Em Rusciano actually ENJOYS watching her kids play sport on Saturday mornings.

I’m pretty sure I just got disinvited from being a spectator at my own kids sport by my own kid.

Can she even do that? That MUST be against the rules? As you all know: One of the main payoffs from all the facets involved in parenting a junior athlete is occasionally living your dreams through them. I do it privately of course but I admit to doing it. I love bursting with pride, who doesn’t? I love being there to give the reassuring nod from the sidelines should it be required.

Incidentally I give EXCELLENT reassuring looks. Squinty and warm with just a touch of arse kicking around the sides. Needless to say, I didn’t react to this snub well.

My eldest child is about to start playing Netty in a new team, she plays centre, generally dominates the play and has excellent feet (that’s Netty talk you won’t get it if you aren’t into Netty. By the by: Netty is netball.) We were in the kitchen a couple of nights ago and I said to her:

“Babes will all your games be at the leisure centre? I was thinking each week I can just run down there with the dog and we can walk home together.”

I had this vision of her and I walking back tossing the ball between us, getting hot chocolates you know; just hanging out. I can also confirm “Wind beneath my wings” was playing, I was her age and there was a great deal of super slow mo involved.

“Mum, I don’t need you to come to my games okay? I will be fine. Just pick me up after it finishes.”

Yes. She totally said that, like it aint no thang.

“What do you even mean?! Since when does NEED come into it mate?! I enjoy watching you play, you are really good. I played Netty, Netty is OUR THING.”

Em: ever the proud parents on the sidelines.

I was losing her.. I could see her eyes glazing over, this conversation was well over. How long had she been working up to having that chat with me? I needed more information. Was I a bad supporter?! I didn’t think so. I am so far from the worst side lines Mum, one lady insists on turning up each week in the team uniform. Skirt and all!

She doesn’t coach and I am extremely certain she doesn’t play. She sits in her little rusty fold out chair, has a tartan thermos, a basket full of food and she basically abuses/coaches anyone that comes into her field of vision – umpires include. If goals are scored I clap politely, like I’m at the golf. Not a woo or a hoo to be seen. I even contain the fist pumping to internal ones.

“Seriously, why can’t I come? Is this an independence thing? Are you being a break-a-way teen? I get that by the way. Have we crossed over into my Mother is embarrassing territory already? Are you making a stand for real, is this your final offer?” I asked.

“No Mum, none of the other parents are coming. They work during the day, it would just be you. Don’t worry about it. By the way you were embarrassing in grade 6, so it’s not that at all. It’s just a school comp, it’s not that important. You just don’t need to be there.” She replied.

How sensible slash kind is that? Even if she is lying to me just to spare my feelings, she knew to lie to me to spare my feelings. She is down playing the importance of the comp so that I don’t feel the need to attend. Even if she is only saying that for that exact reason and the comp is the secret junior Netball olympics with the Queen herself umpiring, she found a way to explain it so I felt okay about being rejected as a spectator.

I felt soothed after that. That kind of self awareness and emotional intelligence will hold Chella in good stead for the rest of her life. We both left the kitchen feeling as though we’d had a win.

I know a lot of you will read this and think “get a fucking grip Em” and that’s okay I regularly say that to myself anyway. However some of you will feel me, some of you are nodding your head understanding my manic need for my kids love and approval. My need to be there for every triumph and my need to be there just in case she needs me to be there.

Her first game was this afternoon, she was best on ground by a mile. Assisted nearly every goal, gently shouldered her opponent when the umpire wasn’t looking and looked the other Centre in the eye when they shook hands at the end of the 4th quarter.

WHAT?!

Oh AS IF I was going to stay away, she didn’t anything about me sitting outside looking through the window and never letting her see me did she?!

No, she certainly did not.

Do you like supporting your kids at their sports matches? Would you be upset (or, er, enraged) if they didn’t want you to come any more?

Em remembers her musical emancipation from her parents at the Whispering Jack concert.

Do you remember your musical emancipation from your parents? The first time you spent your pocket money on a cassette, or vinyl single with no input from anyone else?

I do, vividly.

Up until the age of eight, the music I listened to was dictated by my parents. I had a steady diet of The Eagles, Rod Stewart, Tower of Power, The Seekers, Lionel Richie, Stevie Wonder, George Benson and the entire Blues Brothers soundtrack – all of which was fine, however none of it belonged to me. Then a little album called “Whispering Jack” came into my life.

I’ll let you take a moment.

I’ll let the waves of emotional emotion sweep over you.

I’ll let you imagine J.F’s feathery light wispy blonde hair cascading over his ears (which he always liked to hide the top of as he was self-conscious about them. Only the hard-core fans know that bit of trivia.) I loved the album cover because it had a large black and white picture of JF whispering into someone’s ear, I liked to imagine what he might be saying.

Just as an FYI, you should know that this post is sponsored by NRMA Insurance, SGIO and SGIC. But all opinions expressed by the author are 100% authentic and written in their own words.

“Can you see my ears at this angle?”

“How great is my acid wash leather jacket?!”

“You have an ear wax build up.”

“How great is my acid wash leather jacket with severe shoulders and fringing.”

The best part about it was it had all the words to all the songs printed on the inside of the cover, I could sing along straight away. Of course I learned every word by heart but that took at least a week.

The year: 1987.

The venue: The Melbourne Sports and Entertainment centre.

The concert: Whispering Jack.

The artist: John Farnham (Don’t call him Jonny ‘kay guys, he doesn’t like it, just like he hates performing Sadie the cleaning lady.)

This was my very first concert, it completely changed my life. I sat in the crowd at the Melbourne Sports and Entertainment centre wearing my best rara skirt, a high crimped ponytail sat upon my head and I had on a killer pair of white cowboy boots with fringing and studs on them. I just remember feeling as though I would burst with excitement, I couldn’t believe that I would be in the same room, breathing the same air as my hero John Farnham.

Then everything went dark, a scary man voice starting saying, “Pressure, pressure, pressure.” I knew EXACTLY the song he was about to sing and I told everyone in a 56 row radius about it.

I was 8 years old in a room with thousands of other people who loved John Farhnam too.

“IT IS TAKE THE PRESSURE DOWN! HE IS GOING TO SING TAKE THE PRESSURE DOWN! I JUST KNOW IT!”

Then the sheer curtain dropped and there he was. No one in that room loved him more than me in that moment, I stood on my seat and sang along as loudly as I could.

“SET the wheels in motion. Da da da na. Watch them turn around. Da da da na.”

It was euphoric, I was eight years old and in a room with thousands of other people who loved John Farhnam too. It was a utopia I never wanted to leave. I looked around at the signs, the band t-shirts and the happy faces and it felt like home.

The rest of the band was there, I knew them all! David Hirschfelder was on Keytar, Angus on drums, Venetta, Lindsay and Lisa on backing vocals!

It truly was one of the greatest moment of my life, I remember my ears were ringing on the train ride home and I didn’t mind a bit. I had been allowed to get a program and I poured over it like it was a religious artefact. Well I guess to eight-year-old Em, it was.

I worshipped at the altar of John Peter Farnham.

What memory would you relive if you had the chance?

And now a further trip down memory lane – some of our favourite 80s albums:

Blondie - Parallel Lines

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If you would like to go in a draw to with $50,000 to renew your favourite memory or start a new one, simply register at renewalreminder.com.au to be reminded when your insurance policies are due. Plus, if you share your favourite memory at the time of registration, you could go in a draw to win $1,000 monthly cash prize! See terms and conditions for full details.

Competition ends 30 June 2014.

Em and her daughter Marchella (left) and Odette.

By EM RUSCIANO

When I became a single parent, at the time it felt like I had failed my children in the worst possible way. Looking back now I can clearly see that it was the making of me as a mother.

I am a good mum. I feel rock steady crew with that statement. I’ve got this.

That hasn’t always been the case.

I had my first child at 22 and from very early on, I was determined to “maintain the rage” and never give into the negative mothering stereotypes I had in my head. I shunned tupperware and nappy bags, I deliberately dressed in an outrageous manner for Mothers Group and I had very few friends with children.

This was a conscious decision on my behalf to do motherhood my way, a battle to preserve maximum fabulousness whilst staving off the decent into elasticised pants and crocs.

Turns out it was also a conscious decision to make my life infinitely harder and to just generally be an insufferable dickhead!

Maintaing the rage is hard work, it means that your kids don’t get all of you. They get the bits that are left over after going out for dinner or a late night gig at a gay club. The wrung out, bleary eyed cranky pants version of mum.

Em Rusciano with her six-year-old daughter, Odette.

I never neglected my babies, they knew they were loved and they always had everything they needed but I certainly wasn’t hands on. I did a great deal of remote control parenting. You know the kind of parenting I mean right? When you’re too tired to move from your position on the couch so you shout instructions from there and generally say yes to anything your offspring request just to make it easier on yourself.

My husband was often left to deal with the children when I had run out of energy from being just so bloody fabulous (I wish there was a sarcasm font). I’d get all the boring tasks done, lunches made, dinners cooked, washing folded and then I would collapse in a heap and Scott would be left with the actual parenting. Taking the kids to the park, on rides, to the beach.

I felt like I had done my bit so why should I have to actually get down and get dirty with them? Or as normal parents may have called it: “having fun”.

All this changed when Scott and I separated and I had to look after the girls full time on my own.

Party time was over for mummy and shit got very real very quickly.

My horrific lack of organisation was the first thing to be overhauled. I had once viewed organised mothers as boring and scheduled, I quickly learned that a single mother cannot function without the organisation of a military operation. I started making lunches the night before, planning meals a week in advance, washing all the uniforms on a Saturday morning so that they were fresh and ready to go by Sunday night.

I began to engage with my children on a real level, I sat with Odette every night and listened to her read, I would then go to Marchella’s room and talk about her day while attempting to help her with her homework. I realised that it was more rewarding to snuggle on the couch watching Harry Potter of a Saturday night than attending swanky events ever was.

WHAT HAD I BEEN MISSING OUT ON?! You are probably reading this thinking: Duh, captain obvious. To me – it was a revelation.

In short, I had become a real mother, not a mother for show, which I think I had been for quite some time.

The girls’ dad has recently moved back in with us (yes I am just casually just slipping that in there, move along, nothing to see here!) and it was he who alerted me to my improved ways of parenting.

I thought I had just been surviving and doing what needed to be done, but it turns out I was shifting my entire attitude towards mothering and other mothers in general.

“I am now one of you.”

I am now one of you.

For so long I stood on the outside silently judging and throwing stones. Maybe deep down I always wanted to join the tribe but never really felt worthy.

I have learned the joy of sharing a knowing look with another mother when your kid is being feral in public. I play netball with mothers from school and thoroughly enjoy the coffee after. I feel less isolated and more like I’m part of some special club that helps and supports each other.

I am no longer a lone wolf.

It took a year of being a single mother to completely understand the wonderfully heartbreaking, soul-soaring, tear-inducing, heart-bursting experience being a mother can be, and that it is okay to surrender yourself to what that entails. I am genuinely sad for dick head Em, she missed out on so much.

To be perfectly honest with you all this wasn’t an easy piece for me to write, I did it mainly for any single mothers out there who are worried they’re doing their kids a disservice. To those ladies I say: you are working twice as hard as most other parents do, give yourself some credit.

I’m now off to do silent reading at Odette’s school and prepare for our scheduled crafternoon session.

How times have changed and thank fuck they did.

Have you ever read Em’s famous motherhood quotes? (Hint: They’re awesome.)

Em Rusicano motherhood quotes

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Are you a single parent? Do you think there’s a big difference between parenting in a partnership and going it alone?

by EM RUSCIANO

My other half is a level 6 (there are only 7 levels), hardcore, lycra wearing, leg shaving bike nerd.

In fact as I write these very words I can see him lovingly cleaning his road bike with… WAIT they are our wedding towels! Remind me to lose my shit at him later about why we do not use Sheridan-themed cleaning rags.

The Tour De France, taking place right now, is his Olympics. I basically haven’t seen him since it started. He watches the highlights during the day and sometimes the girls and I sit with him, just so they remember what their father looks like and to pretend we care.

We happened to be watching as one of the stages ended and saw the winning rider being presented with the Yellow jersey. Then the podium girls, also in matching yellow, stood next to him and each gave him a kiss.

He seemed very pleased with himself and although they were all smiling and waving, I have always felt that situation was a little bit creepy. That at the end of the ride, the conquering hero gets his jersey – and 2 beautiful women – as a reward.

And it would appear I wasn’t the only one who wasn’t happy.

My 12 year old said: “Ewww that’s gross, why do they have to kiss him? Why are they even there? Is that the only thing girls do in this race? Kiss the winning rider?”

I responded with: “It’s tradition babe, they have been doing it for a long time. It is seen as an honour to be selected as a podium girl.”

But now I have had time to ponder on it, and it’s occurred to me that my nearly 13-year-old has an excellent point. What the hell are they doing there?!

I did some research on the podium girls, and they are in fact called “tour hostesses”. Their primary role is to “assist the jersey winner to the podium”.  Assist the guys who have just completed a bazillion kilometre hill climb (that may not be the exact distance), and who are considered the toughest athletes in the world, and who train 9 days a week. Yeah,  those dudes definitely need assistance to make the 30cm ascent to the top of the podium.

Via 'Podium Girls-Cycling' Facebook page.

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So what if it is tradition? That is not a good enough reason to keep it around. Surely we have evolved from a successful man needing to be accessorised with two attractive girls to further enhance his win? Also, I know there is a ladies Tour de France and I enquired as to weather two hot-bodied young men pash the lady stage winners and, look, you are not going to believe this but, they don’t!

I don’t want to shit on anyone’s parade here. I get that it is a European thing to overdo ceremonies and generally be over the top and lavish (I am one of those aforementioned Europeans). However, my daughter was right. The tour hostesses are the only female presence in a bike race watched by millions of families around the world. Families that every now and then, involve young girls.

The only thing the organisers are giving them to aspire to is the opportunity to stand on a podium in a pretty dress. Then to quickly get to the reason they are really there: to awkwardly kiss a sweaty man.

I am not having a crack at the girls who choose to be tour hostesses. I just think it’s time for the organisers to give women other roles in the tour. So that the girls who would like to be a part of the greatest annual sporting event in the world have more of a choice of roles to play. Roles that depend on their mad skills; not their legs and kissing abilities.

To further illustrate my point, I give you an incident that happened after Stage Two last Sunday. Current race leader, Italian rider Vincenzo Nibali, was on the podium after he won. He went in for the kiss, and it felt so nice, he went back for a second one. And BOOM – REJECTED.

I mean, mad props to that hostess for turning him down, that shit wasn’t in the instruction manual! It clearly states ONE kiss, per rider, per win! Just have a look, I have put it in super slow-mo for optimum squeam factor.

Aint nobody got time for that!

What do you think of the role of podium girls?  Unnecessary and outdated? Or just a tradition? 

Em Rusicano

Over-sharing alert: I find using a public toilet to be a traumatic experience.

The minute I walk in I am in a weakened emotional state. I don’t want to have to touch the seat, I don’t like to have to smell the person who has gone before me and I certainly don’t want to hear other people doing their business. I prefers to do my business with a home ground advantage. ‘Away pooing’ terrifies me.

Today I was forced to use a public toilet, I held on for as long as medical advised. My bladder was threatening to take a restraining order out against me if I didn’t relieve it.

As I sat down and began the ritual of rolling out a meter of toilet paper to muffle the sound of my weeing (why do we do that ladies?! Why? I do it. You probably do it. Why is the thought of other people hearing our urine stream so terrifying?!)
I noticed there was an intense conversation happening next door. The lady in the stall next to me was ON HER PHONE and going to turd town at the same time! How could I possibly know that? Lets just say every third word was elongated and slightly higher than the rest.

Friends, let me make one thing clear: you do not need to take your phone into the toilet.

Take some alone time y’all, three minutes, five if you need more fibre in your diet. Surely you can be without Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and flappy bird for that short amount of time?!

The below scenario is THE ONLY time I feel it is acceptable to take a mobile into the toilet. I cannot think of any others, not one. No conversation is THAT important that you can’t put it off, if nature is calling answer that and not your mobile phone.

Location: Air force One

“Sir please don’t go anywhere, we may need the nuclear launch codes.”

“But I really need to go to the toilet, I mean it, I’m touching cloth here.”

“Mr President! Ok, take this phone with you into the toilet. If we need you, we’ll call.”

I did some intense poosearch, and what I found was disturbing. Yes, even more disturbing that fusing the words poo and research. Say it with me friends: FECAL MATTER. Yep, 16% of all phones already have poo particles on them. That number increases if you actually take them in there with you.

Also, it is just not practical to hold a phone and wipe your bum. How do you even manage that toilet talkers?! I bet you have lost at least one phone down in the white porcelain abyss.

Back to the public toilet talkers. If you are in a stall next to me, on the phone, I don’t want there to be the potential for a third party to hear my back end business! Who are you people?! WHO?

I can’t even.

Just put it away please.

In summary: No just no all the no, no.

We have two questions for you. 1) How do you feel about public toilets? 2) What’s your toilet-phone policy? 

By EM RUSCIANO

This week I signed my eldest daughter up to a mobile phone plan.

She will be catching public transport on her own and I, of course, need to be able to speak to her at all times when she is away from my side. She asked me what my parents did when I was a kid, in the days before mobile phones. I reflected, remembered, and then lied to her saying that I had to find a pay phone and call them when I was safe.

The truth is the 80s was the last decade you were able to be (by today’s standards) a shit parent and get away with it!

The 80s was the decade where parenting standards slipped a whole bunch. Women were going to work, Dads didn’t quite realise that, kids benefited from the distinct lack of supervision and took full advantage of it.

I remember roaming the streets with my wicked awesome bike gang for hours at a time. The only thing I had to protect me was my stack hat with giant drawn on eyes to scare away the aggressive magpies that lived in my area. I wouldn’t speak to my parents for the entire day!

I vividly recall being on a bean bag in the back of a car that didn’t have a back seat and my sister being in a moses basket in the boot. All the windows were up and I’m pretty sure someone was smoking.

We had a rusty swing set that was definitely tetanus ridden, the front legs would launch off the ground as you swung higher and higher. Not only was that encouraged by my Dad, we started timing our airtime and keeping a record of it. We regularly flipped the entire set.

If you knew how to dial 000 you were old enough to babysit. I am three years older than my sister, by grade five I was walking her home, putting some Kraft singles on a Salada and smashing out some super Mario while my parents were still at work.

On more than one occasion I drove on my father’s lap to the shops, not just up the driveway but the whole way to the Diamond creek Tucker Bag!

SPF2 was considered over the top and “because I said so” was a valid and accepted reason for any question asked.

What happened to us you guys?!

How did we end up in a place where these kind of rules are up at a playground:

I’m not shitting you, this sign is up at my brother-in-law’s local park. The over policing here is mind blowing, I feel like we will have a whole generation of anxious, nervous kids by the time we are done with them. Imagine pointing out all the things that could go wrong before you let them have any fun. That sign is BA-NAY-NAY.

Sigh.

I kinda miss 80s parenting.

What decade did you grow up in? How was the parenting different then to how it is now? 

Rm Rusciano and her kids. How does your family feel about semi-public nudity?

By EM RUSCIANO

Do you let your kids view your junk? Do you get your lady garden out with wild abandon for all the family to see? Have your bapps on display? Do your testicles feel the cool summer breeze as you stroll through the house of a morning waiting for your shirt to dry? Do your children not bat an eyelid while they eat their weetbix?

Or do you hide away? Do you strap that shit up and dive for cover at the sound of their voices? Do you lock the doors when you need to take your clothes off?

I believe there are two types of families in this world, nudes and never-nudes.

It is a fragile and precious thing to be a part of a nude household. All it takes is for one 10-year-old to say you look floppy and BOOM! Pack up your tits and dicks friends, it’s game over; never-nude land awaits.

This happened to a lady in the UK named Angela Epstein.

She once enjoyed being naked in her own home. Now thanks to her daughter Sophie, she is writing articles called: “Why wobbly middle aged Mums should NEVER let their daughters see them naked.“

The Daily Mail story about Angela

Basically Ange had had a bitch of a day and she just wanted to have a relaxing bath to try and soothe her frazzled nerves (I feel ya, Ange). As she was stepping into her lovely bath, her 10-year-old daughter Sophie came in. Ange thought nothing of it, as they often had chats while she got ready for bed or work and most of the time this involved her being naked.

Sophie had never made a big deal about it or even mentioned the no clothes situation.

Until now.

Angela noticed that Sophie was casting a critical eye over her body and she eased into her glorious bath. Against her better judgement she asked:

“What? What is it?”

“Sorry Mum but… You’re just so… SO (heavy sigh, eye roll, head flick) FLOPPY.”

Angela writes: “Floppy? Floppy? If ever there was a word a naked woman wants to have expunged from the English language, then floppy has to be it.”

Preach it, sista gurl.

So because of this incident Ange has vowed to NEVER, EVER be nude around her child around.

She is a prisoner in her clothes because of this one comment.

Is this a thing? Has a cruel jibe from a small person caused you to be a never-nude?

My youngest once said to me: “Why does your tummy have bumps and lines on it?”

I said they were my battle scars from giving birth to her 9.5-pound self.  Now we both sing “These Battlescaaaaaaars” Guy Sebastian-style whenever I’m nude in front of her.

I grew up in a never nude household. I didn’t see my Mum’s bits and only very rarely, in the dead of night, as I drank directly from the milk carton standing by the fridge, would I catch a glimpse of my tiny, hirsute Italian father darting through the house like a black ops, special forces panther locking doors he’d forgotten to earlier. A miniature ethnic comet – blink and you’d miss it.  Not completely nude though, he would always be in his tattered red jocks, cock and balls safely hidden away. Not that I was looking. Just reflecting back, you know? That I never saw his.. Wang. Okay this has descended into a place I am not comfortable with.

Naked ironing. Normal at your house?

MOVING ON!

What is your stance on nudity in front of the kids in your house?

In mine, it’s free range. My husband came from a nude house and instilled those values into me.

It should be noted that it’s rather tricky to convert a never nude, usually the force is strong and it passes from generation to generation. Scott took one look at me in my flanno jarmies after we first met and said – no way, get that shit off.

I’ve never looked back.

My 12-year-old has started hiding herself away now things are happening with her body, I think that’s fair enough. My 7-year-old still does nudie runs every night before her shower to “air her day off” and so do I!

Back to Angela — and I feel it needs saying that she is putting waaaaaay too much stock into what her 10 year old thinks. Sophie was probably eating her own poo a few years ago, so I’d take her critique with a grain of salt. Surely we don’t need the approval of our kids now on how we look? F**K THAT!

All of this aside I think we need to acknowledge an important life skill to teach our children when these situations arise. That sometimes honesty isn’t always the best policy, that they should know WHEN TO LIE TO MUMMY TO MAKE HER FEEL BETTER and when to just shut the hell up!

Darling Sophie, start taking notes.

Speaking of nudity…

American Pie

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What’s your house policy: never nude or free range?

Em. Post Idol.

By EM RUSCIANO

I’d like to nominate my own headline for this post if that’s ok with you?!

“Bitter ex Idol reject Slams Ian “Dicko” Dickson!”

Remember the time when I was on Australian Idol in 2004, I’d just sung my heart out on disco night and some English dude with a nasty-arse grey mullet said to me: “You look like Pauline Hanson on a night out at the bingo.” And then I got rejected by the nation and voted off the very next night?

You don’t? Nah, me neither, I’ve repressed that memory along with the time I got my period for the first time at school. I stood up (in front of the entire class) to find the Japanese flag on the back on my white-and-green striped dress.

*Left eye twitches

Em, on Idol.

The aforementioned English dude with the questionable hair situation was none other than Ian “Dicko” Dickson.

Yesterday Dicko came out and said that he feels the reality TV judges of today are a bunch of soft cocks. He says that the likes of Will-i-am, Ricky Martin, Delta Goodrem, Ronan Keating, Redfoo, Dannii Minogue and Natalie Bassingthwaite are going waaaaaay to easy on the wannabes because they are concerned with how the public perceives them. He feels that contestants aren’t going onto long-term careers when these shows end because they’re getting too much arse-licking and not enough arse-kicking.

Dicko was quoted as saying: “I was watching The X Factor the other night, and it’s a far cry from when Idol was launched. The

Ian Dicko Dickson (via Wikipedia)

body count in Idol seasons one and two was huge and it made me realise how sanitised these shows have become.”

Dicko said Idol boasted a “roll of honour” that included Guy Sebastian, Jessica Mauboy, Shannon Noll, Rob Mills, Damien Leith, Anthony Callea, Ricki-Lee Coulter, Matt Corby and Lisa Mitchell, who are all still enjoying success years after the show was axed.

WHAT? NO! IT’S TOTALLY FINE HE DIDN’T INCLUDE ME WHATEVER YOU GUYS.

He probably meant singers right? I only do writing, TV presenting, radio, MC-ing, stand-up and cabaret. WHATEVER.

*Sits in corner, eats sad bacon.

Dicko has a fair point about the judges, but I just don’t feel you can compare two shows, 10 years apart.

I don’t need to tell you that we’re in a vastly different landscape from the heady days of Idol.

A landscape that involves social media, where the judges  are held accountable for every single thing they say and do in the public eye. I don’t know if Dicko would have been quite so savage if Twitter were around back then.  I’m sure if #tuckshopladyarms were to have trended nationally and he copped the tsunami of public abuse that would have inevitably come afterwards, he would have pulled his head in after that.

Here’s one of Dicko’s most talked about moments on idol. Play at 3.39 to see him in action:

He also went on to say :“These shows are really good spectacles, they do that job fantastically well, but you do need someone who’s going to take that contestant by the hand and make them a star. If all you are seeking to do is put on great TV then X Factor does that brilliantly, but I think if you’re promising to find the best unsigned talent, you need to deliver. I don’t want to sound smug, but we did.”

Baby Jesus WEPT! I need to tell you he is overplaying 2 things BIG TIME:

1. The developmental role the judges had with the contestants. We saw them once a week, on show night. That is it. No mentoring, no conversations, no one-on-ones. Very little eye contact permitted.

2. The success of these reality/talent shows in producing true musical stars. These shows are and have always been about TV ratings and ad buys, not encouraging and supporting legitimate artists – the crushing “sign this once in a lifetime, golden opportunity or someone else will” contracts see to that. Guy and Shannon were tied to TEN YEAR contracts y’all! Ever wonder why they never do “where are they now?” follow up shows? Only a few have made it to credible, sustainable careers but not many.

The Voice and X Factor judges…Possibly too soft.

Are the current crew of judges too soft? Maybe.

Have the shows become more about showcasing the judges than the contestants? Definitely, that’s what makes good TV. These people are already loved by the public, it’s a cheap, easy win for the producers to focus on them.

Now there is so much more competition for the public’s love and affection, just winning these competitions isn’t enough. Being a really great singer isn’t enough.  Shows like The X-Factor and The Voice are no longer the end game, they are the contestants’ jumping off point. The judges are there to assist and add colour, what happens after that is completely up to the contestant.

So it kind of irks me that he’s taking credit for creating stars from Idol when it really had very little to do with him.

By the by, Ian and I had a most excellent relationship. I hold no malice towards him for ripping my heart and soul out on national TV by comparing me to one of Australia’s most disliked and controversial politicians at the time… Lucky I had an outstanding quip to parry him with, if I do say so myself. What? you don’t remember?! I responded to the Pauline Hanson comparison with: “Please explain.”

Up top! Yeah!

Touch down Em!

Touch f*cking down.

No…

I never got one of those either..

WHATEVER.

Take a look through some of our favourite pictures from Australian Idol – including some classic’s of Em and Andrew G – Osher…

Marcia Hines

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To find out more about Em, follow her offical Facebook page here. And if you’re in Sydney – see her musical Divorce: The Musical here (it’s pretty bloody funny)

By EM RUSCIANO

It will come as no surprise to some of you that I take costuming very seriously.

I may struggle with most other aspects of parenting (and, indeed, living) but if me or my children are in need of a themed outfit, I’ve got that shit covered.

So you can imagine my joy at discovering that sexxxy adult Frozen-themed costumes are available. Just in time for Halloween, too!

Sexy Elsa

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Naturally a few wowsers, who reside in No Fun Land, have come out and said things like: “Blah blah sexualising a children’s cartoon, wah wah I poo my pants, and tell children Santa isn’t real. Stop objectifying female characters.. Blah  blah, I am also the under cover fun police.”

(I may have taken some creative licence with their comments and paraphrased them slightly, but you get the gist.)

Calm down wowsers! It’s not like we’re whacking these things on our kids!

I’m not attaching a bedazzled blue-sequinned nipple tassel that shoots fake-glitter ice out the top to my seven year old’s chest and yelling, “Werk it girl!” as she heads out to gather lollies. (Mental note: Catalogue ‘bedazzled blue-sequinned nipple tassel that shoots fake-glitter ice out the top’ in my Costume Ideas Folder.)

I love the fact that there are sexy Frozen costumes for adults. I encourage, celebrate, and will most likely participate in the wearing of sexy Frozen costumes for adults.

When I read about them I felt excitement, vindication. I saw opportunity!

I don’t know about you, but I have watched that bloody film 345,000 times and can nail every bit of dialogue.

Em Rusciano, costuming enthusiast.

I know all the characters intimately.

Spicing this movie up can only be a good thing for those of us who have sat through ‘Do you wanna build a snowman?’ more times that we care to count. Do I wanna build a snowman? I don’t know about that, but I have fantasised about melting the DVD a couple of hundred times. Is that the same thing?

I am on a deeper level with this movie than you can ever imagine.

I worry that Elsa has undiagnosed bi-polar disorder. She’s up, she’s down, she’s locking herself away in her room for four years. Anna doesn’t escape the psychiatric evaluations either: This one CHOSE to be locked up with her sister. She could have left the castle at any time! Plus there is the whole ‘talking to the pictures on the walls’ situation.

I suspect Hans is gay and the suppression of his sexuality may be the root cause of his world domination complex.

It also angers me that no one thought to say to Olaf: “No bitch, if you go near the sun or fire you will die!”

Why shouldn’t I be able to reenact the inexplicable singing rock trolls scene that just doesn’t make any sense (you know the one where they basically tell Anna that Kristoff has intimate relations with his reindeer?) dressed like this!

Via Yandy.com

I will be bringing my own heat in this Olaf get up! Someone call an ambulance AND the fire department because I be melting myself! Hot! Hot! Hot!

Via Yandy.com

Oh hey, I think I’m just going to piss off into the woods and let you deal with the eternal winter I bought down on your arses because I look this good!

Via Yandy.com

What? Hells yes I will costume change before I build a fuck off ice castle and sing the most epic Disney ballad of all time. Let. It. Go.

Via Yandy.com

This is therapy plain and simple, getting our own back on a film the has dominated our lives. And, if you do dress up as one of the sexxxy Frozen characters and manage to get lucky, just you try and watch it again without a smile on your face!

That is a win in my book.

By EM RUSCIANO.

Hey parents who stormed out of Friday night’s Miley Cyrus concert in Melbourne!

NOPE.

Sorry, check your outrage at the door. I am outraged by your stupid outrage. Taking your child to a Miley Cyrus concert andbeing offended by her on stage antics is akin to turning up to a Ku Klux Klan meeting and being surprised by racist paraphernalia.

Because this.

And this.

And this.

What the actual fuck is wrong with you people? You give parents a bad name. We are already up against it and now your douche canoe behaviour is making it even worse.

Jerks.

I don’t even CARE if this upsets you, I am done with you. If you actually took a child under the age of 16 to a Miley Cyrus concert and couldn’t believe it when she swore gratuitously,dry humped a foam finger, simulated sex with a member of her band: I. Am. So. Done. With. You.

Miley has been shoving her new “grown up” ways in our faces for the past three or so years now.

Post continues after gallery.

Were you asleep?

In a stupidity induced coma?

On Mars?

When did Hannah Montana die? At the VMAswhen Miley’s tongue was attempting to escape her head – that was the moment she essentially nailed her childhood to the cross. She was then born again after a brief stop in the seventh circle of hell as apop sex freak wild childwho apparently doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks.

AKA not a role model for your child.

I would understand your outrage if her concert had been billed as a “G” rated Hannah Montana hoe-down and then she’d gone out there naked, riding bare back on a back up dancer dressed as a stallion licking a bong shaped like a dick. Then I’d get it. However, we are talking about an artist who in the last couple of years has:

1. Smoked a joint on stage at the Euro MTV awards.

2. Posed nude forcontroversial photographer Terry Richardson.

3.Posed nude on the cover of several magazines.

4. Violated a foam finger on stageat the VMAs.

5.Dry Humped a piece of heavy machinery.

6.Twerked until she could tweak no more into Robyn Thicke’s crotch.

7. Glamorised “molly” (Pure form of the drug MDMA)

8. Stated on many occasions that she isn’t Disney’s puppet child anymore.

So, if you still think Miley is someone your child should be looking up to, I suggest you need to reassess your values and long term goals in this area. By the way, I do not judge Miley Cyrus for the above list. Whateverfloats her outrageous boat,she’s not hurting anyone. And sorry, I was around for Madonna’s Erotica coffee table book. Miley doesn’t even come CLOSE with her behaviour.

As you can well tell, this situation has blown my mind. When I read about the walk outs, I wanted to kick something fluffy. I was ashamed of my own: we parents, we gottsta stick together. Reassure the non-breeders that we’ve not all become consumerist zombie wowsers permanently outraged at the world and not prepared to take responsibility for our own kids.

Because this is YOUR problem not Miley’s. She has not been backward in coming forward aboutwho and what she is. 

This.

And this:

And this.

What do you think? Should parents have known what to expect from Miley?

(Or were they, in fact, behaving like the proverbial douche canoe?)

Here’s how Miley changed up her image over the years…

Miley Cyrus

Want more from Mamamia? We’ve just launched a new podcast called Mamamia Out Loud.

Hosted by Kate Leaver with Mia Freedman and Rosie Waterland, it’s a smart, funny, candid chat about sexting, clean-eating, The Bachelor, Lena Dunham, George and Amal Clooney, and (inexplicably) vintage Polly Pockets.

Download the very first episode — The Bachelor Aftermath Episode. You can get it oniTunes here. Or download the audio file directlyhere.

Em and Odette.

By EM RUSCIANO.

I have a confession to make, yes another one.

I am not a fan of “play dates” after school. Aside from that, I am even less of a fan of the term “play date” because it gives me the heebie geebies. Like it is some kind of weird pretend interaction between small people,you’re not on a date either.

Calm down ok? You’re hanging out, eating dirt and causing mischief. Don’t call it a date, piss the “play” part off as well!

Remember when you could just turn up to a mate’s house, bash on the door and then head out on an adventure. Now we have to book it in! I would much rather a kid turn up to my house unannounced and ask to play with my kids than have to make an appointment.I feel so trapped, so scheduled.

I don’t really want other people’s kids here after school. I love other peoples kids, I do – just not at my house during the week. If you are reading this and your kid is friends with my kid it’s okay, I will still do it and I don’t mind that much, I’m just having a vent.

Mid-week my house isn’t tidy, it resembles a laundry stuck in the middle of a war zone. 5-7pm is the witching hour, you know it and I know it. Having someone else’s child here makes it hard to keep things moving along. I have to feed them, make sure they are having a good time and and prepare for the inevitable shit fight of dinner/shower/teeth/story/bed. I just can’t be arsed doing that with another kid around to be honest.

6-year-old Odette totally has me covered though. She always waits for me after school with the prospective play date mate; they both smile at me with all their creepy little teeth showing.

How Em sees their faces when play dates are mentioned.

She knows I can’t say no in front of another small person’s face, I am a pleaser! I want kids to like me, I want everyone to like me!

Scheming little minx gets me every time. They’ve just spent the whole day together. Let’s not plan a play date (*eye twitches) lets talk about your co-dependant friendship you needy little jerks!

Does this make me the mayor of wowser town, are you reading this and thinking “Em, get over it. It is just another kid no big deal” or do you like me secretly hate after school play dates? (*vomits in mouth)

Do you want to scream: “NO FECK DIRECTLY OFF! I WANT TO GO HOME AND BE IN MY UNTIDY HOUSE WITH THE UNDIES ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR AND WEETBIX FOR DINNER WITHOUT JUDGEMENT!”

Come the weekend  I am all over this shit, party central y’all! Woohoo, tell all your pals to come to Em’s for a swim some dance action on the wii and all the carbs you can handle! Lets snort whizz fizz and shave the cat!

Proof of Em’s fun-ness:

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Odette challenged me to a 15 second dance battle. BIG MISTAKE BABEZ.

View on Instagram

I am a good time girl come Saturday afternoon. That’s all for today, ironically Odette has a mate coming over after school.

*Sigh

This post originally appeared here on Em’s blogand is republished with full permission.

Louise, Most Hated Woman in Australia.

By EM RUSCIANO

With regards to The Bachelor announcing that he isnow desperately in love with 2nd runner up Louise Pillidge and that they plan on moving in together and the resulting outpouring of putrid hate towards Louise, can I say this?

Louise has been the subject of extreme vitriol and online condemnation for abandoning her ‘friends’ in the house in favour of hooking up with man whose love she was competing for.

To give you an idea of what the most hated woman in the country is copping online:

Seriously, take a proverbial chill pill Australia and for all our sakes, shelve the thing right up your bottom, so that it may take effect immediately.

I have not hidden my disdain for this television show, however it continues to dominate my social media timeline so perhaps I am the best person to comment on the latest happenings, as I’m not as emotionally involved as some of you appear to be.

In a exclusive interview with one of the ladies’ mags, Blake and Louise have professed their love for one another in a vomit inducing tell-all spectacular. Blake sent Louise a sappy letter via her father, confessing his deep love and expressed that he hoped to be her “first love, last love and only love” (pauses to dry wretch).

I’m surprised he didn’t request her maidenhead and 10 goats as well.. By the by if someone who wasn’t as aesthetically pleasing as Blake sent a letter containing the above statement, I suspect the police and some sort restraining order would be involved. But I digress…

During the week, Blake’s jilted fiancee Sam Frost™ (the actual winner of The Bachelor) said that she had been trying to reach out to Blake and Louise to find outif the rumours about their alleged love were true.You’ll be shocked to learn that she didn’t received a response, d’uh as if. What was she expecting?

“Soz boz lol :( – Blake xoxo.”

Jilted fiancee Sam Frost™ then effectively reported Blake a missing person via the media, claiming that he was MIA you guys. She has since gone on to say she feels betrayed and wished the new couple had told her to her face.

Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaam, if you text a dude who has recently dumped you and then report him missing when he doesn’t respond, YOU end up looking like the weird desperate one who may or may not have crafted a collection of yarn dolls from Blake’s pubic hair that look like he and your future children.

Be cool lady, just be cool kay? Also they couldn’t tell you about their love, as they were busily selling their story to Woman’s Day, which would have come with a huge confidentiality agreement slapped on it. It’s just BIZZNESS CUZ!

Now that they have magically reappeared on the front cover of a women’s mag revealing their mega love Louise has assumed her current role as: THE MOST HATED WOMAN IN AUSTRALIA.

Louise has usurped Blake’s Mother from the ‘most hated woman’ spot. The lady has been receiving online threats and hate mail forbringing up satan’s spawn aka Blake, The Bachelor.  

Yes, you read that correctly. Some arse lord jerk offs have actually been threatening an elderly woman because of her son’s life choices on a REALITY TELEVISION SHOW.

So we’re doing that now? Tracking down family members and berating them? Some of you have waaaaay too much time on your hands.

Back to the tell-all interview.

Blake told the magazine that he knew Sam wasn’t right for him saying: “Sam and I had fun, we laughed and sat on the couch watching TV and drinking wine, but I realised that’s all there was.” How delightful!

Sam Frost TM

His reason for not picking Louise in the first place was: “It sounds crazy but I was so unsure at that stage and she was the one I wanted to hurt the least, so I thought it would be easier. She’s so fragile that I thought I was protecting her.”

You’re right Blake it does sound crazy and a little bit sexist – ROFL! Although, she does look fragile in her white bikini on the front cover. If by fragile, I mean crazy white hot sexy lust beast!

But, impractical swimwear and blatant sarcasm aside, Louise has done nothing to deserve your vitriol, Australia.

She’s just a lady in love, with a love rat. Even love rats deserve love don’t they? Oh God my point is, this whole show was designed for this kind of situation to occur. He was, at one point, in a 25 way love icosikaipentagon. (That is a 25 sided polygon FYI.)

OF COURSE there was going to be some emotional spillage. Of course there was potential for him to make the wrong choice and then go back and pick another of the 25 ladies he pashed to be with – thats the risk jilted fiancee Sam Frost™ took when she and the others decided to compete in the televised love Olympics.

Sam, remember the time you totally accepted him taking multiple women on dates and grinding all up against tens of them? Now you’re pissy he played two off each other and then ultimately chose one?! You’ve changed.

Where is the line people? Stop shifting it already! Personally, I wish Blake the love rat and Louise, the man stealer, all the luck in the world. I also hope that jilted fianceeSam Frost™ finds some peace.

How do you feel about Louise’s decision to be with Bachie? Do you care? Are you done with The Bachelor or still tuning in for each additional little detail?

This has been Blake and Louise’s journey so far:

Blake and Louise's debut as a couple

By EM RUSCIANO

Let me be perfectly clear about something.

If you go to a huge, nationally-televised public event teeming with media, drink 57 breezers in 27-degree heat, take a nap in a garden bed and then end up on an Instagram account called “Drunk Girls ofMelbourne Cup“, that is called ‘consequences’.

Not ‘being victimised’.

Let me explain.

Yesterday, some people at took photos of inebriated race goers and then created an Instagram account called: The Drunk girls of Melbourne Cup.

Here are some of the images from that account:

A picture featured on the ‘Drunk Girls of Melbourne Cup’ Instagram. Image via Instagram

A picture featured on the ‘Drunk Girls of Melbourne Cup’ Instagram. Image via Instagram

This was not a nice thing to do. Funny but not nice. Life, however, isnot always nice.

Of course the photos aren’t just of drunk girls; there are men in the photos as well. I suspect “drunk girls” was a more click-worthy title. The account bio reads: “We are celebrating the young fillies and colts that love to party at the Melbourne Cup. Keep up the great work girls and boys!”

Today there has been some public/media outrage over the account, saying that it exploits women blah blah blah men don’t get ridiculed for similar behaviour blah.

Oh, COME ON.

First up I want to say that I don’t feel any sort of kinship or sisterhood towards the woman with filthy feet riding her boyfriend like a pony sans underwear for all to see. I don’t feel like she’s been victimised nor do I feel she needs protecting.

It’s just a seemingly sloshed girl riding her boyfriend like a horse.

I also don’t feel like she has been taken advantage of orexploited. She is not a victim of anything other than her own actions. I feel she should have slowed down on the contents of her esky, considered wearing a foundation garment and perhaps hydrated a little more.

If these photos had have been taken in a private situation and leaked? Different story. I would have felt it was an invasion of her privacy. But this didn’t happen in private. None of the behaviour depicted in the photos on this Instagram account happened in private. They all occurred in full view of tens of thousands of people with camera phones and hundreds of media including camera crews and professional photographers.

If you’ve ever been to the Melbourne Cup then you know how the day usually progresses and inevitably ends.

9am: Well-mannered, well-dressed folk stream into the track. If you’re in the General public area then you may set up a lovely picnic rug and some folding chairs. Perhaps you’ve bought a cheese platter and a sparkling white to sip on.

4pm: WARZONE. Bodies lay strewn across the ground, rubbish covering every blade of grass, ladies with shoes in their hands stumbling around with tiny pieces of spew caught in their hat’s netting. Men relieving themselves on rose bushes and taking naps in the public toilets. It goes from garden party to a drunken zombie apocalypse in just a few short hours.

For example:

This kind of behaviour has gone on for years, it’s just that now everyone has a smart phone with a camera on it and they’re not afraid to use it. The #DrunkGirlsofMelbourneCup account was set up on Monday and took full advantage of some attendees’ unsavoury behaviour. Truth behold I went and looked at the photos and I laughed, yes I laughed, oh how I laughed.

I then showed my 13-year-old daughter. Her response? “Idiots”. Make no mistake, these photos are so bad they’re good, it is car-crash rubber necking at its finest. You don’t want to look but you can’t look away.

Do you suppose people are offended because the sight of a woman so horrendously drunk unsettles them? Is it because getting raucous and rowdy under the influence is something they only expect from a man? Have they never been on schoolies? A hens’ party or the Diamond Creek under 28’s dress to impress no denim half price shooters night?

Does it paint drunk women in a bad light? Yes.

Does it paint drunk men in a bad light? Yes.

Does it glorify binge drinking? A bit.

Do I care about any of the above? Meh.

A picture featured on the ‘Drunk Girls of Melbourne Cup’ Instagram. Image via Instagram

Whatever the catalyst for your outrage may be I must tell you that these women and men in the photos put themselves there, plain and simple.

All that aside, they seem to be having a bloody great time. I’m not even sure if any of the people in the photos are upset about it. I know quite a few race-goers who nominated themselves for the account using the #DrunkGirlsofMelbourneCup hashtag. One person I know, found herself on the account and has made that shot her FB profile picture. She is wearing it as a badge of honour.

On another note it blows my mind that these people spend hundreds of dollars on their dresses, hats, suits and shoes only to end up napping on dirt, covered in food while other people step all over them. Why bother? Why not just turn up in a garbage bag with a head hole cut out of it? Pop a serviette on as a fascinator and bring a sleeping bag too.

In summary, if you deliberately get poleaxed at a public event and subsequently end up on a website dedicated to such behaviour; you are responsible for that.

Because the alternative view suggests that we’re all walking around like potential victims all the time with no sense of personal responsibility for our actions.

We truly are living in an age where any sort of self accountability is a rare and special thing, aren’t we?

Now go and have a look at the photos, you know you want to…

Click through our gallery below for photos from the #DrunkGirlsofMelbourneCup Instagram.

Drunk Girls of Melbourne Cup. Image via Instagram.

Em and her husband Scott.

By EM RUSCIANO

Are you ready for my 5:15pm 3 coffees down high on cold and flu medication truth bomb extravaganza?

Marriage is fucking hard work.

It is hinted at, written about, studied and mumbled but I don’t think enough married people are saying to other married people: “Myrelationship can be a clusterfuck of disappointment, frustration and finger pointing.”

Which reminds me. Hey, you guys: Sometimes my marriage is a clusterfuck of disappointment, frustration and finger pointing.

(I really love the word clusterfuck. It is powerful, heavy and desperate all at once.)

I’m writing about this today because last week a married lady I know and love whispered this to me over a wine or 6. She said it like it was a defeat, as though she was disappointing the Relationship Gods by daring to utter those words out loud. Deep sighs and great swills of wine followed her admission, my response?

“KEN OATH!”

There are thousands upon thousands of relationship experts giving us unsolicited advice on how to spice up our marriages, listen to our partners and generally have a dream union. No one mentions what to do when you’re in an epic stand-off with your other half over whose turn it is to clean up the dog’s spew.

“I feel that if more of us admitted that to each other, they’d be less pressure to be in a perfect relationship to begin with.”

Not mine!

Not mine!

You both declare – so the aforementioned spew sits for days, congealing on the bathroom floor into a circle of stiffened yellow stomach lining.

That is the shit that tests marriages more than anything. At least it is in my house, the battle over whose turn is it to do thecrappy menial every day tasks. Add some young kids, and your life becomes about existing not living, you just “get through” days rather than experience them.

This week I’ve been pretty sick, bed-ridden sick. So my contribution to the machine stopped for a couple of days and, my God, the wheels fell off. I resented that, I resented that the dickheads* in my family couldn’t pick up the slack for 2 days. The washing is now at an offensive level, there is no food and the house looks as though we are squatting in it.

I cracked it at Scott. I didn’t understand why he didn’t do more.

He said: “I was tired, I did enough, everything is ok.”

I suppose it was, not my OK but his OK which he is totally OK with, OK?!

Our arguments usually take this theme, me being disappointed with his lack of effort and him feeling ripped off and thinking that I choose to see the glass half empty when it comes to him. He says I am too hard on him and that my standards are unrealistic – and he’s totally right.

You see when I ask him to do something what I mean to say is “Please do that thing EXACTLY the way I would do it.” I like to scrub the toilet bowl until it cries for mercy; his version of that is flushing it and lighting a match. Don’t even get me started on the toilet roll war. Call me crazy but I don’t call placing the new roll ON TOP of the holder doing it right!

Serenity now. Serenity now.

Em Rusciano with her daughters.

I share this with you because I want you to know that my marriage can be hard work. I feel that if more of us admitted that to each other, they’d be less pressure to be in aperfect relationship to begin with. We’d stop holding each other to unrealistic standards. Maybe you aren’t going on romantic date nights like so many therapists recommend but maybe you got through the day without flipping the love of your life your middle finger while silently mouthing “go fuck yourself sideways” and you’re both laying silently on the couch together holding hands.

Cute.

My relationship can also be the bedrock upon which I build my emotional foundations. I lost someone very dear to me a month ago and if it wasn’t for my husband’s support I’m pretty sure I would have folded into two and given up. I love him, he loves me, we love our kids and sometimes that breaks my balls and sometimes it makes my heart burst with joy.

It’s not always bad, but it can be and that’s all I really wanted to say.

(*I love these people but they can sometimes be massive dick heads.)

Be comforted by the fact you will definitely do better than I did on Odette’s first day at school.

When my youngest spawn Odette first started school I was a MESS.

At the time I did a little research on how to prepare myself for the first day of school and found there was plenty of “how to prepare the child” crap but there was jack shit out there for the“anxious, hysterical Mother.”

Em and Odette.

So I thought maybe I would have a crack at writing a guide on how to survive the first day of school for Mothers and Fathers.

Want more like this? “My baby started school today and this is why I didn’t cry.”

If nothing else I hope you find my guide a comfort.

Be comforted by the fact you will definitely do better than I did on Odette’s first day at school.

1. Get up early, find a nice private place and have your first cry before everyone else is up. This is the big one. You can really snot it up, heave and lay in the foetal position without emotionally scarring your children. May I suggest a pile of towels in the laundry as your cry spot, that has worked well for me over the years.

Note: Yes I realise how sad that sounds but can any of you really say you haven’t ever once had a 2am breakdown that requires serious muffling?! This is the information I wish was given to me as a young Mother so I happily impart it to you.

More on the subject: “The heartbreaking reason I am dreading my son’s first day at school.”

2. Make sure you look amazing. But not too amazing as those kind of standards are hard to maintain and no-one likes a show-off. Pick a fabulous outfit, do your make-up and ensure everything is WATERPROOF. I mean get that synchronised swimmer shit, the stuff that wouldn’t move during a hurricane in a wind tunnel during an earthquake.

Em know’s about looking fabulous for school. Trust us.

Note: I learned the hard way that you need to remove ALL the glitter from your eyes if you had a gig at a gay club singing on a podium the night before your child’s first day at school. That shit STINGS and the other parents assume you are a lady who spends a great deal of time with a pole and or with money in your undies.

3. Once at school immediately try to win over the teacher. If he/she likes you best then he/she may play favourites with your child. You WANT the teacher to love your kid best, you just do. Everything is easier that way, yes I know this in unethical but I don’t give a fuck, I wanna see you FIGHT for that teachers love.

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!

Note: Don’t be overbearing and needy though, don’t try too hard and then subsequently get banned from reading to the class because you are considered “disruptive” and you don’t “respect the rules”.

4. Try and isolate another parent who looks on your level, lock that shit down on day one. You’ll just know, I promise. Get them before they get swept up in the tupperware, organised, perfect hair gang. That cult is a hard one to leave, I envy those women. I really do, I bet their pantries’ are stocked with military precision. Mine belongs in a science lab, the ants have taken over and I am expecting to meet their leader at some point in the near future.)

(Because you are here I am assuming you are one of my tribe the: delightfully disorganised my child may or not be wearing bathers for undies yes we had cereal for dinner well meaning crew.)

5. Don’t get caught with the hip flask in your bag.

Note: This could be a handy way to find a kindred spirit (Anne of Green Gables reference, Gilbert! Matthew! The puffy sleeves! Sorry… ) Walk around showing glimpses of the flask to perspective mates, like a drug dealer or a flasher. If a friendly eyebrow is raised, you’ve caught one! Look I am not advocating early morning drinking but sometimes stressful circumstances require just a nip of hard liquor.

6. Find a nice bush where you can spend the day watching if need be. You could also power walk around the school or take your lawn mower down and pretend to be a gardener. Don’t overstep the mark on this one otherwise you could end up on some sort of a watch list and have to drop the kids off 500m from the school as ordered by a court.

7. Home time! Rush over to your child, hold on for dear life and break it to them you are considering home schooling.

Pretend like you’ve had a totally normal day and walk home.

8. You’re welcome. Don’t worry it gets easier, my kids are going into grade 3 and year 8 this year and at this point of the school holidays I am ready to drop them both off yesterday and have them camping out until the School feels sorry for them and lets them in early.

Speak soon,

Em. x

This post originally appeared on Em Rusciano’sblog and has been republished here with full permission.

Em is touring her brand new stand-up show “The Motherload” in a city near you. Imagine this blog live only with more singing, sequins and wine drinking! Infohere.

Our very own Em Rusciano weighs in on the horrendous criticisms thrown at Lara Bingle and Candice Falzon this weekend in Sydney Confidential.

Social commentator and Sydney Confidential columnist Annette Sharp wrote some words last week that – without being too dramatic – injected cyanide into souls of Australians everywhere. Especially Australians with vaginas.

In hercolumn entitled: “The Evolution of the Shotgun Marriage: A Modern Sydney Princess Story” Annette insinuated that both model Lara Bingle and cricket WAG Candice Falzon secretly planned to entrap their rich and famous partners into marriage by deliberately and dishonestly falling pregnant.

She suggested thatSam Worthington (Lara’s victim/husband) and Australian cricketer David Warner (Candice’s schmuck/partner) were completely taken advantage of and had their sperm deceptively extracted, and used with the sole purpose of creating a baby to nail them down with.

Look, I’m no fertility expert/ private eye – but unless Annette saw Candy poking holes in David Warner’s dinger and Lara replacing her Yazz with tic-tacs – she really doesn’t get to say that.

I cannot stress this enough: She. Really. Doesn’t. Get. To. Say. That.

I know this may be a wild and crazy concept but it is conceivable that both pregnancies were talked about, planned and welcomed with teary eyes, cigars and excited calls to parents.

And even if they weren’t, so fucking what?!?

Annette also offered up some financial advice for those of us who don’t have “traditional jobs” and may be considering a career as man trappers:

“While most women choose full-time work in traditional employment, a handful are choosing high-risk careers in burgeoning areas with only “seasonal” or short-lived earning potential. Such women include fashion models, performers, athletes and media starlets … oh and ironwomen and B-list celebrities. For these, the path to financial security remains clear — hook yourself a rich guy before your good looks start to fade.”

Yes, that’s right. Beware all you financially successful men. There is a new terror out there looking to trick you out of your cash: Women in the Arts!

A singer and comedian myself, I stupidly thought my path to financial security was you know, working. Also I didn’t choose a “high risk career” to be irresponsible, I followed various professional opportunities, which led me to do what I do now.

More on WAGs: I put my life and dreams on hold for a famous footballer: Why being a WAG sucked.

The whole of Annette’s column was way out of step, presumptuous at best and flat out wrong. To say that a particular group of women use marriage and pregnancy to compensate for a financially unstable career path – is just bullshit. 

To name Lara and Candice was just plain mean.

My outrage was so profound that I now believe I’ve come full circle on it.

I no longer wish to repeatedly poke columnist Annette with a large pointy stick; I’ve transcended the anger. I now just want to understand her motives and why she feels the need to be such a savage enemy of her own kind.

Candice Falzon with her partner Daid Warner. Image via Instagram.

Annette Sharp is the same person who emailed around to different photographers asking for “scruffy shots” of Sam Armytage for an article she was writing that heavily criticised Sam’s appearance and style.

*Sings: Sisters are doing it for themselves!

So, now I want to sit down with Annette, pop on a relaxation mix tape, hold her hand over a pot of chamomile tea and really get to the bottom of why she felt the need to write such toxic, assumptive and truly insulting words. The saddest part is that, one day, one of these kids may be innocently googling themselves and this poisonous account of their conception will still be there, floating around on the inter webs for them to see.

Back to Bingle though.

I don’t know about you but whenever I see shots of her and Sam frolicking nude on a beach, I instantly think about how hot their sex must be. That they seem really into each other. He certainly doesn’t look like a person being held with a gun to his head. And by gun I mean baby.

Lara Bingle and Sam Worthington.

Wait, I lied. The first thing I actually think when I see Lara and Sam naked on a beach is “Good God her breasts are magnificent, majestic and glorious” and then I think about their sex… sex second.

Do you think they do it ON the beach? It just seems so impractical, sand gets into places it really shouldn’t… I bet they can do it though, I bet it totally works…

If Annette won’t say it, I bloody well will.

Congratulations Lara and Sam, being pregnant is a wonderful and joyous thing. Enjoy it, enjoy each other and I hope it all goes smoothly and without incident.

More on Bingle: Lara Bingle has an undeniable baby bump. FINALLY.

More specifically to Lara: I sincerely hope you’ve had those pre-pregnancy nude photos framed and hung. Because once the current experience you are undertaking is over, you may not be able to walk around quite so freely with the girls out.

Unless you have them tucked under your armpits.. Who am I kidding, those boobs will bounce right back!

Have you seen them?!

Wow.. Em.. Too much thinking about Lara and Sam’s relationship. And you’ve mentioned Lara’s breasts THREE TIMES now. You really have some boundary issues with these two.

Okay so maybe Annette Sharp will have something to talk to me about when we do our circle of trust exercise….

Late last year I was asked if I wanted to take a brief trip to Thailand to stay in a glorious resort and be treated like the princess I am in my mind.

I said yes and then packed, six weeks early.

The day finally arrived and my best friend Lyndon and I found ourselves on a Thai airways purple and yellow themed jet plane. Here we are looking extremely relaxed, that is largely due to thefake tan regime we had been on in the lead up to prepare for the amount of time we were planning on spending by the pool.

Poolside cocktails, choice eats and sneaky bikini shot.

We arrived in Phuket and were created by our diver, the humidity was incredible! I’m asweatyperson as it is so I just embraced the weather straight away and vowed not to wear tray for my entire stay.

Lyndon and I arrived at Kamala Beach resort (a Sunprime resort) which we discovered was literally ON Kamala beach with direct access the warm crystal blue waters. We were shown to our rooms and they were HUGE! He and I were very keen to get out by the pool, have I mentioned thepool yet or should I say pools?! There were 4 of them, pristine and there were also some swim up bars involved.

Hands up for Thailand!

I LOVE the concept of the swim up bar, needless to say we utilised it heavily and by the end of the 3 days the staff knew our names and our “usual”cocktails. The daiquiris were $5 you guys, you understand it would have been rude not to drink them.

We’d be smiling too.

The resort is only 12kms from busy Patong aka SHOPPING. We got on the shuttle bus provided by the resort and headed in. Patong beach transforms into a chaotic, noisy, colourful night bazaar every evening. Stalls line the streets selling silk scarves, leather goods, sunglasses, computer games pretty much anything you can think of.

Related: That’s better: If Disney Princesses had realistic hair.

If you’d rather not go the haggling route there is an upmarket HUGE shopping complex called Jungceylon shopping mall. The 200-plus other stores in thisshopping  heaven but it is also a great entertainment centre with a five-room SF Cinema and a 16-lane bowling alley, perfect for rainy days or to escape the heat of the day.

Patong bargaining at its best.

We shopped long and we shopped hard, my advice when in Patong is to remember to bargain however you should also keep it light. It is easy to get caught up and realise with the exchange rate between the dollar and the bah that you are haggling over $1!

“Good morning price for you, good morning price for me” was said many times with a smile in our time at the Patong beach bazaar!

Starting the day off right with watermelon and notes.

Did I mention that our resort was adults only! No-one under the age of 15 is allowed to check in, I love my children however I love this concept as well. Want totravel with friends who have kids? No worries! Right next door is the Kamala Beach Sunwing resort that caters specifically for families! I had a tour of it and I can tell you that they’ve thought of everything, the kids won’t have time to annoy you or be bored.

 Related:The woman who tricked her entire family into thinking she was on the other side of the world.

The food was OUTSTANDING with special mentions going to the Prime kitchen by the pool. They had themed buffet nights that blew out minds. It was all so delicious andfresh, we ate far more then necessary.

But what will everyone else eat?

The whole vibe about the place is relaxing, I can’t even begin to tell you how much I recommend you grab a friend or your other half and give yourself a few days there.

I’ll be going back, I think I am going to make it a yearlygift to myself.

What was your best-ever holiday? 

The author stayed at Kamala Beach resort (A Sunprime Resort) in Phuket for the purposes of this review. If you are interested in accommodation for a leisurely escape in Phuket you can book onlinehere.

Want to see some more celebs on holidays? Of course you do…