I’m Catie.

And here are some snaps of my son Dave and I - so you can put faces to the awkward tales/tails.


Here's why I started this thing.

{Long and indulgent. Go get a chia pudding or something to give you energy.}

I’ve always been pretty shit at life.

I first realized how particularly ace I was at being shit in high school. A few separate occasions confirmed it.

The time I was skipping home, my hands full of frozen coke and hot chips, a long line of bored bus-waiting school kids opposite, me wanting to look carefree and tra-la-la bouncing past in my tartan skirt in front of everyone – faceplant.

Or that other time – the first holiday my friends and I took – on our own, in our cars, up the coast. Ten 16 years olds with the run of a beach house. Girls, boys, questionable culinary skills, tacos for dinner.

Everyone on the couch. A horror film. My guts rejecting the tacos. Increasing awareness that I needed the dunny, or else.

To stay and wait out the cramp, or flee?

I chose: flee.

And at that precise moment, a fart like the tearing of timespace ripped from my butt. I ran from the room, telling myself they didn’t hear. Buried myself in the bedroom until midnight, telling myself they didn’t hear. Their pointed poop puns the next day, assured me they did hear.

To this day, I have a phobia of farting – in front of anyone. Even my dog.

{And now I've gone and told you about it. Och.}

Or most years of my adult life that I’ve fucked up relationships, tax returns, uni degrees, business ideas, bicycles, diets and family ties.

Suck suck suck suck.

Luckily, I really enjoy taking one for the team. It keeps it interesting, and I’m not sure what I’d do with my time if I was good at stuff.

This latest fail – being stuck in an identity and location limbo, living with my mum at age 27 – without a car nor discernible hope for a career nor gold logie – the awkwardness of this latest situation has enticed me to talk about it.

To share it – providing feeble entertainment, and maybe a spot of empathy for my fellow goobers.

It’s hard out there, online, in a world of shiny know-it-alls.

What I crave when I’m googling my problems at midnight - adding to them with lactose (that I’m allergic to) from the carton (which spontaneously shrinks my pants) – what I crave is solidarity.

To find a blog post from some poor fuck who tells it like it is and doesn’t encourage me to meditate on it.

Who doesn’t tell me to banish my inner mean girl and trust the process.

An advice website that doesn’t diagnose my overeating as thirst, and that I should try a refreshing glass of lemon water next time I’m about to eat my emotions. Works, never.

And because – from those high school days when I experienced more ginger mishaps than most – I’m committed to making your life better by comparison, I want to talk about the struggles.

{Big disclaimer: most of the time I’m really positive. I’m having an off day. I’ll probably say something gross like ‘honour your temple’ tomorrow and make you gag.}

All problems are better when you get them out. Share them with others. Like #tacofarts.

This site isn’t about solutions, it’s about sharing. Defusing our collective shame. Maybe learning some stuff and getting a little better at this life thingo, but not necessarily.

Want in?

Yeah you do!