Me: Dad, there’s something gross on my neck. Can you take a look?

My brother: Is it your face?

Dad: It’s eczema.

Me: I’m going to my room.

Somewhere around my fifteenth year, I sat at the kitchen table one evening, doing my homework and eating a frozen piece of banana cake. My mother entered the room and looked from the cake to me.

“What?” I asked her.

“It’s not that you’re fat, darling,” she explained, “You’re just…flabby.”

My mother is generally oblivious to anything I do, say, wear or inhale, so she is constantly endangering her heart’s health by noticing my tattoos, piercings and the like up to 12 months after their advent.

Last night she picked me up from the airport and immediately exclaimed, “Annik! You’ve shrunk!”

Pleased that she had noticed my new sleek figure, I proceeded to explain my recently tweaked workout regime and how I have been hauling arse out of bed at 5:30am every morning to exercise, but it has obviously been worth it because now I am thinner and hot.

“No,” she interrupted, “I think you’ve gotten shorter. Are you slouching even more than usual?”

My extended family has always been split into two categories: Dad’s side, and the exciting side. Seven people came out of my maternal grandmother, twenty-two people came out of those seven people, nineteen people came out of those twenty-two people, and another person has come out of those nineteen people. Mixed in have been twenty-six spouses, two adoptions, and three dead babies. Trying to remember everybody’s birthdays is a total bitch.

When I was still young enough to be forced into family holidays, my parents would cram my brother and I into the Commodore and drive us up to Bundaberg. There we ran amok and slept at whatever aunt or uncle’s house we happened to end up at after sunset, until my mother could no longer stand the heat, crammed us back into the car and drove back to Sydney.

I spent most of my time in Bundaberg at my Aunty Dee’s house. Apart from the lure of a sprawling mulberry tree and the privilege of helping my Uncle Sam make home brew, I chose this particular house because I was fascinated by my older cousin Alice. She had inherited her mother’s fierce temper, lack of patience and volatility, and their arguments could reach spectacular heights in mere seconds.

“Did you pick up some bacon?” Alice would ask, standing in front of the open fridge.
“Oh.. Sorry, I forgot.” Aunty Dee would reply.
“Well I’m not making dinner then. You can all fucking starve!”
“Don’t talk to me like that, you bloody prima donna bitch. Get the hell out of my house!”

Then Alice would slam the front door, climb into a boy’s car and speed off down the road. It was better than fireworks.

My relationship with my own mother was based on rare and polite exchanges, but I was willing to try and liven things up.

The week before Easter, my kindergarten class was a frenzy of activity. We drew bunnies, made cards, and fantasised about eating chocolate until we vomited. Meanwhile, our mothers competed fiercely to create the best Easter Hat for the annual Easter Hat Parade. Well, most mothers… As usual, my Mum forgot about this until the night before. “Aww crap,” she said, staring at the calendar, “How the hell am I meant to make you a hat before tomorrow?” Then, exhibiting about as much enthusiasm as she showed for housework, she glued some glitter and bunny ears onto one of my brother’s baseball caps.

“I can’t wear this,” I protested, “It’s stupid!”
“Don’t worry,” she promised, “I’ll be there to deck anybody who makes fun of you.”

But on the day, as I stood in line waiting for the Easter Hat Parade music to begin and cringing with embarrassment at all the other kids’ cool hats, Mum was nowhere to be seen. Finally, halfway through the ceremony, she appeared at the back of the crowd with a cup of coffee in hand. I decided this was a good time to try out my newly learned conflict-resolution skills.

“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN, YOU BLOODY WITCH?” I shouted across the quadrangle.

Short of hearing, and thinking I had called her a “bitch”, my mother marched through the lines of children, dragged me out of the Easter Hat Parade, and belted me in front of the entire student body of my primary school and their parents.

I did not win the Easter Hat Parade that year.

Me: What exactly does the groomer do for your dog that you can’t?: I bath her myself, but the groomer is supposed to give her a clip, clip her nails, express her anal glands, etc.

Kahlee

Me: I’m sorry, I thought you just said ‘express her anal glands’??

Kahlee: They get stuff in the glands in their butts, and if they’re not expressed every 6 months it can be painful for them.. You kind of squeeze on their butt.

Me: Surely that’s not really necessary? Do dogs in the wild walk around with sore butt-holes all day?

Kahlee: Dogs in the wild don’t eat processed biscuits.

Me: Another tragic example of how humans have ruined the world.