Iv lived in a few different places, Swanbourne with the snobs, East St Kilda with the jews, Fitzroy with the grungey Artist and now Fremantle surprisingly with the Rock stars..
Which is slightly unusual in a city with a population of approximately 26 000 people, approx 40% of the rented homes here are government housing, and approx 40% of the people are foreigners. So if you take out the wogs and doll bludgers your pretty much left with rock stars.
What qualifies you to be a rock star?
Well only two qualities are a must. You must live in fremantle and you must act like a rock star. Playing and instrument, developing your vocal skills, or even having a slight interest in any type of music is over rated. However tight black jeans, tatts, flanny shirts, black hair dye, chain smoking and local gigs are up there with theses highly exclusive groups.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not claiming to be any better, I too have been known to have pointless tattoos, (rosary beads on my nonreligious wrist) I also donned red wine stained lips for a good two years and I remember the days of sitting at the swan basement watching intently as a band that should be placed under arrest for the attempted murder of my ear drums serenaded me.
But falling pregnant put a stop to the endless bender and opened my eyes to what an asshole I was becoming, it would appear I was wearing rose coloured Ray-bans.
So this is one gig Fremantle has to offer that Ill have to sit out on, as maintaining this type of superficial lifestyle while caught up in baby love is almost as impossible as having a polite conversation with the dude who works upstairs at Mills.

the little job of being a lover

My boyfriend has loads of jobs.
Its his job to tell me I look beautiful when Iv got food all over my chin, his job to listen to me cry over the asshole in the car park who called me a fat cow, his job to try and find that asshole, when I ask him the time, its his job to dack himself and reply "its cock oclock," its his job to come home from football early cos I saw a shadow in the backyard, his job to bring my attention to any camel toe issues I might be having (preferably not by say "babes your having a flap attack" but nobodys perfect) his job to pretend he didn't notice the 22kgs I put on when pregnant and his job NOT to point out that the baby only made up for 3 of them.
Its my job to be paranoid, Im a paranoid person- I believe every expression on a doctors face is the one they use to break the bad new "sorry, its Cancer or sorry lets discuss quality of life, or sorry looks like that Norweigen guy didnt leave quite without a trace." And so its also my job to worry at the discovery of a new lump, bump or rash on my body and its his job to check it out and reassure me.
This could explain the fear on his face when I came out of the toilet the other day with a very tense look on my face and the declaration of my very first Hemorrhoid.
Billy- "what makes you think that?"
Me- "I have all the symptoms and it hurts to poo, bloody hell I cant even enjoy a good poo any more"
Billy-"well can you see it? I hear they look like grapes"
Me- "no but Im pretty sure its of the internal variety. I'm really worried Bill, I dont want a doctor putting there finger up my bum"
Billy looked tence, infact he looked tence until he realised I didnt have one of those minors helmet torches to send him anal mining in my hands.
Turns out the hemorrhoid that Iv named Ernie came about from giving birth. Apparently I pushed so hard that Ernie had nowhere else to go. Easily treated and anyone who suffers from the Roids will know that he wont be missed.
After the ordeal I had a sneaky suspicion that if I was really worried about Ernie then Billy would have checked him out for me. It never came to that cos just as its Billys job to protect me from assholes in car parks its my job to protect him from arsholes like Ernie.
I have lots of jobs too,
Its my job to keep his little girls warm and safe while hes at work, my job to take the baby outside when he gets home from work for a kiss in his work van, my job to share a doona with him even after hes been eating Onion Bargies (bargie bum) and its my job to wash up at night in nothing but my nickers.
But most importantly it my job to keep the Ernies away so I can perch my bum on his lap while he does his job on the computer at night.

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Tricky Tricky Tricky

All of us have been tricked........
Trick or treated by some little gremlins from down the road, tricked out of a round of beer by that one Jewish friend who always gets out of it, or tricked by a magician who after woods with a poof and a cloud of smoke vanishes.
But more commonly and definitely more annoyingly us girls are getting tricked into bed.
How many nights have you gone out with either a friend or a guy your not attracted to at all only to wake up in the morning next to a guy who's head and neck are so close together your concerned you may have just shagged an Ovaltiney???
Or worse still a guy your so attracted to that you know the only way you wont blow it is by holding off for a while only to wake up and realise you Blew it, literally.
How the hell do they do it?
Well I once knew a guy who told me that the trick is to get the girl back to your house, offer them coffee, a beer or in my friends case to look at there pet fucking rabbit- anything will do. This guy reckons that once you step foot into there place your nickers are 90% around your ankles, waxed or not waxed (so many girls make the mistake of skipping the wax appointment thinking that knowing they have a bush down there will act as a Chastity belt, not the case you'll end up feeling like a hairy tart instead of just a tart)
Another trick is the sympathy card... "I haven't had sex since my last girlfriend cheated on me, Iv been scared of rejection" This is self explanatory and its amazing how often it works.
All these tricks have one thing in common, they come with a promise of a follow up date, a call, a text or at the very least a bloody Friend Request (that entails remembering your name) and they hardly ever follow through.
Why the promise? Because man are amazing creatures who's one weakness is awkwardness. There need to avoid awkward moments is almost as strong as there need to try a variety of vagina in the first place. So "Ill call you" Is such the better option then "sucked in"

Only the other day I was almost tricked (not into bed my boyfriend spends more time tricking me out of bed then into it these days) but by a friend Mr P when I told MrP about this blog I was writing and how I was going out for lunch with my girlfriends to discuss the times they had been tricked. Well MrP told me that he too would be interested in this chat, not that he had tricked girls into bed but MrP believes he had been tricked into bed before too..... When I explained this to my boyfriend he said to me "Con don't you see? You've just been tricked now MrP gets to come along to lunch with a table full of single girls"
So there it is, we can all get tricked but watch out because men like all good magicians after woods with a poof and a cloud of smoke will vanish.

Last Tuesday, I woke up in the middle of the night and stipped off cos I was hot. Then at 6.45am my baby woke up wanting to be fed, I wiggled my arse out of bed (with a few really attractive grunts), picked her up, noticed she was wet so I changed her nappy and took off her jumpsuit, took her to the couch and started to breastfeed her. While doing this I heard the sound of a tiny little explosion coming from her new nappy. Not about to interupt her feed I left it there for a few more monents before getting up (still naked) to change her nappy.
Thats when I noticed it........ She had done one whopper of a turd, it had leaked out of her nappy and inbedded itself in my pubic hair- While other ladies my age dont even have pubes mine were coverd in yellow baby poo.
Did I care? nup. I picked her up, changed her nappy and popped her on her play mat.
Meanwhile my boyfriend Billy was getting ready for work. I offered to make him some coffee? He just stood there, stared at what used to resemble a fanny, shook his head and walked out the door.
Thats when I started to think to myself.... What happened to Constance? The outspoken Constance, the loud, lovable and sassy Constance? (everyone has a vision of themselves weather correct or not) the consantly drunk and opinionated Constance? (now your all thinking, who cares what happened to Constance)
Well on this perticular Tuesday I did.
I mean when did I stop wearing a bra? its not like my boobs became less saggy once I had the baby, infact now there making this amazing slap noise when they hit against my chest/tummy when I walk. I dont even want to get into the dreadlocks Im growing or the armpits I havnt had a chance to shave in two months (thank god for winter)

Then something great happened, my girlfriend called me up crying.. Shed had a huge fight with her fella and was devistated. (I know Im selfish and mean to think this was great)
After talking to her I hung up and thought, "thats not me anymore" dont get me wrong, Billy and I have bigger and meaner fights then the best of them but I just dont care so much anymore.

Im preocupied with the bigger picture at the moment, this high might not last long but for now it makes everything else seem miniscule as long as she has rosie cheeks and a dry bum Im ok.
And yes I still have my days where Im tempted to put her on Ebay or atleast leave her at grannys permanently (whos waiting happily with adoption papers ready to be signed).
But everytime I look at her round little head I know that I love her a little bit more then yesterday and a little bit less then tommorrow. Even if that does mean poo in the pubes (Ralph magazine would sugest in my fault for sporting the sinnful pubic hair in the first place)
When this little baby cries I will come running, and you can all hear the echoes of my boobs against my tummy. xx