Книга - Challenge Accepted!: 253 Steps to Becoming an Anti-It Girl

Challenge Accepted!: 253 Steps to Becoming an Anti-It Girl
Celeste Barber


‘Prepare to laugh’ – Reese Witherspoon253 steps to becoming an anti-it girl.Funny woman, Instagram star and international comedy sensation, Celeste Barber’s Challenge Accepted! is a raucous, hilarious and outspoken guide to life, unwanted gas and how to rock a sexy scar.Part-memoir, part-comedy routine, part-advice manual, Challenge Accepted! is Celeste at her best, revealing her secrets to love, friendship, family and marriage (oh hai, #hothusband), and how to deal with life’s many challenges – why she checks the bath for sharks, how Nutella quite literally shaped who she is as a woman, and why being famous on Instagram is like being rich in Monopoly. It’s real, like totally, really real.













Copyright (#ulink_23cedd0d-2a94-5558-b0f8-fc44d98a2c90)

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Australia by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited 2018

First published in the UK by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

FIRST EDITION



Text © Celeste Barber 2018

Cover design by Mark Campbell © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Cover photograph © Corrie Bond, Vivien’s Creative

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

Celeste Barber asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Find out about HarperCollins and the environment at www.harpercollins.co.uk/green (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk/green)

Source ISBN: 9780008327255

Ebook Edition © September 2018 ISBN: 9780008327262

Version 2018-09-13


Dedication (#ulink_2e3e2a92-43df-57e8-b9b6-5c681096db34)

For JoJo, Mark and Nic.

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







YASS, CONTENTS!

@ritaora


The One With All the Content

Cover (#ue67fde51-6fa8-51c9-ac8b-ff76bb9f9c1f)

Title Page (#uc3b9366f-a8a4-5f2f-bebd-518161662a47)

Copyright (#ulink_9382103b-0abc-579a-b107-02385ddda4d8)

Dedication (#ulink_acea1959-a59d-5756-8b64-71e732317cb3)

Pilot (#ulink_95c25ae8-7d5e-5d61-9ad2-8a4bb1895b4a)

The One Where I Thought I Would Flip Inside Out (#ulink_aebc7764-7687-5b17-9c91-6909b0e030a5)

The One Where I Discovered Ritalin, My Childhood (Not So) Imaginary Friend (#ulink_d19be339-fe43-5aa6-bdc4-9d50de7ee295)

The One About My Dad

The One Where I Danced a Lot

The One With the Gross Man

The One About My Fake Brother, Michael

The One Where I Was Bullied at School, I Think

Dear Wine

The One About Falling in Love With Comedy

The One About Surviving Drama School

The One With the Other Gross Man

The One About Sparky

The One About Thomas

The One With #hothusband

Dear LGBTQI Community

The One Where My Heart Was Cut Open

The One About My Breasts

The One About My Mum

The One About Jo and How I Got in Trouble at Yoga

The One Where I Discovered Being Famous on Instagram is Like Being Rich in Monopoly

The One Where I Went to America

Dear Hangover

The One When Harry Met Celeste

The One Where I Became an #accidental(role)model

The One About Loving Our Bodies #bopo

The One With the Totally Authentic 100% Genuine 28-Day Guide to Being Hangry

The One Where I Explain Why I Don’t Hate Hot People

The One No One Cares About

The One Where I Became an Anti-influencer

The Last One Part 1

The Last One Part 2

Dear Parents

Endnotes

About the Publisher


Pilot (#ulink_368b254a-50c4-5127-b3d5-1181f8204a7d)

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 realised 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 grey 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 in 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 per cent 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.




Here are five reasons why buying this book was a good idea:



1. 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 Pornhub


after purchasing it and get your fix there – whatever blows your hair back.



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



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



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



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






What a magical experience.

@ciara

@bondsaus


The One Where I Thought I Would Flip Inside Out (#ulink_89d8bbae-1273-52ac-9b01-d2a221a5a60b)

I’ve never really known how people start books, especially memoirs. And especially not one by someone who is 36, 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 favourite 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 as 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 21.

I had my first boy, Lou, 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 45 minutes south of hygiene and approximately 1 hour 20 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 pre-teen stepdaughters, narrow-mindedness and a Woollies and you’re there!

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 rollercoaster 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, goddamm 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 programme 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 labour 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 over-active 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 rainforest, and by “rainforest” 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 rainforest will need to be heated, with the quite hum of traffic outside and the smell of culture. Along with this, I’ll need an express door to an operating theatre full of drugs and all the numbing cream in the world if I change my mind, ’K?’

The closest hospital, where I had all of 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 theatres. It was just a birthing ‘rainforest’: a cold birthing rainforest. And no one wants a cold rainforest. 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 labour it could totally explode (this is the official medical speak). So I was classified as high risk and wasn’t allowed to birth at Rainforest Hospital. I had to go to the bigger hospital, Drugs Hospital, where they had A-grade morphine and some street-level shit on standby.

Drugs Hospital was an hour away, so our plan was that we would do all the appointments leading up to the birth at Rainforest 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 labour. We did all the walking around, pregnancy yoga, eating chilli, Api wanting sex (and me looking at him with murder in my eyes) that is suggested when trying to speed up the process. Api went for a much-needed ceremonial surf and my mum rubbed my back. All standard ‘I think I’m in labour’ activities.

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

Like I said, Rainforest 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 30th birthday or wanting to birth a human. I feel comfortable knowing 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 Rainforest 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 I didn’t invent labour – 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. #labourdiva. Brenda 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 labour.



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.

Once we got to Drugs Hospital it was cold and quiet. Jesus, what’s with all these cold and quiet hospitals?! We had to ring some sort of bell to get through a few doors, and as soon as we had passed through all of them and got to the birthing suite, it was like a fucking circus and I was so relieved. There were midwives rushing from room to room, men wandering around looking tired and confused, phones ringing and people talking really loudly. BAM! I was safe, I could totally do this. It still wasn’t as warm as I had hoped but I had to pick my battles – I was about to be ripped from arsehole to breakfast.

We met our midwife, Wendy, and handed her our birth plan and she was totally on board with Calmbirth and was super-supportive of us wanting a water birth. I know this because she told us, ‘I’m totally on board with Calmbirth and am super-supportive of you wanting a water birth.’ I was not missing fisty Brenda, that’s for sure. Wendy was such an advocate that she started giving Api notes on what was required of him before we even got into the birthing suite.



Wendy:OK, Dad, what Mum will need from you during this amazing process is your support, so during contractions there is to be no touching or talking to Mum, OK?



Api:OK.



Wendy:OK. And Mum, what I’ll need from you is—

I could feel another contraction coming on, I was cold and was in no mood for Wendy’s anecdotes.



Me:I’ll just stop you right there, Wendy, I know what is needed from me, and that’s a goddamned human to be vag-shat out of me, so please GIVE ME SOME SPACE!

Contraction over. Possible lifelong friendship with Wendy in jeopardy.

After another couple of contractions in the same vein, Wendy had to leave us for a while and tend a ward full of 15-year-olds who were also crowning. This was good. It gave Api and me a chance to be together and do what we needed to do, i.e. him sleep and me walk around the room like an elephant with something to prove.

Over the next five hours I was walking, I was yelling, I was screaming, I was bouncing on the birthing ball, I was kicking the ball, I was in the shower, I was out of the shower, I broke the shower, I was back on the ball, and Api slept. Wendy had come back in a few times to check on me with the phone jammed between her ear and shoulder fielding calls from expectant teenage mothers. Turns out the Mid North Coast is a busy place for damaged hymens and ripening cervixes.

After seven hours of contracting, Wendy came back in and I. Was. DONE.



Me:Wendy, I can’t do this.



Wendy:It sounds like you’re transitioning, love?



Me:What are you talking about?



Wendy:When it’s getting closer to the time to push, most woman say they can’t do it, but you can, you can, love.



Me:Look, I understand that, I know that people say that they can’t do it but they can and they are just scared, but you need to understand that I can’t do it! So you need to pack your shit up, Wendy, we are going home. API, WAKE UP, WE’RE OUT!

Turns out Wendy was right, funny that. I was actually in transition and about to meet my baby. Shit! This gave me no comfort at all. I knew that I was too far along to make the most of the hospital’s drug stash and I quickly realised that the only way I was going to get this baby from the inside to the outside was by way of vaginal exorcism.

I wish I could say that the thought of holding my baby in my arms cancelled out any fear I was feeling and instead gave me strength to soldier on, confident and empowered, but it didn’t. I was petrified of the pain, the imminent burning ring of fire and the possibility that I might push so hard that my arse would explode!

Wendy asked me to get on the bed so she could see how dilated I was. I quietly and considerately kicked Api to wake him the fuck up so I might be able to have a woman fist me for the second time that day. And yep, she was right, I was eight centimetres and ready to get into that lukewarm bath and start tearing.

Wendy ran the bath, Api walked around a little dazed – but to be fair no one wakes up well from an afternoon sleep – and I tried to run out the door.

I got into the bath and nothing changed. I thought that all my troubles would wash away when I got into that water, because that’s what the women in the birthing videos tell you. Then there’s the women who manage to orgasm during labour. Fuck those women. The water did nothing. I was still in pain, just as uncomfortable, and now I was wet, and not in the way that the orgasm ladies were wet.

My water hadn’t broken yet and I was starting to freak out. The bath was in the corner of the bathroom and it had a red cord that hung above the centre of it in case there was an emergency. It was there to pull on to alert the authorities, then the cast of Grey’s Anatomy would come running.

Wendy had yet again run out to tend to other cervixes, and I got a crazy amount of pressure in the areas where one would expect to experience crazy amounts of pressure during the transitioning stages of labour.

Holy shit, he’s coming, my baby is about to tear out of me without me needing to push! Jesus, were those rumours that the school bitches made up about me being ‘loose’ right?!?!

Then came this almighty surge. ‘Holy shit!’ I screamed at Api. ‘Get her, get Wendy, he’s coming, the baby is coming!’

With that Api jumped up and yanked on the red cord above the bath so hard he pulled the goddamned thing out of the roof. While he was trying to untangle the cord from around his perfect face, I realised that it wasn’t in fact my baby coming out, it was my water breaking. YES! I’m not loose – suck a fart, Year 8 bitches.

After my water broke, Wendy came back in to check on Api and I made it my mission to get as comfortable as possible. Trusty Wendy was there to suggest some positions.



Wendy:Try crouching.



Me:No.



Wendy:Sitting back with your legs rested up on the sides of the bath?



Me:No.



Wendy:Some women like to lie on their side, propping themselves up with their elbow, and their partner holds their top leg in the air, like a scissor kick.



Me:No. Please don’t say ‘scissor kick’.



Wendy:OK, let’s get you on all fours.



Api:Hehe, that’s what got us into this.



Me:ARE YOU SERIOUS?



Api:Sorry, I was just trying to lighten the mood.



Me:Come here and let me cut your dick off, that will lighten my mood!

So I got on all fours and bit the metal on the side of the bath and the pushing began. They say that you should push into your bum when having a baby and it makes you feel like you are pooing.

Well, Wendy had this covered. I was 45 minutes into pushing into my bum and Wendy, my Wendy, leant over and said how important it was for me to really focus on pushing like I was pooing.



Wendy:We’re nearly there, we really are.



Me:FUCKING ARSE TIT PRICK POO AND MUTHA FUCKING BALLS!!



Wendy:You’re doing so well, Mum.



ME:AAARRRGGGHHH!!!!



Wendy:Now, just keep focusing on pushing into your bum. I don’t want you to worry if you do a little poo, as I have a poop scoop.

With this she presented a poop scoop shaped like a ladle and showed it off proudly, much as Mufasa did with Simba in The Lion King. She put it next to my face, she showed it to Api and then just for added value showed it to me one more time.

This was all going on while I was mid-contraction. I turned around – well, my head turned 180 degrees and the rest of my body didn’t move. I glared at her with bloodshot eyes and snarled through gritted teeth: ‘I’m not interested in the poop scoop, Wendy. I don’t care if I shit on your face. Just. Get. Him. Out.’

Api was scared, the trainee midwife standing in the corner staring at my shirtless #hothusband in the bath was scared, I even scared myself. But Wendy didn’t flinch. She didn’t take her eyes off me as she slowly put the poop scoop down. I think if she could have she would have told me to shut the fuck up and know my place, but as she was a professional she let it slide. Wendy and Celeste BFF status was back on track.

An hour into pushing, Wendy said they needed to monitor my heart, as they didn’t want it to be straining for too long. Turns out that being in active labour for eight hours is fine but once you hit that eight hours and five minutes mark then people start to panic.

It was around this time that the burning ring of fire was really in full flight and Wendy could feel the top of my baby’s head. GROSS! She asked if I wanted to reach down between my legs and feel his head so I could be a part of this moment.

A PART OF THIS MOMENT? I am this moment. Without me there’s no baby head, there’s no #hothusband flexing in the bath and there’s no poop scoop. THERE IS NO FUCKING MOMENT! But I get FOMO real bad and I didn’t want to feel like I was being left out of my son’s birth, so I reached down and it was as gross as I had expected. It was gooey and hairy and fucking weird.

I gave myself a ‘hands where I can see them’ rule and continued grunting.

With another massive push, his head tore out. I was on all fours so I couldn’t see him, but Api could, and he said our son looked exactly like him and immediately started to cry. I was like a cat trying to get comfortable on a leather couch in an attempt to bend around and see my baby, but as the rest of his body was still inside my body I wasn’t as agile as I would have hoped. So I just had to trust Api.

A little birthing-in-the-water trivia: babies can stay underwater for ages before they need to draw their first breath, and it’s the atmosphere around them that pushes oxygen into their lungs. So when my son stayed immersed in water for a full minute between me pushing his head out (gross) and the next contraction when his body came flying out, and I was screaming, thinking he was drowning, it turns out he was fine.

When the rest of him came shooting out, I caught him, held him on my chest, rearranged the umbilical cord that was conveniently wrapped around my thigh, and never let him go.

We named him Lou.

I now have two beautiful boys, Lou and Buddy. They are by far the best thing that has ever happened to me, second to that time I met Sporty Spice.






The only five minutes Buddy (18 months here) slept in the first two years of his life.






Lou (age two) constantly reinventing the use of props.






If it all gets too hard, just hang your head out the window and scream!

@jessicasimpson





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