Confessions of a Bondi Blonde

(Warning to male readers: contains information on female anatomy that does not involve sex, only operations.)

I had my vagina overhauled two months ago.

I’m not really sure I like the renovation.

It all started with a big laugh. And a little wee.  Stand up comedians were a definite no-no and the Chaser on a Wednesday night was always risky. The Eulogy Song was a real pant’s wetter.

Well, it wasn’t that bad – I did manage step classes, if not star jumps.

Sex was interesting.

Tinkle tinkle before lights out. Tinkle tinkle before penetration.Yippee! Hmm very exciting stuff. Hmm lotsa fluids…Uh oh.

All this was fine – really – when marriage was the safe shore of weekly journeys into lusty coves (or something equally colourful about being between the sheets with hairy husband). But when that hirsute little boat sunk, it meant potential new partners! Eek, I had to make sure that all was working in my trousers’ department before putting my hand down someone else’s.

So off I trotted (carefully) to the reception of the extremely expensive private women’s health clinic, above WBJ. I had a reception like no other. Faced with the contorted bellies of radiantly preggers women, jars of chocolates festooned the multiplicity of magazine-laden tables. All magazines were latest edition, and the choccies were free. The wait for Maddy, my obstetric specialist, (cause nobody is Dr Anyone anymore in the soft and fuzzy world of private health) was huge. Streams of women brought in their pee in a jar and saw Maddy before me, waddling out in pre-natal bliss.  I didn’t mind – I ate six choccies and read five different versions of my star sign – v confusing – while catching up on Brangelina.

 Also, truth be told, I was cackling to myself, shoving in another chocolate – “Huh, you blissed out baby carrying gaa-gaas. Just wait. In six years you’ll be back with your uterus in your handbag because your birth plan specified no drugs and natural delivery.”

 Natural? What’s wrong with evolution of the birth practice? Why is there so much politicking and pontificating about the wrongs of caesarean births? In my case I listened to the guilt trip and went for a natural delivery. But, as my mum had had a prolapsed uterus, I had a greater than average chance of having one as well. Did I know this? Did anyone ask? No. If I had access to the facts, maybe I would have given the cut option more thought. If I’d chosen to have caesarean deliveries, I would still have three harangued, healthy kids, with the added bonus of an operational twat.

 Obviously I was a suffering a little sugar rush, but still. Too posh too push, my arse. If I knew then what I know now my vagina would be Tupperware tight and I probably would have had a fixer-up tummy tuck thrown in gratis by the doctor when delivering brat3. Instead I had the Grand Canyon as a vagina and  wee, wee, wee, all the way home if I forgot to regularly pause to pee. I was here to investigate turning my downstairs more into Hong Kong’s Happy Valley, with a few meetings with a stallion over the next year, please God.

Maddy told me (chatting away with her hands up my bits) that they are very close to releasing a test to see if your pelvic floor with take the strain of natural delivery or – like me – snap like an overstretched rubber band during birth, leaving your vagina to flap around like some weird sea anemone in your pelvis. I would have had this test. Really would have loved it. Instead I’ve got the joy of four doctors treating my Map of Tassie like a Christmas turkey. Oh well, my timing has always been atrocious. I missed out on the baby bonus too, back in July 2004. By two days. 27 hours, actually.  

The operation was a success and I loved, loved, loved hospital. Flowers, friends, magazines. No work, no responsibilities. People bringing me meals three times a day. Beats a Noosa holiday,anyday. Ahhhh…Where the bloody hell was I?

Breathe. Breathe.

Yes, that’s right, the operation was a success. Laparoscopic techniques were used. This meant Maddy shoved chopstick-like instruments into my tummy, cut stuff and fixed me (something a little more technical maybe, given she probably had a decade’s worth of post-doctoral study). Anyway, my pelvic floor was stitched, my bladder was hitched and I was revirginalised, three kids down and way past the first flush of youth, (much closer to other, hot ones, truth be told).

But I’m not so sure about the operation’s wonderful success. Two months later and I’m still sore. My four year old son has better bladder control, and he still uses trees as a toilet. He wears night time pants. I’m not there – yet. So squeeze, squeeze, pelvic floor. Think ping pong. Think ping pong. Squeeze.

Sex is not an option (off sex, mending bruised heart) but if it was, I’m not sure I’d want a joy stick anywhere near my PlayStation anytime soon. An exploratory feel and it’s all a bit lunar landing site. And there are little bits of string floating around. So before I go on any flirty fishing expeditions, I better haul my front bottom and back bottom back to Maddy. I need to make sure that for any romantic interlude ahead I’ve emerged from the Venus fly trap, resembling more my true Venus/Aphrodite self.

Shedding the skin of wife to re-emerge single is a painful process. It involves litres of late night wine, baskets of Lindt balls and vital investment manoeuvres into David Jones Elizabeth Street for sexy lingerie and fuck you/fuck me shoes. Botox has replaced Neurofen Plus as my drug of choice. Finally, all remaining dead skin has been sloughed off via dermabrasion. I’ve emerged soft and unwrinkled  into a brave new world of speed dating and single-serve dinners.

I’ve checked the bank account, and there are a few pennies left for investment into  – gasp – my brain. Still a mother, no longer a wife, I  fill the gap left on the right side of the bed with books and notes on development courses and employment opportunities that will fit, if pushed hard, into school hours.

Today’s deployment into employment discussions was a belter.

Meetings, meetings, meetings. None of which added any cash to the depleted St George account, but Very Important Meetings, nonetheless. With the therapist, exploring my ability to reoffend with different versions of the same bastard ($100 bucks); with a bunch of yummy mummies at a trendy cafe, discussing school fundraising ideas – mine was pole dancing (we could swing from the basketball hoop/poles) – not heartily seconded ($15 bucks); exploring opportunities with a friend of a friend, in the deepest, darkest, Westest Rozelle (Seven bucks just for the Cross City Tunnel).

Hold the phone! Dim the lights! This is it! I’ve hit the heights!

Two lattes into meeting three and I’ve been offered a great job!

Executive Producer on a movie.

Strip it back to tin tacks, and this actually means having to raise the massive moolah required to make said movie.

No pay for me, very slim chance of pulling it off, and on close examination a chance to get lots and lots of rejections from people I have never met for something I don’t know the fuck about – Great, just what I need – more rejection from people in the know!

Heck, why the hell not? The guy making the movie is a legend. The movie is sexy topical – in a Bill Henson kinda way. And a title for me other than mum. Executive Producer Mandy. It’s almost up there with Dr. Mandy. Also, truth be told, I secretly lust over 2/3 of the cast (it would be 3/3, but I am not a lesbian – anymore). Maybe I can pull the casting couch stunt with a title like that?  Ahh, give a little person a whiff of power and you’ll have a despot quicker than you can say Zimbabwe.

I bought the BRW Rich List for research and then asked the important questions.

“Is anything tax deductible for investors? Will those who put their money into the Australian film industry be cut any tax breaks at all?”

 “Ah, no.”

“Is there much funding available from the Australian Government for movies, then?”

 “Some, but not great – a hungry hoard, seven loaves, two fishes and poor, bloody Jesus has been locked down in the 20/20 Summit chamber, being channelled by Rudd the Dud.”

“Will I get a business card?”

“No.”

Hmm…maybe the the ones from the train station booths will work at convincing people of my Cannes-like credibility.

 Sounds like a really hard sell. But I’m excited. Not that it takes much these days. And it sure beats the school run.

Maybe I can convince my friends to be in the movie as an extra for $500 bucks? I only will need 2,000 friends. Integrating a crowd scene would be very tricky into a movie that’s set in the outback, but hey it’s just a massive product placement, isn’t it?

Got $500?

Are you ready for your close up?