Rebel Jones
Life On The Rocks
The world is full of questionable standards. And I know this because:
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A) I question them, and
B) I set them (badly, but with commitment!)
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Which is probably why I am, unapologetically, that person.
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Yes, if you could pour midlife into one of those all-American Coke floats (you know, the ones - fun in theory but mostly leave you with brain freeze and regret), add a splash of sarcasm, and leave it slightly unattended… that’s me. Bubbling with equal parts “What the heck did I just see?” and “No need to judge me – I’ve already done that 20 times today.”
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Some might call it the by-product of neurotic spikes. ​But I prefer to think of myself as a walking, talking duffle bag of irony, only slightly less confident in my life choices.
(I was going to say almost 'Fairy Godmother-esk', but I’m less of the glass toe-cruncher type and more “Let’s spike the neighbour’s coffee with laxatives for shi… well, giggles", and then forget which cup is mine! Basically, if there’s a way to turn midlife chaos into an accidental hobby, I’ve probably done it.)​​​​​
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This space, which started as me shouting into the void a few years ago, has since dropped anchor (slightly crooked, tangled in old seaweed, but somehow holding fast!) And somewhere along the way, it became (I hope) a reassuring harbour for anyone who’s ever looked in the mirror and thought: “Is this it?”
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​FYI, it's not.
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And if you rifle through the tabs at the top (like the junk drawer you keep threatening to clear out), you should be able to find some emotional duct tape in:
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The Blog, which is full of inappropriate metaphors and impractical advice from someone who has absolutely no idea what she's doing
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The Book (Raising an Emotionally Charged Ostrich), because apparently, oversharing on the internet wasn’t enough for me
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The Store, which exists because caffeine and sarcasm deserve matching mugs (Note - this bit wasn’t planned, but one night, I got bored, and here we are!)
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And for anyone still unsure, no, this space isn’t polished, filtered, or tied up with a motivational bow.
It’s real life, with the rough edges left in. The kind of place where the coffee is perpetually tepid, the metaphors come with warning labels, and the vibe is more 'organised chaos in pyjamas' than 'Instagram-worthy inspiration.'
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So, please do pull up a chair. Read, laugh, ugly-cry if you need to, and know you’ve found your people in this little corner of the internet.​​
I am Rebel Jones.
And this is my life on the rocks.
Raising an Emotionally Charged Ostrich
Raising an Emotionally Charged Ostrich isn’t your average parenting book. In fact, it’s not a parenting book at all, but rather, my raw, honest, and slightly sarcastic take on what it’s really like to raise a neurodiverse child.
No fake fixes, no sugarcoating- just the highs, the lows, and all the messy bits in between.
This is my story - no filters, no apologies.
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Blog Space
The Man-Flu Chronicles: Why Women Aren’t Allowed to Be Ill (Apparently)
The husband returned home last week from a rather 'heated' destination, shall we say, both in terms of temperature and current global chaos.
Two days later, he collapsed. ​Not literally, though you’d think it by the volume of his groaning.
It all started with a throat tickle. Then came the chills, the sweats, the wobbly legs, the blocked nostrils that apparently left him seconds from death...
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