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  Text copyright © 2018 by Celeste Barber

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Amazon Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  First published in 2018 by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited

  ISBN-13: 9781542006231 (hardcover)

  ISBN-10: 1542006236 (hardcover)

  ISBN-13: 9781542006248 (paperback)

  ISBN-10: 1542006244 (paperback)

  Cover Design by Mark Campbell, HarperCollins Design Studio

  Cover Photography by Corrine Bond, Vivien’s Creative

  First edition

  For JoJo, Mark, and Nic.

  Come back now please, I’ve got so much to tell you.

  The One with All the Content

  Dear America

  Pilot

  The One

  . . .Where I Thought I Would Flip Inside Out

  . . .Where I Discovered Ritalin, My Childhood (Not So) Imaginary Friend

  . . .About My Dad

  . . .Where I Danced a Lot

  . . .About My #metoo Stories (Sad Face Emoji)

  . . .About My Fake Brother, Michael

  . . .Where I Was Bullied at School, I Think

  . . .About Falling in Love with Comedy

  . . .About Surviving Drama School

  . . .With Another Gross Man #timesup

  . . .About Sparky

  . . .About Thomas

  . . .About My Love for the LGBTQI Community

  . . .With #hothusband

  Dear Wine

  . . .Where My Heart Was Cut Open

  . . .About My Breasts

  Dear Hangover

  . . .About My Mum

  . . .About Jo and How I Got in Trouble at Yoga

  . . .Where I Discover Being Famous on Instagram Is Like Being Rich at Monopoly

  . . .Where I Go to America

  . . .When Harry Met Celeste

  . . .Where I Become an #accidental(role)model

  . . .About Loving Our Bodies #bopo

  . . .With My 28-Day Journey to Better Diet and Exercise

  . . .Where I Explain Why I Don’t Hate Hot People

  . . .No One Cares About

  . . .Where I Became an Anti-Influencer

  The Last One Part 1 (Celisticles)

  The Last One Part 2 (Acknowledgments)

  Dear Parents

  About the Author

  Dear America

  How are y’all?

  I’m that crazy Australian who takes photos of herself. That lady who tries to make you laugh and show that we shouldn’t take ourselves too seriously. You know her? Yep, that’s me!

  I wanted to take this opportunity (that was 100 percent forced on me by my US publisher) to write an additional introduction ahead of the standard introduction I had already written to thank y’all personally for being so super supportive of me and all my shenanigans and for allowing me to penetrate you just the right amount.

  You are the most supportive of all the lands, and it’s a really nice feeling, because you own some of the things that I hold closest to my heart . . .

  Malt milkshakes.

  Queer Eye for the Straight Guy—the original AND the reboot.

  An entire channel dedicated to BRAVO!

  And TOM MUTHAFUCKING FORD.

  I was recently in you for New York Fashion Week, obvs, and I’m not going to lie to you—it was a bag of mixed nuts. Some were shitty Brazilian-type nuts, like when I was asked on two separate occasions by two European supermodels when shopping in Bloomingdale’s to fetch them a different size in jeans, and when I told them I didn’t work there, they were already bored of my “attitude” and had moved on to another mother of two who was trying to have a quick five minutes to herself.

  But I also had some really yummy chocolate-coated hazelnut-type experiences. I met everyone’s favorite uncle, Tom Hanks, got to make out with everyone’s wet dream, Tom Ford, and witnessed Serena Williams continue her quest to dismantle the patriarchy—in a tutu!

  Since I’m going to be hanging out with you guys a lot more, I needed to get my Social Security card so I can work and not be stopped at the border and have my children ripped from me because I’m trying to do the best I can. When I told the man at the Social Security office that I was there for Fashion Week, he responded, “Oh, so you’re a photographer?” When I looked at him blankly, he corrected himself by saying, “Manager?” To which I responded, “Why don’t you assume I’m a model?” With that he stamped my Social Security passport-type card thingy and, avoiding any direct eye contact, sent me on my way with a handful of sympathy candy.

  After this last trip (the one where I made out with Tom Ford; have I mentioned that?), there is one lingering question I have and was hoping you might be able to shed some light on . . .

  What’s with listing all the side effects in your ads for pharmaceutical drugs? Never have I heard the words “renal bleeding” alongside “infant formula” more in my life than when I spent half an hour watching TV in my overpriced East Village Airbnb. DM me.

  There are a few things that us Aussies do really well that you guys need to get across:

  Fairy bread—white bread with butter and sprinkles, that’s it. Fairy bread.

  Beaches—we are so goddamned good at beaches, you guys, it’s kind of crazy.

  Slang—our slang is like nothing else. Let me give you an example.

  Man in any country in the world other than Australia talking to friend:

  “Before I head off I want you to know that the guy over there looks exactly like your ex. I think he’s interested in you and wants to go on a date. Here, I got you a coffee.”

  Man in Australia, most likely Queensland, talking to friend:

  “Before I hit the frog and toad, you should know that that rooster is a dead ringer for your mate, and I’m pretty sure he’s as keen as mustard and is gagging to have a crack. Here, wrap your laughing gear around this.”

  You guys and gals have the ability to make me feel as though I’m better than I really am, and I fucking love it. We’re not so hot at this in the wonderful land of Oz; what we do do, however, is produce not one, not two, but three incredible-looking men that are all related and go by the name of Hemsworth.

  So thanks for the former, and you’re welcome for the latter.

  Big love,

  Celeste

  P.S. Slipping off the chair at the end of the Tom Ford make-out video—wasn’t acting.

  Pilot

  Well hello, you cheeky little saucepots. Thank you for buying my book (or thank you for acting excited when it was given to you by your sister-in-law, who probably bought it last minute while running through the airport trying not to miss family Christmas).

  I bet you’re thinking, “She’s just like me!”—except when you saw the cover and probably realized that I’ve completely got my head up my own arse. And I know for sure that my primary school tutor—let’s just call her Mrs. Fleet—is thinking, “Oh my God, if this chick can get a book deal, then anything is possible.” And you’re right, Mrs. Fleet. Anything is possible, even though you treated me like I was illiterate when we all knew I was dyslexic with ADD.

  This book is a massive deal for me, not only because the profits will help keep my gray hair under control, but because y’all have been super kind and supportive of me and my stuff, and buying this book is a part of that. (No, you shut up; you’re getting emotional i
n the intro.)

  The closest I ever got to writing a book was at primary school, when most recesses and lunchtimes were spent writing lines: “I will not talk back to the teacher. I will not talk back to the teacher.” And I filled up those pages pretty quickly. So I’m hoping this will be pretty similar.

  I love writing. Even though I’m no wordsmith, I spell and read words phonetically, and autocorrect can’t fix or find replacements for 98 percent of what I write. I’ve always enjoyed expressing myself with a pen and paper. That was until I started writing this book, and now I’m so fucking stressed that I want to go and scream into a pillow. But how good is the cover, right?!

  Now, for those of you thinking, “Oh God, I just spent actual money on a book by a girl who is only good at taking inappropriate unflattering photos of herself”—never fear! I’m going to tackle a lot of big issues in this book, from how rich Bill Gates really is to why laser hair removal is more effective on dark hair than on fair hair.1 Here are five reasons why buying this book was a good idea:

  You went into a bookshop to get it—yay! Everyone wants to fuck someone who pretends to be smart. Or if you got it online, you can just click straight back over to Pornhub2 after purchasing it and get your fix there—whatever blows your hair back.

  If you hate it, you can totally regift it to a middle-aged woman named Beverly—they seem to think I’m pretty cool.

  By purchasing this book, you have helped me buy school shoes for my kids. They say thank you for that.

  People will think you’re a feminist, and everyone loves a feminist. Just ask Germaine Greer.

  If Brandi Glanville (google her, she’ll love it) can write a New York Times bestseller, then so can I.

  1 That’s a lie. I don’t discuss Bill Gates or hair removal once in this book; I was lying to make you laugh. Please get used to it, because I do it a fair bit in the pages that follow. I have a real desire to make people laugh, no matter what the cost. I’m seeing someone about it.

  2 This book has in no way been funded by Pornhub, nor do the nice people at Amazon Publishing have any affiliation with Pornhub (to my knowledge). It was just a joke. A joke that I’m now having to explain. And we all know, those are the best kind. And here’s a neat drinking game, which you can play while you’re reading. Every time you read the word “emoji” you need to drink. This is also the case for the words “and,” “the,” “#hothusband,” and “cervix.” CUT LOOSE.

  The One Where I Thought I Would Flip Inside Out

  I’ve never really known how people start books, especially memoirs. And especially not one by someone who is thirty-six, which is kind of weird considering I haven’t even started my second and chosen career as the new and slightly less busty Michelle Visage. So I thought I’d just jump straight in with one of my favorite stories. Here it is, the story about the day I met my first son and how my once-neat vagina became one big hole.

  Does anyone really plan pregnancies? I mean seriously? In my experience, they have been a bloody big surprise, and not the delivery-guy-turned-up-with-something-you-forgot-you-bought-online-weeks-earlier kind of surprise, but more of a “sorry we are out of bacon today” kind of surprise at your local café. It’s unnerving at the beginning, but you know it’s the best thing for you in the long run.

  I have four kids. I have two boys of my very own who came tearing out of me, and I inherited two girls—a package deal with my husband, Api. Sahra was two and Kyah was four when I first met them. I have been a stepmother since the age of twenty-one.

  I had my first boy in a small town on the Mid North Coast of New South Wales. Api had bought a house there after his first daughter was born, and when I found out I was pregnant, I moved up there with him. For those of you playing at home, who have no idea where the hell I’m talking about, the Mid North Coast is an area on the east coast of Australia about forty-five minutes south of hygiene and approximately one hour twenty minutes north of where all forms of inspiration go to die! Imagine Paris, take away the culture, the art, the amazing food, the bustling metropolis, and the traffic, and then add trees, a beach, teen mums, two preteen stepdaughters, narrow-mindedness, and a Woolies and you’re there! (Woolies, think Whole Foods without the deli section.)

  There was nothing to do on the Mid North Coast. Nothing. This is the appeal for a lot of people, but I ain’t one of those people. I had to do something to stay occupied. I was living in the middle of nowhere, pregnant and raising two girls; my hormones were on a roller coaster; and I needed to focus on something to avoid the temptation to pack my shit up and waddle as far as possible away from my situation. So, I decided to not only be pregnant—I was going to throw myself so far into this pregnancy that I would be too busy to do anything other than create life, goddamn it!

  I enrolled us into a Calmbirth course, and we quickly became one of those couples who acted as though we had invented childbirth. Calmbirth is similar to HypnoBirthing and Active Birth, and it is fantastic. It’s a childbirth education program that prepares future parents mentally, emotionally, and physically.

  Calmbirth is all about focusing in on yourself and your partner during the birth, and experiencing the labor for what it is—as opposed to being scared and thinking you need someone else or any intervention. It liberates you to trust and back yourself. I think Beyoncé created it.

  I knew my body could do what was needed in birthing a baby, but it was my overactive mind that I feared would sabotage me. I wanted as natural a birth as possible, but I wasn’t as free-spirited as I needed to be to facilitate this. When my midwife asked me what sort of birth I wanted, I said: “Ideally, I’d like to have a baby in a rain forest, and by ‘rain forest,’ I mean ‘a place where no drugs are needed and everything is done naturally and in harmony with the surrounding trees and possums,’ but the rain forest will need to be heated, with the quiet hum of traffic outside and the smell of culture. Along with this, I’ll need an express door to an operating room full of drugs and all the numbing cream in the world if I change my mind, ’K?”

  The closest hospital, where I had all my appointments, was a tiny place in a nearby town that had no drugs, no heated floors, very few possums, and definitely no doors leading to operating rooms. It was just a birthing “rain forest”: a cold birthing rain forest. And no one wants a cold rain forest. No one. But because of my heart history—now if that isn’t a reason to keep reading, I don’t know what is!—the doctors were worried that with all the strain on my heart during the labor it could totally explode (this is the official medical-speak). So I was classified as high risk and wasn’t allowed to birth at the Rain Forest Hospital. I had to go to the bigger hospital, Drugs Hospital, where they had A-grade morphine and some street-level shit on standby.

  The Drugs Hospital was an hour away, so our plan was that we would do all the appointments leading up to the birth at Rain Forest Hospital, and I would do all the tearing and screaming at Drugs Hospital.

  I woke up on the morning that my son was due, and I was in labor. We did all the walking around, pregnancy yoga, eating chili, Api wanting sex, and me looking at him with murder in my eyes that is suggested when trying to bring on labor. Api went for a much-needed ceremonial surf, and my mum rubbed my back. All standard “I think I’m in labor” activities.

  After a day of “holy shit, can I really do this?” we made our way to Rain Forest Hospital. I needed to get checked to see if I was actually in labor or just experiencing gas (wouldn’t be the first time I thought I was in labor but it was just a bad bean burrito repeating on me).

  Like I said, Rain Forest Hospital was cold and quiet. I hate cold and quiet. Cold and quiet doesn’t calm me down—it freaks me out. Warm and vibrant is what I am looking for when planning a thirtieth birthday or wanting to birth a human. I feel comfort when I know there are things going on around me. I like busy places; I find it easier to relax and “go into myself.” No number of lavender candles can relax me like fluorescent lighting and powder-blue gowns and the screams of “IT’
S TIME TO PUSH!” coming from the adjoining birthing suites.

  Brenda, the midwife at Rain Forest Hospital, sucked. I was in pain, scared, and fucking cold, and she wasn’t having any of it. I know I’m not the first person to birth a child and that I didn’t invent labor—this is something that we all know was created by Tina Knowles, Beyoncé’s mum—but I was scared and was hoping for some comfort and understanding and a possible cup of tea with milk and honey on the side. #labordiva. She couldn’t have cared less.

  As soon as I arrived she asked if I had had “a show.” I went straight into my default setting when I’m uncomfortable and started with some basic gags. Api knew what I was up to straightaway.

  Me: Well, depends on what kind of show you’re referring to.

  Nurse: What?

  Api: Oh God.

  Me: Well, I’ve had a number of shows.

  Nurse: Pardon?

  Api: Please stop.

  Me: I’ve had sold-out shows and critically acclaimed shows, so I’ll need you to be a little more specific.

  Api: I hate you.

  Nurse: Has a big chunk of mucus come out in your undies? A mucus plug? A SHOW?

  Me: Oh . . . no.

  Nurse: OK, well, I need to examine you to see if you really are in labor.

  Me: I’m pretty sure I’m—

  And with that she jammed two gloved fingers deep inside me. She retracted them; presented her fingers to me covered in my dignity, self-esteem, and what looked like an oyster; and declared, “There’s your show.” With that she walked out and closed the door behind her.

  I looked at Api, and before I could even tell him to “get me the fuck out of here,” he was already packing up my stuff. He helped me off the bed and begged me never to do gags in a hospital ever again, to which I declared, “I can’t make those kinds of promises, mate. I was just fisted by a woman named Brenda.”

  We went home, where my mum was pacing, picked up our bags, and made our way to Drugs Hospital. It was a 353,837-hour drive to Drugs Hospital, and everything was Api’s fault. The back seat wasn’t big enough, Api’s fault. My contractions hurt, Api’s fault. I was pregnant, Api’s fault. The crisis in Syria? Api’s. Fault.

 
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