Shit Buddha forgot to say….

A review by The Online Book Club

Have you ever, at least once, thought about becoming a better person? If so, you will be able to identify with the author of Oh and that’s another thing … . Rose, a pseudonym, (for obvious reasons once you have read the story) chronicles her year-long, well, actually thirty-six week journey to find Karma.

With the assistance (and I use that term lightly) of a host of unforgettable characters, Rose sets out to be “good. Ish.” She admits she isn’t trying to be perfect. And, indeed, she isn’t, but her flaws, her foibles are all fodder for a frolicking tale of adventures and misadventures.

From the moment we begin to read the book, good grief, the title even indicates it, this book promises hilarity. Sadly, too often, books that promise this fall short in my opinion, but Oh and that’s another thing … delivers. But it goes beyond that, within the pages of this book, we learn more about life and, with an open mind, more about ourselves. We certainly learn a thing or two about the illustrious Rose.

For years, I have been searching for someone to fill the shoes of humourists like Jean Kerr (Please Don’t Eat the Daisies and Erma Bombeck (If Life is a Bowl of Cherries, What Am I Doing in the Pits?). For the first time, I think I have found an author who could come close to doing that. With the episodic nature of the chapters, they could be treated even as individual short stories, linked with a common theme. This is the stuff that best-selling, well-loved humour columnists are made of. I am not sure what the syndicated columnist life is like now when anyone can have their own blog, but I urge the author to consider looking into it as another avenue for her writing.

While I don’t doubt that some men would enjoy this, it is a book many women will identify with. Men may gain a different insight into women, although, when reading, they should remember that this is humour and characterizes the life and thoughts of women. It is hyperbole at its best. However, the book is not without flaws. There were several instances which could have used some solid copyediting and proofreading. There are not enough to mar the reading pleasure, and some people might not notice them. Another run-through with critical eyes would have eliminated the vast majority of these.

Still, I found this an enjoyable and fast read.  I would not hesitate to suggest this book to anyone. For that reason, I give it a rating of 4 out of 4 stars and hope to read more by this author soon.

Shit Buddha forgot cover pic








A story of love, betrayal…and fish!

deeper2Deeper – a dark, modern fairytale of love and revenge…

Loosely based on Hans Christian Andersen’s The Little Mermaid (you’ve maybe seen the totally unrelated Disney film of the same name), DEEPER is the story of what really happens when a curious mer girl rescues a self-obsessed writer, living alone in his lighthouse by the sea.  What happens when she makes a pact she can’t go back on, for love of a man she barely knows?  If you think you know how it ends, you probably don’t.

Deeper is available as an e-book on Amazon and now as a paperback If you read it, don’t forget to review it – it helps!

Here’s the latest review – with thanks to the reviewer.

Mermaids. A book about mermaids, for grown-ups. Really?
Really. And an extraordinary book, too, a book full of wonder and sadness and violence. A world under the sea and on its shores so beautifully drawn, realised in such detail that you’re ten minutes into the book and you’re there, with Melur and her sisters, her misfit friend, her brutal father, the terrifying “grandmother”, a mer-cast that will stay with you long after you’ve finished reading their tale.
There’s everything here, there’s magic, there’s coming-of-age, there’s clash of civilisations and Robinson Crusoe and humans, too, drawn warmly and wittily and economically and mercilessly – drawn the way that other great Australian writer Peter Carey might have drawn them.
And finally, there’s prose so smooth you don’t even notice it passing through you until you’re caught by some detail, some word or phrase so good it sits there like a rock in a stream, rippling, reflecting, making you pause, and smile, and carry on past.

A wonderful book. Read it.

Why is life like having Irritable Bowel Syndrome?

Cause sometimes you just gotta stop trying so f*****g hard.

Like for instance taking a crap.  This poor cow I know, she grew up with chronic constipation.  There was always some reason she had to hurry up when she was on the dunny, say the taxi that took all the weird kids to school – sorry I mean kids with disabilities and shit – was waiting out the front door and her mum was yelling where the fuck are you they’ll leave you behind if you don’t come out of that bloody bathroom.  Or she’d be sitting in the loo trying to do her business and there’s two bloody rugrats screaming and clawing at the dunny door like she was in there suiciding instead of just taking a shit like any normal person right?

So now when she sits down to take a dump she’s either all plugged up or the other thing and when she’s plugged up that’s when she comes whingeing to me!  And this is what I tell her!

What you need to do is CHILL, sista.  So the boyfriend’s in the next room and you don’t want him to hear you carrying on like a sow in labour.  So it’s only an ensuite and lavender and farts don’t match whatever they say on the spray can.  So the bitches at work probably think you’re in the toot having a smoko or wanking or something.  Relax, honey. Read a book in there, take some booze, turn up the ACDC, make yourself a party.  The right kind of shit happens when you’re not trying – in life as well as in the can.

Have problems in the dunny?  What gives YOU the shits?  Tell Aunty Violet – I give everyone the shits, guaranteed!

From Violent Violet: the Unexpurgated Spray.  She’s mean, crude and she doesn’t give a fuck..and she inhabits the pages of Shit Buddha Forgot to Say.  Don’t head over there without your wellies.  Alternatively, you could tell King Midget what it’s like to be a girl on the other end, so to speak (analysis of the similarities between proctoral exploration and the female experience of intercourse notwithstanding).

Too many straws!

How do you feel about straws?  Do you have a final one?

I have a lot of straw right now, in my life.  Here’s how it is…

On Monday I SAID I would visit a little old lady. But work threw up an unexpected two hour teleconference.

On Tuesday I SAID I would take my teenage daughter for a driving lesson.  But the boyfriend had car trouble.

On Wednesday I SAID I’d go for a long walk with the dogs.  But I felt sick at the thought of the stuff I didn’t do on Tuesday.

On Thursday I SAID I’d get a research proposal off to the powers that fund.  But I went to see the little old lady instead (and you can’t hurry 85 year olds).

On Friday I SAID I’d get some damn exercise.  The Write Transition says I’ll die if I don’t.

On Saturday I SAID I’d promote my book (that thrilling saga of do-goodery and occasional malice). I have – it’s free on Amazon for three days from March 31st to April 2nd.  If you look to your left, you can see a flattering review of it (it didn’t cost me much to get it, either).

On Sunday I think I will run away to sea.  I don’t like obligations – stuff you have to do because you SAID you would, or because someone needs you to, or because you will get in trouble if you don’t.  I’m good at making promises and only half-good at keeping them.

What do you HAVE to do that you wish you didn’t? Tell aunty Rose..

And meanwhile, if you have nothing better to do, you can watch Kurt’s apocalyptic vision of walking his dogs.  I know Kurt, believe me, I know!


Love, actually?

On the first day of Christmas my truelove gave to me…

One big red ‘powerstation’ camping battery – but hey, it’s not Christmas any more, it’s Valentine’s Day (which just happens to be two days after my birthday – kinda awkward romantically but whatever).

So my honey gave me not one but five presents – and they all had hearts on them! And he made me pancakes in bed with berries on top.  That makes up for a lot (and sometimes, there’s a lot to make up for, but that’s another story).

But this is why I love him like no other.


Well technically the man-in-the-moon incense holder didn’t have a heart on it…


Slut shaming, anyone?

A cottage by the beach. Perfect blue skies. The kind of beach that sends Europeans puce with envy. One man, one woman, deeply in love..

A recipe for a reasonably good time, you would think!  But no. Not if the man in question has recently read his girlfriend’s new book, Shit Buddha Forgot to Say, and afterwards sincerely wished that Buddha had forgotten to say it.  In this true life expose, it turns out that the woman of his dreams has a Past.  He kinda knew that but somehow seeing it in black and white on his kindle has stirred emotions better left unfizzed. It would have made a pretty funny sitcom, with the right director.

So the weekend is full of morose silences and circular discussions about ‘how could you! why would you?’ and ‘if you’re the kind of woman who is capable of THAT, is my heart safe with you!’.  ‘THAT’ being the following one-liner,

Madame Sputnik shoots me a look of pure disgust, mixed with avarice and a slight tinge of lust.

“You! A saint! I theenk not! You cheat without a rubber, you fuck three lovers on one day, you drop your close friend because she cannot fit her arse any more on a two seater couch…these are not the actions of a saint, mon dieu!”

“That was before. I’ve been working on this for almost a year now, I’m different!”

Apart from the annoyance of having my longed-for break at the beach spoiled by a pouting, brooding lover, it was interesting as a case study of modern male attitudes to sex.

“If my daughter came to me and said ‘I just had sex with two men in one day! I’d tell her, men won’t respect you, they’ll sleep with you but they won’t keep you.”  So what if your son said he had sex with two women in one day, I ask?  “I’d say, that’s a bit unfair (to the women) isn’t it son?”

‘People,’ says River God, ‘should choose people in their own category. So if a woman’s slept with 50 men, she should choose a man with the same headcount’ (while the 40 year old virgins should stick together, obviously.)

‘So,’ I say, ‘If you could line up all your potential suitors with a label underneath listing their ‘number’, and other salient characteristics like intelligence, kindness, charm, wit, etc – to what extent would your selection be based on the number as opposed to the other stuff?  And what is actually wrong with lots of sex with lots of people, as opposed to lots of sex with one person?’  Morally, I mean, not medically.

But River God’s troubled mind was in too much turmoil to quite take this in.  ‘Virginal’ is still good (in a woman) and ‘slut’ is not an outdated term in his world.  For anyone who’s ever read (or seen the movie of) Tess of the D’Urbervilles, this scene will be strangely familiar (the hero dumps his new bride when he finds she’s not a virgin: disaster ensues for all concerned).

What’s the moral of the story? Don’t let your boyfriend read your semi-autobiographical novels?  Don’t pick boyfriends who have idiotic gender-based ideas about women who put it about (for the record, he’s now seen the light)?  Don’t be a slut? Be one but don’t confess?  What do you think?

In other news, I accidentally toasted a spider, in the toaster.  Here it is!


The joy of…putting weird shit on your hair

It’s coming up to about two months since I washed my hair. That is, with the conventional stuff, you know, shampoo, conditioner, things you buy at the shops. Ms M and I both decided to ditch the bottles in favour of Seeing What Happens If.  Since we started the big experiment, we’ve washed our hair with –

  • Baking soda. Cheap, easy to make (you just put a spoonfu in water), and gets the oil out. Other than that, thumbs down.
  • Green tea and sage leaves soaked in hot water.  Sounds good but it feels like you went swimming in a swamp. Thumbs down.
  • Apple cider vinegar in water.  Makes your scalp dry and does not result in lustrosity of any kind. Thumbs down.
  • Stale beer and eggs.  My Thai massage lady suggested this (Ms M thought she was playing a joke on me).  Works on her (long black shiny hair) but not on me (smells like scrambled eggs and the pub).
  • Stale beer by itself!  Well, River God likes to leave the fag end of the beer in the bottle, on the grounds that it’s too ‘yeasty’ to drink. So why not avoid waste and tip it on your head!  Not bad – the pub smell only lasts half a day – but again, hair still lacking in lustrosity. Mind you, I think it had a slight blonding effect (maybe cause it’s pale ale).
  • Honey and water (shook up in a jar).  Apparently it has to be ‘natural’ honey and ‘distilled’ water, but what the hell, I used tap water, what’s the diff!  Ms M did it and her hair looks nice enough, as usual, but I have yet to see head-tossingly glamorous results a la ‘You’re Worth It’.
  • Honey and a few drops of sage oil. Now it’s just getting silly!  Cream and eggs, anyone?

And the upside of all this?  BEFORE, I was worried about my hair thinning.  I even tried pills (until my beard started growing).  But AFTER?  I’m pretty sure it’s thicker.  Maybe it’s all the goop.  THEY keep saying hair dyes and shampoos make no difference to female baldness but I remember when my eldest sister let her hair go grey (ie stopped dyeing it), that comb-over look went within a month. So there.

What is the dumbest thing you’ve put in your hair – and has anything made you look remotely like Salma Hayek?

Love at first sight, cookery, and other unlikely stuff

I’ve never fallen in love at first sight (although, as soon as I saw my hairy hippy I knew there was something about that man). But…

This last month I’ve been preoccupied with publishing my friend Irena’s Hungarian cookbook, which is an amazing work of love and detail.  I met Irena when I was giving one of my talks on how the elderly can get around without a car (part of last year’s job) and this very old, short, foreign lady piped up from the back of the room ‘I wonder if you could help me with..’.  Well, I gave her a lift home, and promised to visit her with some bus timetables, and the next thing you know, she was telling me about how she met her two husbands.

‘Back in those days’, says Irena, ‘you had to be a virgin, you weren’t allowed to do anything before marriage! So, well, I wanted to have sex, there was nothing to do but get married.  But I didn’t love him.”

I thought only men did that!

But later, I was working in a cafe in Sydney – I didn’t know how to make coffee or anything but I was very pretty in those days so the owner didn’t mind – and this Englishman came walking in with his hat and his umbrella, and I thought, this is the man I want to have my child with!”

“But why?” says I.  “I think I dreamed of him,” says she, “when I was lying alone in bed at night, my husband out cheating with other women, I dreamed of a man just like this, gentle, kind, tall.  And then he came.”

And one thing led to another and they got married, and now I’m trying to format Irena’s cookbook so she can hand it out at our local multicultural festival in three weeks’ time. When I was in kindy I was the worst in the class at making my exercise book look pretty, so – but I’m doing my best, anyway.  Besides, when me and Ms M went to Europe a year or so back, we were absolutely wowed by Hungarian food – the best I have ever tasted anywhere, and we didn’t even eat the meaty bits, being vegetarian. So I will be snapping up this cookbook as soon as it’s in book form, crappy formatting and all!

Love,though.  Aint it funny? River God believes you haven’t lived until you’ve had a ‘great love’ (I’m pleased to say that I am apparently his).  Do you believe in LAFS?

Here’s one of Irena’s recipes!


Almás palacsinta

1 cup flour

Pinch salt


1 cup milk

2 medium tart apples

1/4 cup soda-water

2 teaspoons melted butter

3 tablespoons caster sugar

1 teaspoon cinnamon

  1. Make a pancake batter with the flour, salt, eggs and milk.
  2. Wash and peel the apples, then using the grater with the largest teeth, grate the apples around the core. It’s best to grate them straight into the pancake batter as apples brown very quickly when cut.
  3. Blend the grated apple into the batter, then adjust the consistency with the addition of soda water. If the apples are very juicy you can omit the soda-water, as long as you achieve a thick, pouring texture.
  4. Ladle 1/4 cup portions into the preheated and buttered fry-pan, and cook untill lightly browned on both sides.
  5. In the meantime mix the caster sugar with the cinnamon and generously sprinkle each pancake as it comes out of the fry-pan.
  6. Fold the pancakes in halves and serve while still warm.

Yields 8-10 small pancakes.

Staying Happy – Remembering today and forgetting about yesterday

When you’re trying to be happy but shit happens…

Today I was happy, because River God was in a good mood.  He was huggable, he was kissable, he was talkative.  He’d had a good time bicycling around the lake in the rain, got sopping wet, and that brightened his hippy heart.  So he came around full of cheer and romance, and because I’m a bit of a litmus paper, I soaked it all up and was happy too.

Yesterday, things were different.  I was at River God’s country residence, it was stinking hot, and we had a disagreement about the correct way to fill buckets with used bathwater.  It was too hot to cuddle, it was almost too hot to be near each other, it was definitely too hot to consider intimate relations. River God was cross because in the middle of the night I crept out to my car with an old duvet and slept in the back of it, in the cool.  “You shouldn’t have come then!” he mumbled (as one does in the small hours), meaning “I feel bad about you being uncomfortable but worse now you’ve done something about it’.

I’m one of those people who is fine as long as the people I care about are busy cherishing me.  I wilt under criticism, coolness and being temporarily ignored.  So the trick for me is to hold the memory of today (cherished, adored) against the memory of yesterday (grumped upon) until the sun shines again.  I know there’ll be lots of sunny days and plenty of thundery ones too.  So cheer up, me, and think of the good times.

Oh, and this is the country estate (roundabouts).  You may think it looks nice, all blue and everything.  But trust me, it’s much better when it’s all grey and misty, because that’s when River God’s trees grow.  This is what the morning of a stinker looks like.

Rye Park