As you may or may not have seen in my niche pregnancy Instagram announcement (involving my favourite indie film Little Miss Sunshine) I have a small human boy spawning in my guts! Obviously I wanted to go full out Beyoncé for the shoot but I don’t quite have her flower budget, underwater tolerance or ethereal flowing mane. So I had my drag queen pal whip me up a lewk with some of Spotlight’s finest lycra, then got my eldest child to take the photo in the glamorous location of my tiny ensuite bathroom, and TA-DA! My version of pregnant realness.

The good news is, my body is ready. Like a pair of comfortable pants that are saggy in the right places my body has collapsed back into pregnant mode with little to no coercing. All the stretch marks are pre-stretched and primed to take their rightful place back on top of my skin, in what can only be described as ‘an intricate and detailed roadmap of an elephant’s ear’. I’m also having the exact same cravings I had when I was pregnant 18 years ago. It’s like my womb is made of memory foam. The second it’s got a baby in it, BOOM. I’m knocking back entire mugs of hot chicken stock. Yep, that’s right. Straight up, fluorescent yellow chicken stock. I tell you what, it was hard to hide that one at work – I had to pretend I was drinking some kind of Chinese medicinal herbal tea. I’m also averaging four potatoes a week, minimum. Okay, fine. Four potatoes a day. An hour. Side note: EXCUSE ME SPUD BAR, why are you not open at 8am for pregnant women? I’m a busy working mum. I need me a morning spud, OKAY?! I’m now forced to drive to a Westfield food court like some kind of criminal (because who else shops at 9:15am guys?) sit in an oversized chair with my bacon spud balancing precariously on my lap and attempt to hide my face (which is covered in sour cream and tiny pieces of bacon).

Speaking of mornings, my morning sickness has been ba-nay-nay. ‘Morning’ sickness. Pfftt. Every-waking-second sickness. I’m always nauseous, yet always hungry. What even is that?! I’m craving hamburgers as I’m vomiting up breakfast. I want a bucket in one hand, and a meatball sub in the other. At any given moment, I’ve indigestion, stomach acid burn, nausea, extreme hunger, and chronic constipation. I’m like a human volcano (except constipated… and also constantly stuffing my volcano mouth with food… okay, this analogy has really fallen apart, you guys). But no one would dare to question the amount of food I’m currently ingesting, because if anyone should look at my 7am serving of porridge, muffins, meatballs and chicken stock, I am ready to stab them with my fork while screaming “IT’S FOR THE BABY. IT’S FOR THE BABYYYYYYY”

I’ve already put on eight kilos. At one of my appointments last week (ahhhhh, the appointments. I’d forgotten the joy of having an appointment with a different medical professional every 45 minutes) I was told I needed to be weighed. Um, that’s a hard no from me, Janet. I looked her in the eye and said ‘here’s an idea. How about we skip it?’. I was willing to offer her a bribe. I was willing to give her the damn baby. She said ‘It’s okay, you don’t have to look’, to which I replied  ‘Yes, but you will know, and every time I see you, I will see the judgement in your eyes, Janet.’

On a more serious note, last night was the first night I’ve slept well since I found out I was pregnant. It was the first night I’ve breathed properly. I’ve been terrified to have any hope in this pregnancy in case I had another miscarriage – I have been so careful not to jinx it. I couldn’t bring myself to buy any maternity clothes (I’ve been doing my jeans up with a rubber band because I’m classy like that). I’ve not walked into any baby shops, I’ve held my breath when walking down the nappy aisle at IGA, and I’ve been terrified of going to sleep, in case I woke up in the middle of the night with blood on the sheets. So to the women who have gone back two, three, ten times, who have survived miscarriage after miscarriage, who have lived through this suspended state of terrifying tension more than once; you are absolute warriors. I take my hat off to you, particular to those who have written to me and told me about their experiences of multiple miscarriages and failed rounds of IVF. I am in awe of you. Your strength brings me to my knees, and I wish I could hug every one of you. 

Until last night, I hadn’t let myself think of baby names, just in case. But last night, when my wonderful OB called me (on a Sunday, because he knew exactly how stressed I was about the test results, and wanted to tell me as soon as he could) we finally sat down as a family and talked about the baby that is on it’s way. We talked properly, without knocking on wood, without not getting our hopes up. My husband and daughters even starting tossing around baby names, thinking that they actually have a say in what I name the baby. Hahahahaha. Ha. Cute. No.

We talked about him (that’s right, it’s a BOY! My eldest daughter joked that he’ll have to ‘come out’ to me as being straight, should that be his sexual preference). I honestly don’t care if he wants to put his wang in pumpkins, as long as he is happy and healthy. I mean obviously we’ll have a chat about the pumpkin thing but you know, nothing too heavy.  And for the first time, I’m letting myself get excited. I can’t wait to meet him, and place an unrealistic amount of expectations on him. I can’t wait to take him to musicals, and get pedicures together. I can’t wait to watch him play with his sisters, dominate in his chosen sport, foster his love of learning and cultivate his inevitable Disney obsession. 

I can’t wait to screw him up in my own way, like all parents get to do.

I can’t wait. I’m pregnant, bitches. Thanks for all your love and messages, and for being so excited with me. Let’s do this.

Now excuse me while I go vomit into a burrito.

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A very important wedding took place a couple months ago.

No, it was not Harry and Meghan’s wedding. I mean, sure, that was an essential social event for all of our calendars this year (shout out to Fergie in the one glove. HERO) but it was nothing, zilch, utter poppycock compared to the one I’m talking about.

My best friend Michael Lucas’s wedding, aka The Big Gay Wedding Of The Year.

There is so much I want to say about how wonderful this night was. First and foremost, because I finally got to plan my best friend’s wedding. Oh, you better believe I planned it. I was on my hands and knees at the Plaza Ballroom, scrubbing the d-floor until it shone for my rock n’ roll knee slide in my dance solo. And yes, I sang. Of course I sang. The whole room sang, when we did our scheduled group sing-along of Your Song. There was also a flash mob for the first dance of the newlyweds, and glow sticks, and rainbow cakes, and musical theatre stars in Wizard Of Oz costumes. Did I mention this was a gay wedding?

But most of all, it was special because I got to see my best friend marry the love of his life. That doesn’t happen every day. We weren’t even sure if it would happen in our lifetime, but thank fuck Australia came to their senses. My BFF got to marry his BF. And as the VIP of the entire wedding, I got to make a speech.

So here’s what I said. Make sure you picture me in a long, silver sequinned gown looking insanely hot and glamorous, because that is accurate. Here we go.

My name is Emy Rusciano, I have known Michael since we were 11 years old. 

Before Michael met Adrian we spent most of our time re-enacting pivotal Disney princess movie scenes, marvelling at Tina Knowles’ ability to get the Destiny’s child girls to wear those God awful house of Dereon costumes, and discussing the state of my marriage. I dumped on him knowing that one day, I’d be able to repay the favour.  

I imagined him coming to me, I’m of course by the pool, resplendent in a fuchsia velvet turban pulled so tight it negates the need for a 4th face lift. 

Francois my hard bodied pool boy would bring us gin and Michael would pour his heart out about his lover’s various transgressions. So when he met Adrian and it started to get serious, I sat patiently waiting for the time that I could dispense some sage, martial wisdom.. 

I’m still waiting 10 years later… 

Because Adrian and Michael NEVER fight, not ever. 

About ANYTHING. 

It’s extremely nauseating and sweet all at once. They agree on most everything, they genuinely compromise when they don’t, and they actually like one another. They share a love of elaborate costumes, Adrian tolerates Michael’s novelty t-shirt collection and Michael pretends not to care about the amount of shoes Adrian has. 

But. There has been “a” fight, and it involved Madonna being drunk at 4am, on stage at the forum, riding a tiny BMX, doing stand-up, dressed as a clown.

Let me take you there.

Rebel Heart tour, 2016. We’d waited 23 years for her return, Michael was of course signed up to the VIP Visa pre-sale and as soon as she was on sale he snapped up VIPPP, triple platinum, private pre-party, so close you could see the veins on Madge’s mighty biceps golden passes. 

We planned elaborate costumes: I was Modern Day Madonna with a look inspired by Alessandro Michele for Gucci, think sexy gypsy matador. And Adrian and Michael had valiantly and selflessly agreed to dress as my hot Spanish bull backing dancers. 

Then it was announced that she would also be performing an intimate, stripped back, acoustic show with only a limited number of tickets made available, and they were only for the true fans. 

You literally had to prove your love for Madonna by posting a picture of you partaking in said love. Michael entered and also sent the details to both Adrain and I – I think with the hope we’d also enter. But look, we were both very busy, also we knew that Michael probably had it covered. He’s the details guy in our relationship, Adrian and I are just the fabulous Italians who rely on his extreme organisation. 

Michael won 2 of the precious tickets.

Just. Two.

So he was left with the choice no gay man should ever have to make. 

HIs very own homosexual Sophie’s choice.

Real talk: I’ve not seen that movie, and I don’t actually know what Soph had to pick between, and I’m fairly sure I don’t ever want to know, but whatever it was, I can’t imagine was as bad as what Michael was facing. 

On one hand: He had Best Friend who along side of him, had worshipped Madonna since a very young age, who re-enacted the Like A Prayer film clip in her lounge room causing a small fire to break out, and who had long held the belief that Madonna was her biological mother. 

Or some Adrian-come-lately, who was his partner, love of his life blah blah blah…

Michael told me of his dilemma and I recall being extremely gracious about it. I think I said something along the lines of “I will never recover if you take Adrian and not me, I may set myself on fire”.

So you know… I was super low-key about it. 

I’m told Michael then went back to Adrian and explained how he’d already told me I could go, that he was afraid for my emotional state should he not take me and he honestly didn’t know what to do… 

To his credit, Adrian fell on his sword, and told Michael to take me. 

Michael confided in me that even though he’d passed on the ticket, things were not great. Michael felt that he’d failed their first big relationship test. 

For the first time ever they had a fight, triggered by the combination of Madonna and I.

Michael was determined for Adrian to be there, he couldn’t bear the idea of letting him down. So he managed to find another competition, one that involved writing about your love for Madonna. As you all know, that bitch can write y’all. So in the space of 24 hours he entered over 60 times, he created fake email accounts, and WON 6 more tickets. 

So Adrian flew to Melbourne and we all attended that strange, sad, exhilarating 4am Madonna show together. Adrian was friendly when he saw me after the incident, he was kind even. I can guarantee you I would not’ve been anywhere near as gracious if the situation was reversed. But Adrian cares about the people Michael loves.

You see, Adrian and Michael are a real team, they are truly devoted to each other’s happiness and celebrate each others eccentricities which is why they work. Their relationship is effortless, fabulous and enduring. 

I love how they love each other. 

To Adrian, thank you for being a willing participant in your husband and mine’s antics. You have never once made me feel unwanted and have always been very generous in sharing Michael with me. Thank you for accepting that we’re a package deal and most importantly, thank you for loving my cherished friend the way he deserves to be loved.

To Michael, you look hot bitch. You look J-Lo at the met gala, you look Whitney pre-Bobby, you look Madge circa Vogue. 

I can’t wait to legally start our lives together.

All my love,

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If you follow me on any platform then you’re aware that I collect porcelain owls, don’t believe in ‘neutral tones’ and dress like a toddler on acid. You may also be across the fact that the media (and if they’re to be believed, people I’ve worked with) have labelled me “difficult”on several occasions. Since I now have this shiny new space to completely express how I feel about certain things, I thought it was high time I address this entire situation. Because I’ve been uncharacteristically quiet on it, because I’ve been reflecting on it, and because to be completely fucking honest – I didn’t feel the need to defend myself.

Difficult?

Sure, sometimes!

So bloody what?

You see I out and out refuse to stay between the lines, and as you can imagine that fact alone makes a lot of people shit their pants. Because it’s much easier for them if I’m passive and compliant, If only I didn’t insist on defending what I’ve built up and what I believe in, if I were easier – things would run in a much smoother fashion for them.

I say ‘no’ more often than I say ‘yes’, and I imagine that fact alone would make working with me challenging at times. Trust me, saying ‘no’ when everyone just wants me to play nice is not something I seek to do. But you see, that’s why I’m good at what I do; because I care about the ideas, shows, products and projects that I put my name to. I want them to be thoughtful, funny, big, raw, heartfelt, shiny, fantastical and memorable and that requires a protective professional vigilance, a kind of show biz quality control that yes, sure, might come across as me being ‘difficult’. However I can’t help but think if I were a man they’d probably use words like “assertive”, “driven” and “ambitious”.

Why are women made to feel as though being passionate, decisive and strong are somehow undesirable characteristics? Why do we have to fight twice as hard to be heard and seen in most professional circumstances? I also find myself constantly wrestling for the right to be my version of me and not someone else’s polite, watered-down model. The other label I often get is ‘opinionated’  – like it’s a disease! How DARE I form a semi-informed thought on a topic! Oh that Em Rusciano, she needs to stop thinking the things and start shutting the hell up… What an odd thing to accuse a lady of, it will never cease to bemuse me that one.

But back to me being an impossible, heinous bitch from pirate island. I’m not an unkind person, I know that to be true. Do I have my moments? Absolutely. I’m aware I can come across as harsh and/or sarcastic at times; I’m impatient and in the past have lived by the motto: “You’re either in or you’re in the way”  – I’ve softened on that in recent years!

This idea that women like me are volatile and out of control is also false; I assure you all, I am completely in control. But am I really difficult? Nope, because no one is ever unsure of what I want and how I intend to get it. I make myself clear at all times. There’s nothing to read between the lines, because I speak my mind. I’m not difficult. I’m PRETTY FUCKING EASY truth be told! I know who I am, and I know what I stand for. I love my family and I’m a loyal and trustworthy friend. I work bloody hard and I fight for what I think is right. The other thing is, I learn new lessons about myself each day, which are rarely pleasant. I’ve so many things to work on, so many hurts to let go of. Today for example, I learned two things about myself: 1) that if someone triggers me emotionally, I then transfer that pain to the next person I see who I’m close to, so that I don’t have to sit in the pain for too long. So now I have to work on sitting in uncomfortable feelings and rolling around in them so that I don’t pass them on to someone I love. 2) I overuse the words ‘besmirch’ and ‘teensy’. That’s a whole lot of learning for a Monday morning you guys!

I’ve two daughters, one of whom is turning eighteen next year, and I feel a great sense of responsibility to help ease her path. To improve the world in which she’s heading into. To make sure she feels empowered and brave about standing up for what she believes in, and confident that her voice will be heard and not dismissed purely because she has a vagina. Anytime I feel a hint of worry that someone may not like me because I’m saying ‘no’ or asking questions – I think of her. I’m happy to take the heat out in front, and these past few months I’ve taken so much of it I’m fairly sure my bones are made of iron.

As the wonderful Hannah Gadsby says: “There is nothing stronger than a broken woman who has rebuilt herself.”

And as I say: “Women who are sure of themselves, scare the living shit out of those who are not.”

Have a great week bitches, go out there and get it.

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