Diary of a Crap Housewife

by Jessica Rowe

  ‘I don’t remember exactly. I just threw a few bits and pieces together.’

  But my dinner companion wasn’t satisfied with that explanation: ‘You must tell me what spices you used. Was it paprika or turmeric?’

  The next day I asked my sister to write out the recipe for me and I emailed it to my dinner guest. That was the last time I pretended to be someone that I wasn’t as I realised the stupidity and exhaustion that came from pretending to know the difference between turmeric and paprika. All that wasted time pretending to be one of those people who can whip up a meal with only a few ingredients in the fridge, along with a drizzle—or is it grizzle?—of olive oil and some casually torn basil leaves.

  It has been a lifetime since we hosted a fancy dinner party. Entertaining guests fills me with anxiety and I’ve always marvelled at people who can effortlessly host a dinner. All of us have different skill sets and I’m over pretending that one of mine is being great around the home. Now, when we invite friends around, I get Peter to be in charge of the barbecue and I make a giant green salad and serve it with crusty French bread. For dessert, there are Magnum ice-creams and lemonade icy poles in the freezer.

  # CRAPHOUSEWIFE

  Clearly, Nigella Lawson has nothing to fear from me. At a young age I managed to tangle my long hair in the egg beaters while trying to bake a cake for the tuck-shop fundraiser. Since then my baking and cooking skills haven’t improved much. When I recently interviewed the real-life ‘domestic goddess’, Nigella was generous enough to critique my cooking. I put up a series of pictures of my meals that I’d posted on Instagram. The first one was hamburger patties. They didn’t look that great in the picture but Nigella kindly told me they didn’t need ‘rescuing’ as hamburgers were all about what ‘accompaniments’ you put with them.

  Next up was a meal I was especially proud of as it was a radical departure from my comfort zone of spaghetti bolognaise or panko-crumbed schnitzel. My photo was of a bright, colourful salad with not a tinge of charcoal in sight. It was an easy recipe from MasterChef finalist Justine Schofield. I’m a big fan of her easy, no-fuss style of cooking.

  ‘Tuna Niçoise salad … is that rice in there?’ Nigella asked curiously.

  ‘Yes it is,’ I replied.

  ‘Yeeees …’

  ‘Is rice okay?’ I said.

  ‘Someone from Nice might disagree with you. But when you make your food you’re entitled to make it as you’d like it. [You’re saying:] “It’s my voice and my taste.”’

  Now I have clearly found my voice about my lack of domesticity. Who was I trying to impress with my ‘ability’ to cook, do maths homework and get my children to stay in their beds each night? We aren’t faultless and it’s exhausting pretending to the wider world that we have it together all the time. Life with kids can be messy, tedious and wonderful. So why did I need to keep pretending that I was always spick and span?

  # CRAPHOUSEWIFE

  My daughters love what I cook, even if my husband isn’t quite so effusive in his praise. Now he gets his meals delivered as part of a dinner delivery service but every now and then I do catch him looking longingly at my spaghetti bolognaise. Although he’s not a fan of the mince, he does love carbohydrates and I know he still wants some of the pasta! But he’s just weary of the weekly occurrence of spag bol in my cooking repertoire.

  Recently, I was close to tears of joy at our local Chinese restaurant while Peter, my daughters and I munched spring rolls and chicken fried rice. And it wasn’t only because I had a night off cooking.

  ‘Mummy, this isn’t as good as what you cook! You should be a master chef!’ said Allegra.

  Other evenings, Giselle enjoys helping me crumb our schnitzels, stir the jar of pasta sauce into the mince, or peel the potatoes for the mash.

  ‘Mumma, you’re a great cook!’ she tells me.

  And that, my beauties, is good enough for me.

  SCHNITZEL

  The panko crumb has changed my life! Since my darling friend Denise Drysdale introduced me to the wonders of the panko, I now try to crumb everything (apart from my husband and the cats). I’ve found that kids will eat anything smothered in crumbs.

  Ingredients

  chicken/veal schnitzel from the supermarket or butcher

  flour for coating

  2 eggs

  1 packet of panko crumbs

  vegetable oil

  butter

  Method

  Coat the schnitzel first in flour, then egg and finish it off with panko crumbs. The definitive Denise tip is to really use the palm of your hand to flatten the schnitzel (or lamb cutlets). I use this technique when I’m at the panko crumbing stage. It’s messy but very satisfying and it makes them double in size.

  Heat your frypan with oil and add some butter as well. This combination has stopped my smoke alarm from going off too often! It only takes a few minutes each side to cook your schnitzel. Serve with mashed potato and corn, salad or coleslaw.

  Success rate

  Four out of four family members. This is a rarity—to cook a meal that everyone will eat. Packets of panko crumbs empty quickly so I always try to have a few extra ones in our pantry. Or I rely on Neesy to buy giant bags on special for me when she spots them in the supermarket.

  3

  Botox

  Fake it until you make it.

  UNKNOWN

  Every couple of months I have botox. I’ve made that choice to have the occasional jab of toxin into my face to smooth out some frown lines and look a little less world weary. Yes, I know I’m vain but I would much rather tell you that I have needles injected into my face than come up with some nonsense about sleeping ten hours and drinking green smoothies to explain my fresher-looking complexion. There is something excruciating about reading various starlets list their ‘clean-living’ tips behind their immaculate visages, when it’s obvious they’ve had some enhancement!

  The tips from these Glamazons include drinking hot water with a squeeze of organic lemon for brekkie, eating paleo, no sugar and drinking ten litres of macadamia milk a day. Looking immaculate does not come naturally, and for many of these stars it includes having a dermatologist on tap, botox, restylane dermafillers, fraxel laser treatment, a personalised chef, nutritionist, personal trainer, manager, housekeeper, chauffeur, stylist and oodles of cash. Lying about it does nothing to support the sisterhood. Come clean, fess up to what you get done. Or if you can’t be honest, zip it and stop peddling quack theories. However, I haven’t always been so confident about owning up to my own vanity.

  My husband thinks it’s ridiculous and my daughters look bemused when I tell them about my botox. However, without any prompting from me, the girls will give me a nudge when we’re walking around our neighbourhood and they spot someone who has ‘too much stuff in their face’.

  ‘Is that a blonde Kardashian, Mummy?’ asked Allegra.

  ‘She looks like one, doesn’t she?’ I replied. ‘And that, my darling, is what happens when you have too much surgery on your face!’

  It’s a balancing act I tread with my own girls as I’m open with them about the small tweaks I have done but I also talk to them about the absurd abuse of plastic surgery by some young women. My daughters aren’t on social media yet but from time to time they scroll through my Instagram feed, and my eldest daughter will click the ‘follow’ button of all the members of the Kardashian clan. Each time, my feed is suddenly invaded by these fembots. I’ll unfollow them and try to explain to Allegra why these young women are not aspirational or inspirational people. Normally, I’m willing to give anyone a chance but not the Kardashians.

  ‘Please, Mummy. Can I get the Kylie Jenner lip kit?’

  ‘No, she’s not a good role model …’

  ‘But she has her own business, she’s a mum and everyone else has that lip kit!’

  ‘So who is this “everyone?”’ I asked, wondering if it’s the same ‘everyone’ that I used to tell my own mother about when I was a teenager.

&n
bsp; After three hours of this conversation and promises about going to bed when she’s told and doing homework, I’m close to breaking point.

  ‘The Kardashians are like Bratz dolls. I think they modelled themselves on those dolls with too-big lips, too much make-up and too-dark eyebrows!’ I told my determined daughter.

  ‘But I love Bratz dolls, Mummy! They have a passion for fashion!’

  ‘They are tacky! And their outfits are vile, my darling.’

  ‘But Mummy, you have some jeans that make you look like a Bratz doll!’

  ‘Okay, okay!’

  ‘Mum, are you listening? Are you paying attention? Are you really saying that I can have the Kylie lip kit?’ ‘Wait a minute!’ I said. ‘NO, you can’t!’

  I’m back to holding my nerve before going down the rabbit hole of an explanation about what first made the Kardashians famous, and why she wouldn’t want to grow up to be a member of that family.

  # CRAPHOUSEWIFE

  Now that I’m 48 years young, I’m the most comfortable that I’ve ever been in my body. I’ve got cellulite, stretch marks and other lumpy and bumpy bits. And the marvellous part of getting older is that I don’t care anymore about those silvery, snail trails on my legs, bottom and thighs.

  ‘You have a flobby bottom,’ Giselle told me recently. ‘Your skin is loose and mine is tight!’

  I proudly explained to Giselle that I love my bottom and every other part of my body. And I ignore Allegra’s ‘advice’ that I could get bum implants to look like Kim Kardashian.

  ‘My Sweet Pea, I have earnt every bit of my saggy bottom and my other wobbly and flabby bits. I love that my body is strong and that it helps me to dance, leap and carry the heavy shopping bags!’

  ‘Mum, you’re so strange … and what is that big, black furry thing?’ asked Giselle, as I step out of the shower.

  Spending any time alone in the bathroom is a distant memory.

  ‘That, my darling, is my vagina!’

  ‘Stop, Mum. That’s revolting!’ interrupted Allegra.

  ‘No, it is not! It’s beautiful. And you were born through it …’

  ‘Mum, ewww …’ said Allegra.

  ‘It’s not and you have one! And it’s beautiful too!’ I told my eldest daughter.

  ‘Mum, you’re crazy. And I’m just happy I was born through ICF and not that disgusting thing called sex!’

  ‘Yes, you were born by I–V–F …’

  While I was drying myself off with the still-damp towel that I had forgotten to hang up the night before, our chat veered towards the different ways that babies are born. It was a variation of a conversation I’ve been having for many years with my girls.

  ‘Mumma, I came out of that scar?’ asked Giselle, pointing at my fading caesarean scar.

  ‘Yes, you did, my Baby Bear … and Allegra you came out …’

  ‘Yuck, Mum, I know …’ interrupted my eldest daughter.

  Another earlier version of this talk on the topic of body parts still makes me laugh when I bring it up with my daughters. The questions had already started one day when my girls and I were driving around to see my mum. She only lived a short distance away, but judging by the amount of stuff I’d packed, you’d think we were driving to Antartica.

  Allegra was onto question number 251 and it was only 9 a.m., and I was concentrating on getting through the snarl of traffic on the way to Mum’s place so wasn’t listening properly to my daughter’s latest query.

  ‘Mum, does Elmo have a penis?’

  ‘Mmmm, yes,’ I answered, not thinking through the consequences. Stupidly, I thought this was the end of the discussion and we could move onto question number 252, but my inquisitive daughter had her follow-up question ready.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘It’s hiding under his fur,’ I said as authoritatively as I could. Hooray, I’ve managed this well, I thought to myself. But my satisfaction didn’t last long. On the way home from Mum’s we stopped off at the butcher.

  ‘Mummy, does he have a penis?’

  ‘Aaah, some sausages please,’ I ask the butcher as my face goes the colour of Elmo’s fur.

  Next stop is the chemist.

  ‘Mummy, does she have a penis?’ Allegra continues her investigation.

  ‘Umm, no,’ I whisper.

  ‘Why not?’ she replies at full volume.

  ‘Because she’s a woman.’

  ‘Women don’t have penises?’

  ‘No, we have vaginas …’

  ‘What is your vagina for?’ My daughter wasn’t going to give up just yet. At least we had left the chemist and were back on the footpath so no one else could hear this part of the conversation. I was tempted to ignore her. However, as we walked home, Allegra kept asking and asking. She wore me down with her persistence.

  ‘Mmmm, your vagina is for doing wees and it’s also how you were born.’

  ‘Did I come out of your vagina?’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘No, my darling, I am not.’ If only I had told Allegra that Elmo was a sexless Muppet! Instead I was the muppet …

  Even though, as my girls get older, both of them have told me it’s ‘disgusting’ to talk about our bodies, I keep talking and talking, hoping they’ll listen to some of my stories.

  # CRAPHOUSEWIFE

  Just like the start of the Elmo situation, often it’s while we’re all in the car together that we have some of our best chats.

  One time, the volume on the stereo was cranked up as I did my best daggy mum dancing while the car was stopped at the traffic lights. Allegra who was sitting in the front seat simply raised her eyebrows at my attempt to do rapper hands.

  ‘Come on, this is such a groovy song. I’m just bopping along to your music. You put this song on my iTunes.’

  Just then the chorus started up again, and since the lights were taking an eternity to change, I got another chance to sing along to Iggy Azalea. I thought it was okay for my daughter to listen to Amethyst Amelia Kelly as she’s a hard-working, hippy girl, brought up near the rainforests close to Mullumbimby.

  ‘I’m soooooo fancy,’ I warbled, quickly followed by a click of the fingers, slightly out of time with the rhythm.

  ‘Trash the hotel. Let’s get drunk at the mini-bar!’ sang my eleven-year-old.

  Before Iggy can rap another word, I quickly hit the power button to stop the music.

  ‘Mum, what did you do that for?’

  ‘Those words aren’t good …’

  ‘But why? I like Iggy’s long blonde hair and she knows Nicki Minaj.’

  ‘I’m not a fan of singing about the mini-bar,’ I replied, already regretting this conversation.

  ‘What’s a mini-bar?’ asked Giselle from the back seat.

  ‘It’s something that is far too expensive and that you would never open anyway.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Let’s put Taylor Swift back on.’

  Thankfully, I no longer had to hover at the bottom of hot, silver slippery dips or splintery ladders at the playground to keep my daughters safe. But that constant vigilance to protect my girls from physical harm had now been replaced by the trickier job of keeping them safe from the pressures of growing up too fast! And I understood that it’s not unusual to want to grow up quickly, having been in a hurry when I was a teenager.

  Also, it’s not surprising that Allegra has inherited my love of fashion and make-up. Since she was tiny, she has played in my messy Aladdin’s Cave of a wardrobe and has seen me combine all manner of feathery, sparkly and cat-patterned outfits. Recently, though, I explained that she couldn’t wear my gold-studded ankle boots (which she fits into already) with her denim miniskirt and Rolling Stones T-shirt.

  ‘It’s way too grown-up, Allegra!’

  ‘It’s in my blood though, Mummy. I’m a fashionista!’

  ‘I love that you’re a fashionista but you’re not wearing that! Take off the boots and put on your sneakers with it in
stead!’

  ‘You just don’t understand!’ said Allegra, stomping off still wearing my boots, into her bedroom.

  It’s alarming the flashbacks I’m now having to almost identical conversations that I had with my own mother when I was younger. When I was just a few years older than my daughter is now, I used to leave the house in jeans and a T-shirt, and hide my ‘proper’ outfit in a clean garbage bag in our bin. Ducking behind our fence, I’d ditch the jeans for super-short electric-blue bike shorts and a mesh midriff top.

  # CRAPHOUSEWIFE

  When I was a teenager I wasted far too much time focusing on what was ‘missing’ instead of marvelling at my natural beauty and strength. Now I have many wishes for my daughters, one of them being that they’re aware of their pure loveliness. Looking back at old Kodak photos of my girlfriends and me lounging in the midday sun on Camp Cove Beach in Sydney, what I see are exquisite young women all with their own individual beauty. We wore impossibly high-cut black one-pieces with thick gold bracelets and cuffs that we wore up to our elbows. Sadly, all my sixteen-year-old eyes could see then were the stretch marks that I used to count in the bathroom mirror.

  During my mid-twenties I lived with a doctor who was training to be a plastic surgeon. While he was studying the vast medical tomes for his degree, I became engrossed in some of his textbooks too. I was particularly taken with the before and after pictures of breast implants. I had always been flat as a pancake and I had briefly flirted with the idea of getting a boob job. Teardrop-shaped implants were new on the market and supposedly gave you a more ‘natural’ look. Apparently the look that surgeons were going for was no longer Pamela Anderson’s buxom breasts but more Elle Macpherson–style cleavages. Thank goodness my implants remained a daydream. I would have looked absurd with big boobs as my body would have looked out of proportion and comical, like a Chupa Chups lollipop. Still, I wasted too much time counting my stretch marks in the mirror.