Zesty Mumma's Words

A life lived without passion is a life half lived

Archive for the tag “relationship”

What Do Women Want Today?

What do women want today, I am a woman and they totally confuse me sometimes so I have no idea how men cope?  Yesterday I heard about a marriage that had just ended. It is often a sad occurrence when this happens but particularly so in this case. To start with the couple had only been married for a year.  They must have at least thought there was a possibility that they could make a go of it when they decided to marry. You would hope it wasn’t a whim, right?


Now here is the main reason this case is so poignant, the groom had secretly planned and executed a second wedding to celebrate the anniversary of the first one.  The reason was simple, the couple married in a registry office and he wanted to give his bride the wedding he thought she deserved.


Really? I think he may be rethinking that opinion.


The bride thought she was being taken away for a beach weekend to celebrate her birthday. That fact alone makes me think there may be a bit of narcissism happening with this young lady. Meanwhile her husband had planned and booked a renewal of vows with an amazing ceremony at a spectacular winery, followed by a full reception for seventy guests. He had also invited and paid for a large number of the bride’s family to be flown in from outside Australia to attend.

By all accounts Saturday 17th May was a beautiful day for all who attended.


Obviously all except the bride cause barely a month later she is outta there.


Now I don’t presume to imagine that I can ever know what goes on in private but lets pull this a part.  Here is a couple who had only been married for a year and

a husband that tries to make his wife feel special when he can. On paper you would have to think they had a good chance to make it work if they both put in a little effort.


Use Your Head or Loose It, Just Ask Anne Boleyn

What was the best time of your life? Most of us remember our teenage years with great fondness. Somehow we can easily dismiss the insecurities and uncertainties we felt at that time, instead remembering it as a golden age. A smorgasbord of choice, one of endless possibilities and unlimited opportunities.


Why do I bring this up, the “70’s Show” that’s why. Set in an era that I have to begrudgingly admit I remember well. I know that it’s highly exaggerated and of course they are much more confident than most normal teenagers ever could be but I just can’t help liking it. As a social commentary on the time it’s probably not the first point of reference. However, I recently watched an old episode that contained a much deeper and age defying truth than expected.


In that particular episode we see Jackie upset because Kelso has ruined her birthday party by turning it into a drunken teenage binge instead of the sophisticated dinner party she had planned. When quizzed about her vision for the future she admits that in her dream she saw Kelso as a witty, successful business man in a dinner suit entertaining their equally successful rich and urbane friends. My first response to that revelation was “has she never met her boyfriend”.


Then I thought about the truth of how the female brain works. When we look at something we don’t see the reality of what it is, we see the image of what we think it could be. This quality can be a blessing and a curse at the same time. It’s this quality that helps you look at the drawing your four year old son has done on the lounge room wall and imagine him to be the next Rembrandt. This is a beautiful fact but if we are honest, it is the same reason that a woman can look at a figure hugging body con dress and think we’d look great in it. You aren’t seeing it on yourself, you are actually seeing it on Eva Mendes body, topped with your head, am I right?


We women don’t always see reality when looking at people we care about, rather, we see what a person could be. The boyfriend that doesn’t turn up for a date because his mates talked him into going to the pub with them, would never leave you sitting at home with two kids on a Friday night while he goes out with the same mates, right? This is admirable but it is a trait that has seriously lead women into trouble for millenniums.  When the smorgasbord of live is being rolled out instead of just looking at the possibilities and opportunities maybe if we are taught to see realities as well it might go some way to help.


Just ask Anne Boleyn, she absolutely thought that Henry VIII would be so enamoured by her that he would be faithful and love her only. She definitely wasn’t using her head, possibly why she lost it.


No One Told Me it Was Going to Be Like This

We all have them and a lot of us are them. What am I talking about, I’m talking about Parents. For most of us this role is the most important you will ever undertake. The most rewarding, the most precious but also the most challenging.

When your children are babies there is no denying it is hard. Oh the pain of it all. The sleepless nights, the crying and in my day the nappy washing. But those moments when they laugh for the first time or they snuggle in contentedly, they are gold and you never, never want to loose them.

As they grow the joys come in different ways. The first time they ride a bike, the many hugs and proclaimations of love you receive are precious beyond words. There are challenges no doubt but you do your best. You try one course and then you rethink that and you try another way. Yes you make mistakes but no matter what you do, ultimately you do out of love. Some of us definitely make better choices that others but most parents make decision based on what they feel is best for their child.

I am not going to mince words here, teenage years are hell. I can’t speak for eastern societies, but in the west we have so many influences good and bad that are bombarding these developing young people that you honestly feel like you are in a war. I am really happy for the parents who say they had no problems with their adolescents, but for most of us just opening your mouth to breath was considered provocative.

By the time your children reach their twenties you think you can breath a sigh of relief. Phew you think “I made it”. They are doing their own thing, leading productive lives and making their own choices. Then every now and then, just when you least expect it, boom, suddenly they are sixteen years old again and berating you, saying, “nothing I ever do is right with you is it mum you have to make me feel bad don’t you?” Where did that come from, like a whack on the skull you didn’t see coming.

And all you did is ask them if they took medicine for that cough.

Aarrgh is all I want to say.

Uni Night – Fun for all, Especially Your Mother


The car glided over the intersection at the top of the hill, the panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean sparkling in the early morning sunlight was breathtaking. Driving at that hour of the morning could almost be considered a privilege. Streets usually congested with traffic, resemble airport runways, no stress, no road rage, time to think. Time to be thankful for my home on the Sunshine Coast.

You may be thinking that this all sounds lovely but what’s the purpose of all this driving, could it be only for pleasure? Not likely with petrol prices the way they are. The question can be answered in five words – Uni night at the Tavern. If you’ve never had children between the age of 18 and 23 you may never have realised the iconic signifigance of this type of event, it’s a rite of passage thing.

Then you get in the one o’clock in the morning phone call.

Mum can you come and pick us up” said the voice of my beloved son on the other end of the phone.

No I told you I’m not going to pick you up when you go to the Tavern. You choose to go to that place, you get yourself home” said I in my best strong mum voice, all the while picturing my boy standing shivering on a lonely, wind swept Burnett Street.

You’ve got to pick me up, someone head butted me and I’ve got a fat lip and the bouncers kicked us out.”

I was up the hill in seven minutes flat, pulling up in the Woolies driveway. I can hear your voice of judgement right now as I write. The voice of accusation that says “you push over”. How could my son ever be at fault. I have no words of justification other than he’s my son.

The seathing monster that lives deep inside every mother, the one that lurks and waits, ready to spring to the defence of your six foot, broad shouldered, eighteen year old son, because no one can protect him like you, was desperately fighting for release. I sat there eyeballing the bouncers standing outside while two boys walked toward the car. Then I realised that the boys walking toward me weren’t my son and his friend and that I’d driven straight passed them. They had been sitting quietly on the curb on the other side of the street. I’m sure I heard someone say “pshyco mother” as I drove away with my pride and joy safely belted into the passenger seat, with no real evidence of any fowl play. It did enter my mind that possibly the revving of the car I was sub counsciously doing, while directing all this protective energy at the bouncers, could have been badly misconstrued.


At least this weeks call came at a semi reasonable 5.30 am.

Mum can you pick us up I’ve got to go to work.” says my boy.

No, get someone else to take you to work” hissed I, mother of the year.

There’s no one else to take me, come on Mum” pleaded my son. 

Pulling the car over to the side of the road at an uncertain address, I thought about how many ways a mother sacrifices for her children. Sleep, no matter how old they are. Money, no matter how old they are. Time, it is never your own. Sitting there honking the horn and muttering to myself something about this being the last time, even I didn’t believe it.



We are the product of all who have gone before us. Have you ever thought about things that way? In a world where some people don’t even know their own grandparents, I wonder how many of us have ever really considered the people who went before them.

When you have children you look upon the tiny infant as a clean page, ready for the life experiences that will mould them into the person they will become. As the child grows it sometimes displays traits that you may have seen in Grandma Rose or uncle Ted and you realise that rather than a totally clean page there are imprints and watermarks that you may not have noticed initially.

I’ve never known any relatives, I don’t know who’s traits, good or bad, I have received. I was Five when we came to Australia and I haven’t been back. When I was given a stack of birth, death and marriage certificates from my maternal grandmothers family, it was the first time I had any information about any family members further away than my grandparents. My mothers disjointed postcard sent to my during a trip to England alerted me to their existence. It read in part “…….lots of family history to bring back, very exciting.” and I have to admit I did dream, if ever so briefly, of blue blood running through my veins. The oldest of these documents was dated at seventeen eighty five which was three years before the first fleet arrived in Australia. Your instant reaction might be to ask was there anyone rich or well known amongst ancesters, sadly no.

What I found instead was ordinary people, living ordinary lives. Policeman, miners, signal men, ambulance drivers, even something called a maltster, which seemed to appeal to most of the men I have spoken to. They were all literate and educated.

As I followed the men through history; however, it was the women that touched me. There was little information about them other than their age and date of birth, marriage or death (which unfortunately for most was very young). What stood out glaringly however, was that each one, up until my maternal grandmother, was illiterate.

Mary Hobson, Jane Graydon, Sarah Wells and Mary Jane Grant, could only leave their mark, a cross on a page. In some of their cases, only a wobbly mark at that, so unfamiliar were they with the use of writing tools.

Poor, illiterate women, not even taught to sign their own name. I couldn’t help but consider the fate of women through out history. Repressed and suppressed by lack of education as they have been and in many countries still are, having little power over their own lives.

The more I pondered their lives they became real people to me and I could almost picture them. Strangely a sense of obligation descended upon me. I owed something to these women. I have had education and I have had choices. I don’t know what that something is just yet. It may only be that I ensure no daughter or grand daughter of mine ever be uneducated.

We live in a time when so much is taken for granted sometimes it is good for us to peer into history to see just how far we have come.

Byron Hippies, Wrinkled Rockers and Rabid Hamsters


The huge amber globe that is the easter full moon hung with regal prescence as my car approached the Byron Bay turn off, its radiant glow illuminating my way. In spite of the fact that my old Astra was sounding exactly like a road train since the exhaust pipe partly fell off a few days before, it was Bluesfest time again and life was good. Rodriguez, who was not dead as most of us had believed had miraculously reappeared as a headline act on the Blues Fest stage, could life get any better!

Rodriquez time was fast approaching and the end of Ben Harpers performance chimed, only 2 hours to go. We entered the tent as his last song finish and the crowd, which by this time had been jammed together like sardines for about ninety minutes, turned around and walked out. It was amazing and I couldn’t believe it, we took the opportunity to find a position centre stage third row. There was nothing on this earth that could make me move. Whatever torture I would have to endure for the next two hours till Rodriguez walked out on that stage would be worth it. I just didn’t realise that it would infact be torture.

There were thousands like me, fifty plus and determined to see our teenage memories bought to life. Joan Armitrading was amazing but she wasn’t Rodriguez. Age did not weary them, nor the heat, the lack of water or the cramped conditions. But for me personally the Y Gen almost suceeded where nothing else could.

While the stage was being cleared at the end of Joans performance, a tall blonde American boy came and stood behind me and his girlfriend locked in her position next to me. The fact they were smashed wasn’t immediately obvious. His attempt to pour vodka from a snap lock sandwich bags into a soft drink can, causing me to be showered in Russia’s finest exposed his plastered state.

At the same time the girlfriend, who was five foot nothing and as equally hammered, entered into an argument with another festival goer, who had tried to push her way to the front. Not cool I know, but lets face it, who hasn’t done that. The trouble was that I had a raging headache, I think I had a hot flush and my feet were going numb. Her shrill voice wouldn’t let up, she just went on and on and on. I thought my head was going to explode!

The other woman was speaking in a whisper but I don’t think the young girl had ever heard of such a thing. She ranted and raved about her great dream of seeing Rodriguez. I know that I should have stayed out of it, but the previously mentioned symtoms made that impossible and caused me to make my fatal mistake.

I leant slightly sideways and said, “ Would you just calm down”, as nicely as I could. It really was my fault though, I should have realised in her state nothing would have shut her up and it didn’t. I’m sure the other lady was extremely grateful as the girl poured out her vitriolic tirade on me, the pity in her eyes was plain to see. I have to tell you I really did attempt to ignore her. However, as Rodriguez was about to enter the stage after a rain delayed start, I couldn’t stand it anymore and once again turned sideways to speak.

Would you just shut up, you sound like a rabid hampster and your voice is like a buzz saw in my brain”, using hand signal for emphasis. Then turned to the front before she knew what had happened. For one brief precious moment there was silence. She then spent the next hour screaming in my ear defending her whinny voice and singing at the top of her lungs, determinedly doing everything she could think of to goad me into retalliating.

What she never realised was that I am a mum and I learnt along time ago to block out children who were screaming for my attention. My perception of what tomorrow would bring for that young woman consoled me when ever her behaviour threatened to ruin my day. There was no doubt in my mind that she would have lost her voice when she woke, this fact I am sure her boyfriend was very grateful for. Secondly, the pain in her head would have been so unbearable, I doubt that any meds but the strongest would have helped.

And lastly but by no means least, she will never, never, never forget that she is a rabid hampster with a voice like a buzz saw.

 I say take note Gen Y, don’t mess with a Zesty, late baby boomer mumma, who can eventually regain composure and has an exceptionally good vocabulary. Rock on

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