it is still not a yes. It is a “Can I call someone to come pick you up?” or a “Here’s $20 let me call you a cab?” It’s women sticking up for women – not judging and vilifying them. Making sure they’re safe. Making sure they are ok. And it is men being gentlemen.

Unconsensual sex is rape. 

Full stop.

*Featured image courtesy of unslutproject.com*

Superwoman Reincarnated

What happens when you finally sort your mental shit out? Well not much apparently. The earth doesn’t explode into a billion delicious oreo cookie pieces. You don’t magically look any different. People don’t fall over each other to be around the new you. But blogging does become more difficult. Or perhaps just different.

My gripes, my vents, my deep personal and over shared thoughts are now silenced. I’ve dealt with them. I guess in a way they are still there, they always will be so the skeptics say but they are fainter than before and I can laugh way louder than them now. And so I do. I laugh louder. I laugh more. Which is nice and I’m proud of that.

Here have a 9 minute laugh on me…

I never thought I’d ever be able to say this but when I occasionally weigh myself these days I feel … Nothing. Nothing at all. Not even when I had to weigh myself at the hospital on Sunday in front of a complete stranger and in fact the worst kind of stranger – a woman stranger. This would have given me sweaty palms and high blood pressure if I had of been standing there as the old me. I would have begun to make excuses about having fallen off the wagon recently, having had a big night of pizza loving the night before, or the best and most used excuse of all time – having five kids! This particular excuse has always been used as a distraction and it’s worked every time. Ok so it was a little bit of an excuse too but that’s got to wearing thin considering my youngest is nearly 2.5! It definitely distracts people momentarily though as I apparently look way too young to have five kids. Not sure how I’m supposed to look – haggard or whore-ish perhaps?

Anyway…..

I proudly stood there on the scales with this complete female stranger hovering beside me, a nurse who ‘The New Me’ knew had seen much worse in her career like blood and guts and things stuck up peoples anal passages. Things way more exciting than the numbers the scale was about to announce. Finally the numbers stopped going up (and up and up) and I noticed I weighed +3kg more than I have EVER done before. I didn’t even get the chance to freak out before ‘The New Me’ rationalised this weight gain instantly clarifying that my body was wearing shoes, socks, jeans, singlet, bra, top, jumper and a puffer vest, yes a puffer vest! That’s a fair bit of extra kaygees right there. Best of all though, I didn’t feel ashamed of me or that number. I didn’t go home and cry. I didn’t go home and start a new diet – aka starvation-slash-binge-slash-newest-fad-diet-slash-starvation-again. I didn’t go home and look in the mirror so I could personally curse the ugly, fat reflection staring back at me. No. No I didn’t. I took my sick not-so-little baby home with my healthy and able body. I held him the entire five hours I was there in the hospital ED and I did that with my strong capable arms. I kissed his head. I wiped his tears. I lifted him in and out of his car seat and I carried him up our 9 stairs to get home. I cuddled him. I loved him. And not once did I think about that number again that day.

I love this about ‘The New Me’. I love that there is more liberation in my head. There’s more room for things to float freely. To be able to feel the real stuff without the added anxieties that a compacted thought system can make you feel. There’s more space to rationalise, to breathe, to just be in and enjoy the moment. Even if it’s a shitty moment. A moment where you worry about your sick kid. But let me break this down for you too – I am not a miracle. I am not magically cured and now living the perfect life in the perfect body of the perfect wife/mother/woman. My kids still drive me crazy and I am still known for yelling like a banshee. I argue with my non-perfect husband, I cry at silly ads on TV and wouldn’t you know it I bleed just like every human on this Earth. But now I don’t care what others think of me. I don’t care if they notice my spare tyre once carefully hidden beneath my top. I don’t care if they hate freckles, my nose stud, my tattoos. I don’t care if they like me or if they don’t. I only care about being me.

With my new found freedom of mind and with all that extra air in there I didn’t think I could blog again. I’m not sure how I can go from sharing all this crazy head stuff to not having anything mental left to share. I could use this blog to vent about my messy, noisy children, my frustrating yet totally loved husband, my treadmillish routined life BUT I think I’m going to offer more of myself to you than that. I’m feeling naughty and not afraid of the possibilities. I’m feeling brave! And I’m scared where this empty wild head leaves my blogging now but I know I will find my new groove, I can feel it feathering away inside me – like an internal tickle but not like an anal itch. It’s exciting, frightening and frustrating. It may take some time and we are all well aware of my patience (yep – zilch, nada, zip) but I’m one of the lucky ones who has time. So be patient my little super heroes, my fans, my followers, my friends and in the words of The Terminator, I’ll be back! And better than ever too!

One love,
DRK xxx