September 30, 2015

Ageing: Are You Ready To Finish Your Slice?

Sometimes when I am pottering around my house I interview myself. Some people would call that 'talking to themselves' but it's far more formal than that. I pose myself questions, think about them, and then carefully articulate my answers.

If that makes me weird, well, wait till you hear about my faux cooking-show demonstrations.

The other day, during one of my probing interviews, I asked myself how I feel about ageing. After all, if I was a celebrity I would get asked that question all the time. Any female celebrity over the age of 30 is asked how she feels about getting older. Male celebrities aren't asked until they hit 50, but hey, I've interviewed myself about gender inequality many times and it's really not at all surprising.

So how do I feel about ageing?

cake: a metaphor

Well, I'm glad I asked.

At 46, the physical stuff doesn't bother me too much. Yes, I have wrinkles, blah blah blah. Yes, I have stretch marks, blah blah blah. But what do you expect at this age? Quite frankly, I get more upset about my occasional pimples than I do about the Visible Signs of Ageing.

And yes, I feel more Comfortable in Myself now than I ever did as a younger person. That all is true. I feel much more me than I did as a younger person. I am more confident, less concerned with what other people think. I know how I want to live my life, and am making that life happen.

But you know what I don't like?

I don't like the fact that time is running out. I don't like the fact that I am half way through my life. I feel keenly the sense that my years left on earth are limited. I know that we all have limited lifespans. I know that a twenty year old isn't going to live forever either. But I didn't feel my mortality at 20. I didn't even feel my mortality at 30. It hit me for the first time at the age of 45, and I suspect it will get stronger with each passing year.

I know it's not fair to feel this way. I have lived 46 years already, and many of them well. I am like a child with only half a slice of cake left, resenting the other kids who haven't started theirs yet. We all get our slice, I am halfway through mine, and I mustn't be greedy.

But I am. I want more cake. I like eating it and I don't want it to be over anytime soon. Or even in another 46 years.

I've interviewed myself, and now it's over to you. How do you feel about ageing? Will you ever be ready to finish your slice?

September 16, 2015

Look! You can totally be a perfect parent! Just follow these easy guidelines! (sponsored)

There is SO much pressure to be a perfect mother….. but happily, it seems that things are changing. Recent research by Ski D’Lite found that only half of Australian mothers now try to be perfect parents, with the rest of us settling for ‘good enough’. It seems like ‘practically perfect’ is the new idea.

And this is awesome. We shouldn't aim for perfection. So why are half of all women still trying to get there?

I don’t at all understand the term ‘perfect mother’. It has never made any sort of sense to me. Being a mother is not a task that can be performed to perfection; it is a relationship between two people, a parent and a child. And no relationship can be perfect, because no person is perfect. There is no such things as a perfect child, and certainly no such thing as a perfect adult, so how can there possibly be the perfect relationship?

To be ‘perfect’ at motherhood makes as much sense as being ‘perfect’ at any other type of relationship. We can’t be perfect at friendship or perfect at love. It is impossible. And it shouldn't even be a goal.

What’s more, it doesn't need to be. We don’t choose our friends because they are perfect at friendship, we choose them because we love them even with their flaws. And we don’t love our partners because they are perfect, we love them because they are perfect for us.

We don’t need to be perfect parents for our kids to love us, nor do we need to be perfect for our kids to thrive.

But we can still be ‘perfect’ at many important aspects of mothering. And when you go through the checklist, you’ll be surprised at how many you get right.

This is totally me. You can't see it but I am holding the selfie stick in my teeth.

For example:

1.       Birthing: A perfect birth is one which results in all four limbs and the head of the baby being expelled from the mother’s body by the end of the birthing process. The birth may involve pain relief, water, a surgeon, a midwife, meditation, chanting, or pretty much whatever the hell you want as long as you get the baby out.

2.       Feeding your infant: Perfect feeding occurs when the infant ingests nutrition by some means. This can involve a breast, a bottle, an eye dropper, a drip, or a fairy princess with a magic cup.

3.       Feeding your older child: A perfect meal for an older child includes food that will stop them from feeling hungry. Whilst ‘healthy’ food is ideal, and organic food is lovely and all that, it is not required for every meal, and ‘food’ can include juice, meats, Vegemite sandwiches, plain noodles… anything that has calories, really.

4.       Teaching your child to sleep: A child has been correctly taught to sleep if they spend periods of each night unconscious.

5.       Potty Training: A child has been perfectly potty trained if they learn to use the toilet some time before their twelfth birthday.

6.       Dressing your child: A perfect outfit includes clothes that more or less keep the child warm/cool/protected from the elements. Style, colour, and co-ordination are utterly irrelevant.

7.       Cuddling your child: Any cuddle is a perfect cuddle.

Check out the video below... it is seriously gorgeous and a huge relief to imperfectly perfect parents like me.

This post is sponsored by Ski D’Lite yoghurt, which I buy all the time for the kids because it is delicious, now has 25% less sugar, and doesn't require cooking, spreading or dicing into small pieces. Perfect.

September 10, 2015

My Secret Life as Candid Admission

Yesterday on Channel 7 I was outed as a high class escort named Candid Admission. It was a busy day for me. I had waved my kids off to the bus stop in my flannel PJ's and singlet top before dashing out to the supermarket to stock up on groceries and sex toys, and then changing into my leather crop top with metal zip detail and gold hotpants for a few hours work at the brothel. You can imagine how exhausted I was by the time I got to the studio for my Big Reveal. My cab ride took longer than expected because we did a contra deal, so I didn't even have time to change my clothes. Luckily, I was only filmed from the mid torso up so you can't see my hotpants and thigh high fishnets under the table.

The response to my disclosure was incredibly positive. My mother was very proud, telling me she just wished that my dear grandmother Pussy Yum Yum was still alive to watch my triumph. The kids' school asked me to come in and talk to the Year 12's at Careers Day. And my LinkedIn account was flooded with requests to connect on a professional level.

And it was a true relief to get it off my chest and to finally live my truth. Kerri is a lie. Candid Admission has no lies. I am ready to go out into the world and be Candid. One chapter of my life has closed, but a new chapter is beginning. 

As for the escort work making me a better mum, that was just a line to sell my story. Naps and earplugs and a nightly gin and tonic make me a better mum. But you already knew that.

Disclaimer: I am not really an escort. I was discussing the escort Samantha X on The Daily Edition when this caption came up. Still, it's nice to know I have career options.....

August 25, 2015

Dr Sexville Is In. Today: What is up with foot fetishes?

Dear Dr Sexville*,

What is up with foot fetishes? How did that become a thing?

Dear Toey,

When I was 15, I dated a boy who had a foot fetish. Except that I didn't actually 'date' him, I pashed him a few times at the pub (where I shouldn't have been, because I was underage, so let's just say I was 18.) Oh, and except that he didn't call it a foot fetish, because he was only 16 (or 18, if we're still at the pub); he called it a 'foot fallacy'. Clearly, he was either not very well read, or he was prone to constructing elaborate, invalid arguments in which feet played a key role in the flawed logic. But I digress...

The point is, he liked to play with my feet when we kissed. Which means that foot fetishes have been around since at least my teens, which was approximately 70 billion years ago.

Fetishes occur when a persona becomes sexually aroused by any thing or body part that is not specifically genital, like feet, earlobes, bunny costumes, or a really clean living room floor. And fetishes are very common, even if the object of the fetish is not. There are fetishes for elbows, morbid obesity, the Eiffel Tower, even harpsichords. All of the men I've dated have all had fetishes, for objects as diverse as Lamborghinis, Porsches, Ferraris, and Honda motorbikes.

Foot fetishes, or podophilia, are the most common type of fetish, and they can be excellent fun. I slept with a man once who liked sucking my toes, using 'once' in the sense of 'many, many times' and 'toes' in the sense of 'yes, I mean toes' and it was thoroughly enjoyable.

The only thing to remember about foot fetishes is that, like other objects to be sexually enjoyed, they are best experienced clean. So if there's a chance your partner will be want to get dirty with your feet, perhaps a little wash with some nice peppermint foot scrub followed by a pumice and some soothing cocoa butter moisturizer wouldn't go astray. Unless your partner is a purist, and likes that straight-out-of-the-shoe smell, in which case rip off those socks and get into it.

And remember, a foot fallacy is something completely different. But we can talk about that another time.

Dr Sexville

*Note: I am not an actual doctor, though I have performed the occasional minor self surgery, only once with catastrophic results

Leave your questions for Dr Sexville in the comments, or send to

August 24, 2015

why no-one will ever truly know you... but that's okay

The other day, I was imagining a scenario in which a mad scientist took my consciousness out my mind, and then offered me several different minds from which to I had to identify my own. (It was late. I'd been drinking. Just go with me here....)

Of course, I'd be able to pick my mind immediately. Any of us would be able to pick our own minds. We would recognise our minds by our thoughts, fears and desires. Your thoughts would look very different to mine, or my mother's, or my friend Mandy's, or my cat's.

Which demonstrates to me that we all know who we are. We may not be able to clearly articulate who we are, because defining our own uniqueness in language is remarkably difficult. But we do, at a very profound level, know ourselves, far more than we may believe.

cristy johnson 'thinking too much'

But how well can other people ever know us?

We define ourselves by our thoughts. Sure, you may be a 'mother' or 'father', a 'son' or 'daughter', a 'writer' or 'accountant' or 'stay at home mum' or 'surgeon', but these are all just indicators of the things you think about all day.

I am a writer, sure, but this is because a lot of my thoughts are about writing. I am a mother, definitely, because my head is filled with thoughts and memories of my kids. But, while these are easy ways to explain who I am, they don't adequately describe what I feel like inside my own head.
I am my thoughts. I am a conglomeration of the thousands of things that cross my mind all day.

"I am worried about..."
"I miss her..."
"I love him..."
"I'm so uncomfortable about...."
"I wish that..."
"I'm scared to..."
"I'm excited about..."

These thoughts are what define me. These thoughts make me who I am.

And these thoughts are the reason that no-one else in this world will ever fully know me. Because no-one else will have access to all my thoughts; others can only know me through my actions and words.

And the same goes for you. You can never be known in your entirety because no-one else can ever get into your head. Unless you walk around offering a running commentary into your most private thoughts - in which case other people will most likely judge you to be psychotic - you can never be fully known by another.

And this is fine. It is how it is. But we need to remember that - just like no-one else will fully know us - we can never fully know another. Every single person you know has endless thoughts. They have a secret inner world that matches up only to a degree with the outside persona to which you are privy. And being aware of that reminds us that no-one is better than another, or more valuable, or more worthy.

We are all just thoughts. We are all just minds.

And my mind was clearly feeling a bit profound the other day. Right now, it wants to stop thinking altogether and take a bath.

August 17, 2015

The Seven (Eight?) Steps of An Internet Date

Note: This is not a manual. This is my personal experience. This is probably why I am still single. I know, I know...... 

Stage One

Receive kiss/smile/nudge/message/swipe from person on Internet Dating site. Think, "Oh, he's cute! Thank god! There are still cute people left in my age group!" Respond positively.

Note: If the person is repulsive, terminate here.

Stage Two

Begin messaging the person. Think, "Oh, he's funny and can spell! Thank god! There are still funny people left on the internet who can spell!" Casually ask what the person's job is to check he is not in jail, unemployed or a real estate agent. Breathe sigh of relief. Casually how long the person has been separated/divorced/widowed/single to check he is not married, 'separated but still living together', 'looking for some threesome fun' or needing solace after the sudden death of his wife last week. Breathe sigh of relief.

Note: If the person is illiterate, married, grieving or a real estate agent, terminate here.

Stage Three

Exchange real names. Immediately Google the person to check they are, indeed, who they say they are. When LinkedIn profile matches Internet Dating profile, breathe a sigh of relief.

Note: If the person does not actually exist on the internet, terminate here. Everyone who is a real person has some kind of online footprint. I mean, some people actually don't, but they are to be approached with the utmost suspicion and caution and I ain't got time for that.

Stage Four

Exchange phone numbers. Add person's name to phone with helpful reference details such as 'Phil the Accountant from RSVP', 'Mark the Podiatrist from eHarmony' or 'Simon the Hottie from Tinder'. Commence texting.

Note: You probably wouldn't really save 'Simon the Hottie from Tinder' in your phone as he probably won't be around for long, but I'm trying to be comprehensive here.

Stage Five

Exchange witty texts for a couple of days. Forward the choicest texts to your best friend with captions such as 'He's so funny!' and 'He's so clever!' and 'Look how cute he looks holding a wombat!'

Note: If he can't spell for shit, is boring, or doesn't respond to your texts within an hour, terminate here.

Stage Six

Speak on the phone.

Note: If he sounds like something out of Kingswood Country, if there are massive, awkward silences, or if he has a higher voice than you, terminate here. 

Stage Seven


Note: If he looks twenty years older than his pictures, if he is six inches shorter than specified, if he is obnoxious/rude to waitstaff/boring/arrogant/disinterested in you, if he has no sense of humour, if he doesn't get your humour, if he cries when talking about his ex, if he becomes purple with rage when talking about his ex, if he doesn't ask you anything about yourself, if he talks excitedly about your future babies, if he proselytizes about God/clean eating/manifesting your own truth, or if he simply does not resonate with you for whatever reason, terminate here.

Stage Eight

Fucked if I know. I guess you meet again?

August 3, 2015


I love eating out in cafes. I love the coffee, the food, the atmosphere, and the delight the wait staff take in attending to my every need.

Today, however, my lunch time experience was disappointing, to say the least. And, as I am not in the mood to say the least, I will say the most, which was that it was unpleasant, uncomfortable, and, frankly, a little terrifying.

I arrived at the cafe before my friend, Lana, who had asked me to pre-order her a coffee. Sadly, by the time she arrived the waiter had not taken my coffee order, so she joked goodnaturedly with him about the fact that I had let her down.

The waiter didn't get her humour at all, and wandered off in a state of confusion, which I cannot condemn, because Lana's humour can be hard to understand.

I snapped this pic of our waitress mid-stare

But then he took our order, which included a baguette (for me) and poched eggs for Lana. Yes, the menu said 'poched' eggs. Which is fine, really, because I can forgive a typo. A poched egg is an egg by any other name. Except that when Lana ordered her poached eggs, and I muttered 'poched' under my breath, the waiter looked monumentally unimpressed. Perhaps he simply believed the scrambled eggs were a better choice, but either way, it was a loveless moment.

Still, the worst was yet to come. Because when my baguette arrived it was the size of a newborn - like, a proper newborn human, not one of those minuscule newborn kangaroos that look like jelly beans for the first weeks of their lives. Lana's eggs, however, were teeny tiny. I mean, the eggs were regular size - not, like, newborn kangaroo size - but they were perched on one piece on toast, and it was a pretty fucking small piece of toast at that. Seriously. That toast could not have fit a newborn human's handprint, let alone filled an adult sized human's stomach.

So, having a horror for unfairness and adversity, I beckoned to the waiter.

"Can she have another piece of toast?" I asked. "That one is teeny tiny."

Well, he looked shocked. Truly. I might as well have asked him for newborn kangaroo on a plate of mashed yeast. There were some disapproving looks, some rustling in the kitchen, and then a waitress who we had never seen before flounced out, dropped the toast on the table, and issued Lana with a death stare capable of freezing full sized mammals of all description in their tracks and shattering them to pieces. It was like looking into the eyes of a psycho killer. There was just blackness there. Dark pools of anger and revenge.

Lana did not finish her toast. She was too frightened. I finished my baguette, because no mere confrontation with a murderous waitress can dampen my appetite. And, to be honest, it was a delicious baguette. Much, much better than the poched eggs.

All in all, it was an unsettling experience, and I am still recovering. As for Lana, well, the food poisoning hasn't kicked in yet, but we are monitoring her progress by the hour.

Have you ever had a bad restaurant experience? And would you eat poched kanga on rye?

Like it? Share it!