Confessions of a Bondi Blonde

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?