Blancmange, B, Ballet and Breaking Bad.

Hello again. It's been a full week since my last confession blog post. Forgive me readers for I have sinned. You know, been slack again. About posting. Which I know doesn't matter in the slightest but still, I feel I need to act as though I am a minor celebrity by apologizing. So indulge me won't you.

It's been a busy week round these parts. More storms, hot weather, me continuing with the predominant literary trope of this blog by complaining about having no air conditioning and adding to it by weeping with frustration while I tried to put together the pedestal fans that I had taken apart to clean, kindy concerts, more freaking ballet rehearsals, a sick baby, spending money we don't have on shit we don't need. You know the drill.

I think this post might call for some dot points again. And you know how I love a good dot point.

• I've been going to bed at 8 or 8.30 nearly every night. Because I am so bloody TIRED all the time. WHY AM I SO TIRED? My kids, these days, sleep through the night. They wake pretty early but I don't think that explains my bone weariness. I never used to be able to sleep during the day but at the moment I could sleep hours away. Hours I tell you. I fall asleep lying on the floor next to B's cot. The early bedtimes have rendered me almost incapable of keeping up with blogging, housework, tv viewing. But I do feel a bit less tired. I am guessing the absence of anything much that you could call actual exercise is not helping my energy levels. If I don't action some exercise soon I will become a human blancmange.

Me, earlier today.

• Apart from being quite sick with a fever last week, B is very cute at the moment. Some examples of his cuteness include;
• he says "fuck" instead of "truck". He also says "pig" instead of "big". So when we are out and about he is often heard shouting at the top of his lungs "pig fuck! Mummy PIG FUCK!". Amusing, no?
• When he wakes up in the morning and I walk into his room, he shouts at me, whilst standing in his cot - "Get DA WATER mummy! Get DA WATER!". Which is his way of requesting a drink.
• When I take off his sleeping bag, he often says "Hello feet!" to his appendages. CUTE!
• When I say to him "Love you!" he replies "Wah Woo!".
• When he has a sore anything he says "Sore tummy! Sore tummy!". Even if it isn't his tummy. I mean what is he, like, 2? OH RIGHT!
• When he DOES bang his head on something, which happens fairly regularly, he cries and says "Bump da HEAD!"
• When I tell him it is time to get out of the bath, he tells me sternly "No! Free minutes!" which is his way of demanding three minutes more.
• He is obsessed with M mowing the lawn and comments regularly throughout the day "Lawn. Mower. Boots. Hat. Gasses" (glasses). HEEHEE.

Here is the boy in question in his kindy photo.

• We went to P's kindy concert on Friday night. She and all her pre-kindergarten cronies were up on stage singing Christmas carols. Very cute. I could hardly see her because she was hidden behind a tall kid but what I could see was her staring at all the other kids and only occasionally joining in. Some would say easily distracted, I would say DEAD SET OBSERVANT and INTERESTED IN PEOPLE!

And the girl.

• Saturday we went on a wild goose chase to some non-existent Indian supermarket to purchase some AUTHENTIC spices for M to make dhal. I mentioned to him that I thought you could get some pretty bloody authentic spices at Woolies but he was not deterred. When we weren't successful in locating the supermarket, we decided to go to a fancy pants market type place at harbourtown and had lunch at the deli there, which was very nice indeed. Fancy pants gourmet food type things are M's Achilles heel, spending wise, so we then proceeded to buy a high end panettone, some salted capers, and some baklava. We were sorely tempted by all sorts of other ridiculously priced goodies but stopped there. Frankly we should be living on tins of baked beans and cat food like pensioners do, the way we are going.



File footage of a panettone. I think this is the same brand.  Weirdly this looks a lot like our floor too. Curious.

• After our spending spree, I then had to wait around outside P's ballet rehearsal, sweating for OVER AN HOUR AND A HALF. This time I was able to see P doing her thing through a window. Whilst all the small ballerinas faced the front doing the actions, P faced sideways, mostly staring at the other girls and occasionally getting the steps in. DEAD SET OBSERVANT, SEE? PRODIGY! I think she is clearly going to be an anthropologist or life painter.
• We threw caution to the wind for a second year running and put the Xmas tree up in November. We are going away next weekend so I figured what the hey. Didn't put the outdoor lights up because I got too tired. Energy levels low. MUST EXERCISE! MUST! Here's some file footage of Christmas Past if you are interested in it. Everything looks basically the same this year except messier because I retained limited creative control of the project and outsourced it to my junior colleagues. http://slapdashmama.blogspot.com.au/2012/11/poo-of-day-festivus-for-rest-of-us.html

• Even though I have been adhering to my stringent early bedtime curfews, I did manage to stay up late enough on Saturday night to watch 4 episodes of Season 2 of Breaking Bad. SO OBSESSED WITH IT. I know I am late to the party but better late than never, as they say.

• I really miss having a proper smart phone. I am at a loss. No easy access to a photographic record of my life. Therefore no easy access to photos for this blog. And don't get me started on Instagram. I mourn it. I must do something stat.

Anyway that's a wrap.

Lalala - weekend things and stuff and Key Learnings and weather and whatnot.

Hello there peeps.

There has been some deadset doolally weather round these parts. I spent a few days up the coast at the Slapdash Family compound and there was a hum dinger of a hail storm while I was getting my hairs done at the, what I call, hairdresser. All us ladies there pressed ourselves up against the glass, robed in our capes and curlers, squealing and screeching things like "Oh me car!" and "Should we get some towels?" and "Everyone insured?".

Luckily the Noble Honda Civic that is our chariot of choice seems to have survived with the merest ding in the roof, despite veritable CRICKET BALL sized hailstones.

Then yesterday our Gracious and Tree-lined Suburb* was at the epicentre of another nutty storm that rent the kiddies daycare centre sun shades in twain and caused no end of consternation amongst eager local social media users. The magic of modern technology meant I could see a video of the hailstorm as it happened two houses away from ours, even though I was in the city at work. It's like living in the future!

Anyway the long weekend up the coast was very pleasant, as my brother, the prodigal son, had returned for a brief visit and my parents killed the fatted calf and whatnot**.

Here is evidence of said fraternal visitation.

During the visit I learnt some Key Learnings. The first of these Key Learnings was focused on my mother's dog. He is a sort of cattle dog and has been, for most of his life, rather neurotic and barky and disobedient. Push came to shove recently and Mum was forced to employ some Expert Assistance. aka Dog Whisperers.

They taught her how to show him who is boss. Apparently he had been stressed out because he thinks he is Pack Leader and frankly he is just not up to the job, being small of brain and feeble of character. So hence the manic barking and stress pooing and mentalness.

Mum had to give him what for and lay down the law and set things straight and so forth. Which, essentially, consists of sternly saying the word "BAH!" to him when he is playing up and carrying on like a pork chop. Apparently "BAH!" is a Universal Dog Sound that speaks to canines on a Profound Level and signals to them that All is Right in the world and that they are not pack leader, so they should just chill the hell out and relax and take it easy and enjoy a responsibility free lifestyle.

Weirdly enough it seems to have had a remarkable effect on the beast. So there you go.

The next, darker and more disturbing Key Learning, is as follows.
 My mother starkly revealed to me on the weekend that, even though since 1997 I have laboured under the illusion that I received the Highest Possible Mark for Senior English, thereby rendering me the Best English Student that my teacher had ever had, I did not, in fact, receive the HIghest Possible Mark and it is possible to get a Higher Mark then the mark that I got.

I know.

I basically don't even know who I am any more and have essentially been living a lie.

I had to have a good lie down after that revelation I can tell you.

Moving on from the destruction of lifelong belief systems, I had to race home from the coast in order to gussy P up in her ballet tutu and a face full of makeup for her official ballet photographs.

I am not cut out for this ballet mum caper. We still have a dress rehearsal AND a concert to go.

Not only will I need a lie down after it all but I daresay I will need a stiff drink or two by the time it is all over.

Cute though, right? Cute as a bug's ear.

In a final point for you this evening, I present an utterly hilarious and deadset clever piece of satire from the Tunnel Presents website. I've heard the person who wrote it is really good looking, nice smelling, kind, clever, generous, an excellent gardener with a high commitment to personal hygiene and permanently well styled hair. Ahem.

Good night readers. And good luck.


*and by Gracious I mean Bogan-acious
**by killing the fatted calf I mean shouted him to a bloody spensive steak at the local tavern

Upset tummy. New clothes.

I'm sorry to sound like a broken record (oh who am I kidding this stuff is my bread and butter) but I am feeling sorry for myself because M has gone away again for work and Baby B and I have had the....look this is going to sound indelicate....we have the Galloping Trots.

I feel better today than I did yesterday. Thank God for my retired father who could come and do his best to help out. Since he has a gammy knee he can't take full control of the ship but at least I had an offsider.

Also my back is still killing me.

I have decided to distract myself by telling you in minute detail about all the new clothes I have bought recently, both with my own pocket money (read: I went to the op shop) and with some Pin Money given to me by the Mater.

Trouble is my phone is missing, and I can't find the camera. SO I can't take any photos. I have decided to make do with description instead.

OP SHOP PURCHASES

- Above the knee Sussan denim skirt - $4!!
- Floral Just Jeans blouse thingo - $3!
- Whit Tshirt thing - $3!

OTHER PURCHASES

- Stretchy fitted lime green knee length skirt thingo - Target $10
- This white blouse from Sussan

Picture stolen from Sussan website - it was $99.95 which frankly is OUTRAGEOUS because it is as thin as anything and will probably become shredded in a few wears but I really liked it and I was spending someone else's money.

- Some camel coloured linen shortsy type things from Sussan too
- A flowy black top from Katie's. Dead cheap.
- A groovy Mexican type scarf from Target that I saw Rachel from Redcliffe Style talk about on her blog
- Dress from Piper at Myer - it's a sort of lime green yellow geometric patterned shirt dress thing. Can't remember how much but as always TOO MUCH for what it is which is about 2cm of material. GOD EVERYTHING IS SO EXPENSIVE OR IS IT JUST ME?
- Got M a pink polo shirt from COuntry Road.

I really like COuntry Road and wandered around a while looking at their nice things but just can't cope with how PRICEY it is for, you know, just a cotton top or whatever. I mean GOD! I think I am the only one who thinks this because I was listening in on a convo in the store that went along these lines;
[Grey bobbed linen-bedraped customer] - Ohhh you have so many nahhhs dresses at the moment, they are just greashhhhhhhh
[CR shop ladies] - Oh I knowwww, I knowwwww
[Grey bobbed one] - And so reaaaaaasonable! Just so REAAAASSSSSSOOOONABBBLLEE!
[CR shop ladies] - Oh I knowwwwwwwww, I knowwwwwwwww, so reaaaaasonable!

I was about to interject with a "Reasonable? I'll give you REASONABLE!" but thought better of it since I was walking around fondling the garments in a fairly shameless and covetous way and it might have looked hypocritical and God knows I could do without THAT!

Anyway, here's hoping my guts sort themselves out STAT or that at least I lose some GODDAMN WEIGHT from this ghastly state of affairs. Knowing my luck I will probably PUT IT ON or something.

Anyway, yours in Comfort Shopping and Toilet Sitting

xx

Stuff and junk and writing and not writing and hooks and pineapples and that.

I get hardly any time to update this here blog thing at the moment. Starting the blog has definitely reignited my love of writing, that is for sure. Well, when I say love, what I actually mean is weird obsessive NEED. I can hardly think of anything else.

Everything I hear, see, do, makes me think of something to write.  The frustration of constant words circulating in my brain and nowhere to vomit them out is just indescribable. In that I cannot actually describe it. It is just that indescribable. See I just can't describe it's indescribableness.

For example, Mum came for a visit today, and she was telling me about some weird family gathering she went to yesterday with her blind cousin who lives somewhere called "Bald Knob" or "Hairy Bum" or something ,and her other cousin who had a brain tumour and no short term memory, and they ate bone broth and drank tap water and reminisced about days of yore.  While we were having this conversation...

Mum: So we were talking about old Uncle Bill C____, and you know, how he had a hook for an arm, and...
Me: Wait, what? He had a HOOK for an arm?
Mum: Yeah, yeah he had a hook for an arm, you know, and he was married to Auntie A___, who was a bat...
Me: WTF? He married a bat?
Mum: Her NAME was Bat, stop interrupting. Anyway so he had a hook for an arm and he owned a pineapple farm in Yeppoon, and...
Me: He ran a PINEAPPLE FARM??!
Mum: *rolling eyes* YES of course he ran a pineapple farm, you know that, anyway and Cousin V____,  he couldn't remember ever meeting me! And so I told him how he used to put elephant beetles down my shirt when we visited the pineapple farm...
Me: Elephant beetles!?
Mum: YES! You know this story! Anyway, so I told him about the elephant beetles, and how he lived with us for a while when he was studying, and...
Me: Oh, and then he remembered who you were?
Mum: Yes! Well, only for about five minutes until he asked me again and I told him about the elephant beetles again, you know, because of the brain tumour thing, and...
Me: Hang on, he has a BRAIN TUMOUR?!!

..basically, all I could think was "NOT FAIR how come I wasn't at this gathering with the people with the brain tumours and hooks and the pineapples and the bats  I TOTALLY COULD HAVE PUT IT ON THE BLOG!".


Anyway look what I did there, I put it on the blog anyway.

I know the blog seems silly and sweary and blarghyarghy but I get a huge amount of satisfaction from it.

But it is SO hard to find the time to actually put pen finger to paper keyboard.

Anyway I'm not looking for sympathy, just, you know, venting my spleen and shit. Well, maybe not venting my shit. That's just gross.

Let's move on quickly.

When I actually get time to write something there are so many ideas floating around in my head that I am rendered sort of mute.

Sometimes I think I might never update the blog ever again. And then I do. And I feel better for a while.

So here I am. Updating the blog.

Baby boomers do technology.

My mum recently got herself a Smart Phone.

I know.

That was the sound of my brain exploding.

I don't think she would mind me saying she has been rather RELUCTANT to embrace new technologies.  Until now. With one quick purchase she has catapulted herself into the 21st century.

I know she bought herself a Smart Phone because she told me herself, but if she hadn't mentioned it, there's been a few CLUES that might have given me an inkling.

Clue 1 - I had THIS conversation with my Dad.

Me - "Hi Dad"
Dad - "Hello."
Me - "How's things?"
Dad - "Good. Is your mother alright?"
Me - "Um...I think so. Why?"
Dad - "Oh nothing, it's just that I received a confusing text message from her"
Me - "?"
Dad - "Actually I received it 3 times. In a row."
Me - "?"
Dad - "And I think it was meant for someone else."
Me - "Oh. I think she's got a new Smart Phone."
Dad - "Oh right."
Me - "Maybe she was sitting on it?"
Dad- "Yeah maybe".

Clue 2 - I received a "Linked In" request from my own mother.

What does it mean? IS SHE ASKING ME FOR A JOB? I HAVE NO IDEA! I DON'T EVEN USE LINKED IN!

Clue 3 - I received the following text message sequence.

Mum - Love you, Nanny
Mum - PS I've transferred some money into your account
Me - !!!!
Me - Why???
Mum - Don't worry no I haven't
Me - Was that message meant for someone else
Mum - Yep
Me - LOL

Clue 4 -   I have the following phone conversation with her.

Mum - "Hi darling"
Me - "Hi. That was funny about the text message wasn't it!?"
Mum - "Haha, yes very funny! Still it was great how I worked out how to send all those photos to P wasn't it?"
Me - "What photos?"
Mum - "Um..oh GOD don't tell me I didn't send them to you?"
Me - "Um..nope"
Mum - "I wonder who I sent them to then?"
Me - "Maybe you sent them to Dad? He mentioned he got several confusing messages from you. We were speculating that perhaps you had left the phone in your pocket and sat on it"
Mum - "Oh dear! I wonder if ALL my text messages are going to the wrong people? I did accidentally put your father's phone number in under my massage therapist's name..."
Me - "Oh MUM!"
Mum - "Maybe all my text messages are just going to your father?"
Me - "Far out."
Mum - "Hahahaha!"
Me - rolling eyes

Clue 5 - I receive the following text message from Mum

Mum - Arr you


THE END

Favourite photos. The Lounge.

Hello everyone. It's Thursday so it is Lounge time. Thank goodness for enforced topics because sometimes I can't think of anything to blog about.

I KNOW!

Hard to believe right? 

Today Tegan is hosting over at her blog Musings of the Misguided and we are talking about our favourite photos.

If you are a regular reader of the blog you will know that photography is not my strong suit. I mean, I appreciate a good photo as much as the next person, but taking them? Taking them is something else.

My family have never been very VISUALLY TALENTED. I mean my Mum is practically blind and Dad is - oh well, his talents lie elsewhere (as Faux Fuchsia would say).  Most of the photos of my childhood are off centre or obscured by a blurry thumb or two. I'm pretty sure the parentals wouldn't mind me saying that.

M's family are excellent photographers and have a vast library of family photos.  I am jealous.

Anyway I chose some of my favourite family pics to show you.  The first 3 are from my ARTISTIC AND OFF CENTRE QUIRKY WALL OF PHOTO FAME that I have arranged in the hallway with my MAD INTERIOR DESIGN SKILLLLLZZZZ.

 Therefore in order to share them with you I had to take photos of the photos.

HENCE THE RATHER POOR QUALITY! 

But that's just how I roll.

I am also breaking my rule about not including people's faces (except mine these days) because they are all pretty old pics so I think it's ok.

This is a family photo of my Mum, Dad, my brother and I. I love it, because in a sort of pathetic yearning for what might have been that only other adult children of divorced parents could understand, I like to look at it and imagine they had never separated. Sad but true. PS My brother is unfairly characterised as grumpy in this photo but he was just squinting into the sun. He was a dead set cheery baby. 

This is a photo of my paternal grandmother (she is the one on the right) and her sisters. Her young unmarried uncle had this photo taken of the girls so he could have something to keep while he was away at war in WW1. The family story is that he was killed on the last day of the war, and the photo came home with his things. I am sure lots of families have similar stories. So sad.

This is a photo of my maternal grandmother judging the Miss Something Something Competition in the Whitsundays. I can't remember what. I think the sash on the girl at the end says "Coral Queen 1965"? My grandfather was the police inspector up that way at the time and she had to do things like this. Well, she probably didn't HAVE to but who would knock this gig back???!! Fun! 

Also I am including one last pic, because I am having an early mid life crisis. Here's a photo of me when I was the three things that I am not any more and never will be again.

1. Young (er)

2. Childless

3. Thin (ner)

Anyway there's a few of my favourite pics. Obviously I have an endless stream of adorable photos of my kids and some nice ones of my husband but we don't have all day now do we? 

Smell you later!

Mwah.

On being a bad sport - Part 2

Hello loyal readers and contributers to The Lounge! Today we are all over at Robo Mum's blog, sharing our experiences of  Hissy Fits. Tanties! Spitting the dummy! Pitching a fit!

EDITED TO ADD: Also linking up with Grace for Flog Your Blog Friday :-))




Well, once again we have hit on a topic that is close to my heart. *sigh*

I know it is hard to believe, new readers, but I am one of the great dummy spitters of all time. My loyal regulars might remember the series I started recently on my epic unsportsmanlike behaviour. You can read the first post again here! And who wouldn't want to read about it, hey?! In that piece, I dissect one of the more public meltdowns of my primary school years.

Today, for your delectation, I present to you a history of sibling directed spack attacks.

Part 2 - On Brothers and Sibling Rivalry and Losing Your Shit

My brother C and I have always had a RAMBUNCTIOUS sibling relationship. Ah, halcyon days. We used to chase each other round and round the house until one caught the other.  That unlucky soul would then have their face mashed into the Sega Master System (or in later years, the Nintendo) whilst being simultaneously beaten about the head with the handset.  The Mater would come over all vapoury and have to lie down in her room while we wrestled and screamed on the floor. Don't blame her I guess.

Here we are in happier times. Brother C is ROCKING a Ren and Stimpy shirt and flanno. 

Once, in a fit of girlish pique, I threw a steel paint removal brush at him - high spirited scamp that I was! He was left with a blood pricked imprint on his back. Mater and Pater were not impressed that day, and I was sent to my room to think about wot I dun.

Another amusing anecdote that the parentals and miscellaneous extended family like to bring out at Family Occasions is this one time, when the whole family (cousins and all) were playing cricket on the school oval in the summer holidays. I had locked myself in the car, tantruming about something, and was being summarily ignored by everyone as they Got On With The Game. Ignored, that is, until I unlocked the car, came streaking (not naked don't worry) onto the pitch, shrieking with rage. I ran past the fielders, making a beeline for my unfortunate brother. I proceeded to kick him solidly in the shins, whilst the Much Older Cousins looked on, bemused, and then ran shrieking hysterically back to the car, locking the doors behind me.

OH SUCH FUN!

I should add in my defence here that my reputation as quite the SPITFIRE could probably be seen as a reaction to my mother's family, in which anyone who heats up beyond a sort of "What ho chaps I'm a bit annoyed at you. Better keep utterly silent about it!", or a "I say old thing I thought we were having proper custard not store bought. I might just roll my eyes and tsk about it for a bit!"  is classed as TOTALLY PSYCHOTIC.

But I digress.

Ah, but Brother C and I could press each other's buttons like nobody else.  As a teenager I took particular pleasure in preying upon him whilst he was lying sloth-like and vulnerable on the couch, watching Blackadder on TV. I would sidle up til I was almost standing on top of him, and then break into vigorous go-go dancing, so that the television was obstructed. This inevitably ended in the same result - he would punch me, shouting "Why don't you FUCK OFF AND DIE!".

The HILARITY! Good times, good times.

This sibling enmity lasted well into our adulthood, and it is with GREAT fondness I recall one particular incident, during a rather bleak period in my life in my early 20s where I had temporarily moved back home, jobless, licking my wounds after yet another relationship disaster. Brother C was lying prostrate on the couch, as he does, while I sat gloomily near him, probably weeping quietly to myself and moaning softly.

Brother C, roused by my gentle sobs, looked at me with disgust and said something like "God you just need to GET A JOB and stop being so awful and go out and find some friends you pathetic loser!". Or so it sounded to my sensitive ears.

His words only served to increase my misery. I glared at him, slumped as he was on the couch, lumpen and immobile, and it was then, reader, that my old companion the Red Fog descended.

I leapt from my seat, shrieking like a banshee, and launched at him as he lay inert on the lounge. I ran with arms flailing, screaming in rage. I set upon him with my fists, shrieking "I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU!" as he tried to cover his face with his hands. I grabbed at the closest arm, and bent down, teeth bared, howling and wailing, and tried to bite a chunk out of him.

Unfortunately, over the years, Brother C has somewhat overtaken me, height and strength wise.

See? He is a LOT bigger than me. I'm wearing heels in this pic. Also am pregnant and therefore, despite appearances, not drunk. SO CLASSY. Invite me to weddings at your peril!  His bemused smirk belies the fact that he is undoubtedly still thinking "WHY DON'T YOU JUST FUCK OFF AND DIE!"

As I leant over with my bared fangs, he quickly placed his other hand on my forehead, and pushed me away. He held me there at arm's length while I shrieked and flailed uselessly in his general direction, until the Mater appeared from her room to see what all this jolly fuss was about, what ho!

An artist's rendition. And by artist, I mean, me. So perhaps it is more accurate to say an "artist's" rendition. Note please the hand on the forehead and the flailing arms. Note it I say!

I think I ran sobbing from the room and threw myself on my bed.  You know, in a LADY-LIKE WAY! And no doubt he didn't move from his position on the couch and continued on with his television viewing.

Anyway, such has been the tenor of our complex sibling relationship over the years. Me, flailing and go-go dancing and shrieking and crying; He, lying on the couch.

Long may it last, bro.

Do you have any siblings? Ever tried to bite them? Are you a mental? ME TOO!

I'm off to punch some walls in. Have a good day peeps.

Why aren't I better at routine?

Well, today's the big day everybody - the first day of our new linkie party, "The Lounge". If you don't know what I am talking about, check out my page here, it will tell you everything you need to know!
Today Tegan from Musings of the Misguided is our host, and the theme is - "Why aren't I better at this yet??" - please feel free to link up your own post and have fun!

I have to add the disclaimer that Brenda of Mumabulous fame has ALREADY WRITTEN A BETTER POST ON A VERY SIMILAR TOPIC for The Lounge this week! But I must press on...

Soooooooo......GUYS! Why the ever loving eff am I SO BAD AT STICKING TO ROUTINE? Particularly on the days I go to work?

It is a GOOD question.

Of course, one could cite the baby, small child, and husband as the obvious speedbumps on the road to ORGANISATION TOWN, but actually (and it pains me to say this) I must also take some of the responsibility. I know. Galling.  The words are STICKING IN MY CRAW YOU GUYS! UGH!

OK. Let's workshop it, people. Let's just deconstruct the shit out of a typical morning and GET TO THE BOTTOM OF IT ALL!

This is what should happen.

Night before: Tidy kitchen COMPLETELY. Put dishwasher on. Make and pack lunch. Choose work outfit and put that out. Tidy house more or less. GO TO BED EARLY DAMMIT.

5am: Wake before kids. S has walk. M has shower. (THIS SHOULD BE SWAPPED ON ALTERNATE DAYS SO WE BOTH GET SOME EXERCISE)
6am: Kids wake. S has shower, M puts breakfast on and unloads dishwasher.
6:30am: Everyone eats breakfast and engages in family discussions about art, literature, current affairs, Peppa Pig, poo and wee.
7am: P assists M by getting her kindy bag ready. M gets B dressed. S tidies up kitchen and puts a load of clothes in the washing machine.
7:30: We all leave the house. M takes kids to kindy then goes to work. I go straight to work.

This looks REALLY SENSIBLE AND DOABLE, right? Am I right? I'm right aren't I? Definitely right about this. The THEORY IS SOUND, reader.

Here is a dramatic reinactment of ACTUAL EVENTS that occur on a typical work day at our house.

5am: I hear the baby stirring in his room. I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend to be asleep. I can feel M doing the same. The baby starts to squawk louder. I lie as still as possible until I feel M get up and go down the hallway, coming back with baby B. We all lie together in bed while he crawls all over us, until we hear P's footsteps in the hallway. She appears at my side, imperiously demanding that I "Move over!" and complaining that "Mummy your BREATH smells AWFUL!". M and I continue to lie with our eyes shut while they both squirm and crawl over us.  Finally M and I can pretend we are asleep no longer. We embark on a conversation along these lines;

M: Are you going to get up with them or have a shower first?
Me: I should really go for a walk. I need to do more exercise. I've put on so much weight. How do people fit in exercise? I don't think there's time this morning. Probably I should get up and then you should have a shower. Then I'll have a shower.
M: I think you should have a shower first.
Me: No you should have a shower first while I get breakfast and then I'll just have a shower and leave straight after.
M: OK.

6:30am: We finally get up. I take the kids out and start breakfast.  This is made difficult by the fact we forgot to put the dishwasher on the night before, so I have to wash out some things before I start. I can hear M carrying out long and complex ablutions in the ensuite. P and B pull a million toys out onto the floor. It all takes a really long time and sounds like this;

P: Muuuuummmmmyyyy I'm HUNGRY!
Me: I'm just putting the porridge on, darling, you'll have to wait a bit.
P: Muuuummmmyyyy Benji is taking my THINGS! *outraged screams from B as she takes her toys back off him*
[I interrupt my breakfast-making to intervene].
Me: P if you don't want B to take your toys then put them in your room.
P: NO!
Me: *Grr*
[I go back to kitchen and keep making breakfast. P disappears and appears wearing a different outfit].
Me: P! If you are going to get changed don't leave your PJs on the FLOOR! Take them into your ROOM! P! P! Are you listening to me! Hey! P! Oh FOR GOD'S SAKE I'll do it.
[I interrupt breakfast-making again to take P's PJs back to her room. While there I make her bed and chuck some things into toy baskets etc. before remembering I was actually making the porridge].

And so forth.

7:30am: I have finally finished making breakfast and we are sitting down, eating, I am wrestling with B as he desperately tries to shovel the porridge into his mouth with two spoons. It goes EVERYWHERE. Like EVERYWHERE. After we've finished, P runs off. B has smeared porridge all over his face and in his hair. I wipe him down and get him out of the highchair, and start cleaning the mess on the floor.

7:45am: M emerges from our bedroom showered and dressed. He channels a hobbit and has first breakfast and second breakfast too. General stuffing around and chasing of P and packing of kindy bags occurs. M remembers he hasn't made his lunch. I remember I haven't made mine either. M gets a whole lot of stuff out of the fridge and makes sandwiches and snacks and stuff.

8:15am: I am still in my pyjamas. By some miracle M and the kids are dressed and in the car. I wave them off.

8:20am: I race around tidying things, jump in the shower, decide there's no time to shave legs or wash hair. I get dressed, jump in car and begin my hour long commute.

But not before wasting time by taking a few selfies of my work outfit whilst doing dumb poses. SO IMPORTANT DON'T YOU KNOW!

9:30am: I race into the office, flustered, hungry again. People comment on how nice my hair looks. I reply "Oh it's probably because it's full of GREASE! Yeah I haven't washed it for like DAYS!". People look a bit less impressed after that.
5:30pm: I finally get to leave the office, because I got there so late, and race home.

6:45pm: I arrive home. Kids and M have eaten. Babysitter and M are bathing kids. I reluctantly counsel the young flibberdigibbit babysitter because her dreaders boyfriend said he'd marry her in ten years if they were still single but doesn't want to tell his friends they are going out together and she's quit uni to work for him YADA YADA YADA. Ugh. I hurry her out the door. She talks the whole time.

7pm: I put B to bed. M puts P to bed. B goes to sleep. P comes out a million times and finally stays in bed by 7:30 ish.  By this time we are exhausted, so shovel some food in, do a mediocre tidy of kitchen and slump on couch. I think about making my lunch but don't. I think about putting my clothes out for the next day but don't. You get the drift.

AND repeat!

WHY DO I DO IT DUDES?

I fly by the seat of my pants.

The idea of working more than 2 days GIVES ME THE HEEBIE JEEBIES! How would I do it? I want to have a lie down just thinking about it.

I need to BOOT CAMP MYSELF!

Come on! YEAH! GET PUMPED! GET ORGANISED YOU LAZY WOMAN! WRITE LISTS! AND THEN ACTUALLY DO THE THINGS ON THE LISTS! MAKE GOOD HABITS! BE BETTER AT STUFF! ROUTINE IS THE BACKBONE OF FAMILY LIFE! MEAL PLAN! ONLINE GROCERIES! AND SO FORTH!

Or not. Look, I guess it's got me this far. Look at me! I'm a high flyer baby!* Maybe it's working for me? Maybe it's because I AM A CREATIVE GENIUS AND VALUE SPONTANEITY AND FUN TIMES AND CHILLAXING WITH MY HOMIES?

Who knows. It's hard to teach an old dog new tricks. And it's hard for a tiger to change its stripes. And you can't lead a horse to water. YOU FEEL ME?**

Now excuse me while I write out a new Family Routine and Meal Plan, put it up on the fridge, ignore it for a week, and carry on in the same freaked out fashion that I always do.

Until next time, adieu. Adieu. To yer and yer and yer...

*I may not actually be a high flyer.
**It's totally ok if you don't. Feel me, I mean. I don't really know what it means anyway.

She is a tourist. He is a holidaymaker. I AM A TRAVELLER. Volume CAN"T REMEMBER WHAT WE ARE UP TO

Here's another installment from my edge of the seat series of Travel Tales.

It's called...

Alert but not alarmed

So a whole lot of these tales are from my now infamous trip round Ireland with my own dear darling dad. Poor dad. Hope my retelling them doesn't scar him. Maybe I should stop? I'll think about it - after this! mwahaha.
For other editions, go here.


So, if you've been reading some of the other tales you know that when I was 20 I went on a trip back to Ireland with Dad, who was born and bred there, to visit our family and do some trips around the place.

On the way to Belfast we had a few days in ye olde London town. We stayed in a reasonable hotel somewhere close to stuff. I actually was talking to dad about it the other day and said I thought the hotel was in King's Cross, but he disagreed with me. Whatever, I'm pretty sure it was near Kings Cross St Pancras Station.  This detail is unimportant.
Anyway, we were sharing a room, and on arrival we checked in, exhausted and jet lagged. I'm pretty sure we dragged ourselves out for a curry in the early evening, and then returned to our tiny shared room to try and get some shut-eye before our planned adventures the next day.



Dad does London..

Dad finds plane travel unsettling, kind of like a race horse, so I have this vague memory of lying in bed squeezing my eyes shut as Dad strode around the room restlessly in his shortie pyjamas, until he did eventually lie down for a kip. Maybe Dad should travel with a Shetland pony, to calm him? Although I suppose he did have me there. I am a bit like a Shetland pony, I look quite cute until someone annoys me and then I bite them.

Right, so no sooner had Dad's head hit the pillow then we were suddenly jolted out of our jetlagged slumber by the high pitched wailing of a smoke alarm.

Dad sprang out of bed like a shot, exclaiming loudly and waving his arms.

"Oh God no..." I thought to myself. "We are going to have to be evacuated. In our pyjamas. In London. In the middle of winter. Typical. Bloody typical."

Dad lost no time in ordering me out of bed. The alarm persisted, and as I stumbled around the room looking for a jumper, he burst out into the hallway, gesticulating wildly at a staff member scurrying past with a trolley.

"Listen, you there, where do we go, what do we do? Is there a fire escape??" he shouted.

The staff member looked Dad's bare freckled legs up and down, threw his hands in the air in an exasperated fashion and continued down the hallway, faster than ever, muttering in disgust "I no speak Eeeengleeesh!".

There didn't seem to be any other staff around.

By then other guests had come out into the hallway, including a Japanese family with their frightened elderly grandfather. 

"Fer fock's sake, does nobody speak English in this focking place!" Dad exclaimed in disgust, his usual inclusive tendencies out the window.

The Japanese family looked panicked, and the elderly grandfather was clutching weakly at his chest.

Dad took one look at the crowd and determinedly seized control of the situation by directing us all down the stairs. One by one we traipsed down the fire escape, Dad and the frail old man bringing up the rear, as the alarm wailed on.

We dutifully poured out onto the footpath and congregated outside the pane glass windows of the hotel's restaurant.

As we stood shivering in our pyjamas, Dad still sporting his shorts and bare legs, we gazed into the restaurant. It was full of hotel patrons enjoying their dinners, comfortable and warm.  As we stared in at them, they gazed with bemusement back at us.

It seemed a little odd. I mean, why hadn't they been evacuated too?

Dad, starting to feel the cold on his naked legs, became more and more enraged.

"Fer focks sake! Who is in CHARGE here?!" he said, rubbing his hands together vigorously. Just at that moment, the unsuspecting manager of the hotel came out from the lobby to give the all clear. I could see Dad's eyes glinting.  I knew what was coming. I slunk away, pretending I didn't know him.  From a safe distance I watched as he vociferously asserted his consumer rights to the aforementioned gentleman*.  I didn't catch all of it, what with pretending not to know him and all, but I'm pretty sure I heard "This old man was about to DIE OF A HEART ATTACK, my good man!" and "Where are your STAFF SIR?" and "Does nobody speak FOCKING ENGLISH in this place??".

Anyway, the manager was suitably chastened and apologized obsequiously to Dad. Eventually we all trudged our way back up to our rooms and attempted to get some sleep.

The next morning Dad was up bright and early, the tumult of the previous evening forgotten. As I peered blearily out from the covers, he said brightly, "I might just pop down to the lobby to book a table in the restaurant tomorrow for when we meet up with your cousins!".

I nodded and pulled the blanket over my head. He was gone for a while. When he returned, he looked pleased with himself.

"Guess what!" he exclaimed, "They tried to tell me the restaurant is closed on Sundays!"

I could see where this was going.

"But I didn't take that lying down! I asked for the manager and when he saw it was me he told them to OPEN THE RESTAURANT ESPECIALLY FOR US! Isn't that GREAT!"

I looked at him, horrified.

"URGHHH DAAAAD!" I said, "Urghh, they are probably going to, like, totally SPIT in all our FOOD! SO EMBARRASSING! URGHH! Can't we just go out somewhere else? I can't believe you did this."

And so on.

But no, he was determined.

"Don't be ridiculous!" he said. "They are HAPPY to do it!!"

Yeah right. Happy.

So the next day, my cousin and his children drove into London to meet their long lost Australian family. We ate lunch together in the hotel restaurant, that they had indeed opened just for us.

I could feel the eyes of the surly kitchen staff on us. Every minute felt like an hour. Dad remained cheerfully oblivious to the awkwardness of the situation and the possible crimes against hygiene that might be being committed on our meals, as he regaled my cousin with the story of the fire alarm.

"So they agreed to open it JUST FOR US!"

I scrooged further down in my chair and picked at my meal, desperate to escape, as the waitress whispered and pointed.

The rest of the trip went fairly uneventfully, until right at the end, when we arrived at Heathrow for our flight to Belfast.

Exhausted, we sat in silence, finding comfort in some Burger King takeaway, me angrily listening to Sinead O'Connor wailing on my walkman. I started to notice the crowds around us thinning but ignored it, munching like a masticating cow.  Dad looked like was was dozing off.

Suddenly I looked up. Someone was standing in front of me, waving his hands and talking animatedly. I whipped my headphones out.

It was one of the airport cleaners.

"Excuse me plizz!" he shouted, "Excuse me but there is an ALARM, everbody is EVACUATING THE AIRPORT, you must hurry, plizz!"

I looked around and realised we were alone in the terminal.

"Oh SHIT!" I jumped up. "GOD DAD why didn't you hear it!? UGH! I mean couldn't you HEAR THERE WAS A FIRE ALARM! UGH! GOD DAD! It's probably TERRORISTS OH GOD! UGH WE ARE THE ONLY ONES LEFT IN HERE UGH!".

We were forced to abandon our Burger King and once again assemble outside in the cold, waiting for the all clear.

At least this time we were fully clothed.


The end.

*By which I mean, shouted at him for a while in a frenzy of sleep deprivation.

On being a bad sport. Part 1.

I have many faults.

As well as being prone to jealousy, whininess, envy, laziness, anger, impatience, dissatisfaction, coveting my neighbours ass and worshiping idols, I am also a really fucking bad sport and have limited ability to regulate my emotions in public.

Over the years there have been a myriad of opportunities for me to demonstrate my epically bad sportsmanship, going right back to my primary school days.

I am just lucky enough to be someone who was gifted with the happy combination of moderate ability in a variety of things, laziness, with vague competitiveness and a sense of entitlement thrown in for good measure.

I am such a catch.  People want to be me, people want to be like me.  Who wouldn't*?

Anyway this combination of enjoyable characteristics has resulted in some fairly epic examples of John McEnroe like behaviour. But like, without the John McEnroe skills to back it up. So, just the bad behaviour. Ugh.

Many of them have become family legend. As you can imagine it brings me NO END OF PLEASURE to hear my parents/much older cousins/aunts and uncles regale family gatherings with tales of my tantruming. NO END OF PLEASURE.

Keep it up guys it isn't getting old YET! YEAH! GIVE ME MORE. I MEAN YOU'VE ONLY BEEN DINING OUT ON THEM FOR ABOUT 20 YEARS BUT WHATEVER**.

Since they all get so much pleasure going on about it I thought I would re-appropriate the stories for the blog. A series of blog posts to be precise. Since they are about me. I may as well try and cash in on them, dudes. It will probably segue nicely into a follow up series of posts on "Taking criticism badly" and "Sulking". Because I do those things too.

Part 1 - Murder on the netball court.

So, back in the day, I used to be quite a whizz on the netball court. When I say whizz, I mean, I could catch and throw a ball and didn't fall over. Much. Couldn't shoot goals or play defence though. That is not at all important in netball though***.

I couldn't find any photos of me at netty so here's some of me circa 1991/2 just being revoltingly precocious anyway. Ugh.

Just acting up a storm for the FANS whilst wearing a ra ra skirt and white moon boots, you gotta problem with dat?

Just banging out a tune on the keyboard for an adoring crowd whilst wearing a white frock and scarlet sash WHAT OF IT?

Just reading Roald Dahl at a family picnic while wearing overalls, a straw hat and a self-satisfied smirk, SO SUE ME!

It came to pass, long ago, that shifting netball club committee politics resulted in my very own parents becoming President, Treasurer, Secretary, Registrar, fundraising coordinators, just basically ALL OF THE POSITIONS. Which included Dad becoming coach of my VERY OWN TEAM. Because of how he is an expert in all the rules and ins and outs of netball and played it for years himself back in the old country****.

You can imagine how AWESOME this was. I loved it sick*****. I especially loved it when Coach Dad would single me out on the court and yell detailed instructions at me during the games, arms gesticulating wildly. Oh how I loved it. And I loved the way it drew UNNECESSARY ATTENTION my way, from the members of the other team. Oh yes I LOVED IT.

One particular Saturday morning we were battling it out on the court with some tough opposition. I was sweaty and grumpy. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Dad waving his arms at me and yelling . He was waving and pointing and instructing. And waving and instructing. And probably coaching too.

I tried to ignore it but it was tough. Sporty Coach Dad was nothing if not persistent. He waved at me a bit more to get me to move over or try harder or run faster or something.

At that moment something in my 11 year old mind snapped and reader, I saw red.  I abandoned my post at Wing Attack and came hurtling over to the sideline where Dad was waving at me, the eyes of both teams on me. I screeched to a halt and shouted, enraged;

"Shut UP DAAAAAAAAAAADDDDDDDD!!! BLAAARGGHHHHHHH! SNARGGGLLLYYY BLLAAAGGGHH".

I screamed hysterically at him while the crowd looked on in shocked silence.

When I had finished my tirade, I did the worst thing my eleven year old mind could think of.

I did the finger. With both hands. I waved them in his face, ranting incoherently, and then ran screaming from the court into the carpark.

Here is an artist's impression of the alleged incident.

My main memory was the look of bemusement on Dad's face as I turned and fled.  I think he was quite enjoying it. Was this the reaction he had been trying for all along? Who can say.

I can't remember what happened next. I was probably shepherded home and a cloud probably hung over my name for a while, netball wise.

Still, if this, and other similar incidents hadn't occurred, then basically my family and friends would never have anything to talk about ever because APPARENTLY THIS IS A DINNER PARTY STORY THAT JUST KEEPS ON GIVING NO MATTER HOW MANY TIMES YOU TELL IT!

So there you have it. Part 1 in a series of MANY MANY instalments where I demonstrate my poor emotional regulation, bad temper and extremely low levels of sportsmanship.

You can thank me later.



*Me. I wouldn't. Actually.
** Ugh.
***It is actually. Kind of the whole point of the game but whatever.
***NOT! That was rugby you fools not netball. Ugh.
*****No I didn't, DUR you guys

The one where mum fills in for me because I am busy and have come up against OBSTACLES.

Mum's written another guest post.
LUCKY because my brand new computer has DIED. DIED I TELL YOU!

Making it once again nearly impossible to get a moment alone with the computer in the study for some one on one action. If you know what I mean.

So excuse me while I go and throw the laptop out the window and kick some kittens...

Hello again, delightful followers of my equally delightful daughter’s blog. Thought you might like an update from the “family compound” as Sarah likes to call it.

Recently I had P over for her first parent-free sleepover. It involved a round-trip to the Gold Coast to pick her up and likewise to take her home but was well worth it for the pleasure of having her all to myself for a little while.

Actually, it took a little courage to take this step. P, although truly the most adorable little girl imaginable, is full on.  You may have gathered this from her Mummy’s blog. She is the Eveready Bunny. She never stops.  And this full-on-ness extends to her sleeping.

Whenever the family is staying at my place, P always sleeps on a mattress in my room, thus giving us the opportunity for cosy Nanny-P time and providing a little respite for the sleep-deprived parents. The mattress is made up with beautiful lavender sheets and doona (P’s most favourite colour). We have all the usual bed-time ritual of story, song and cuddles and she mostly settles down pretty easily.

Well, I say “settles down”. That really isn’t the term to describe P’s sleep. As an experienced Mum, Nanny and wise old crone, I’ve seen a few sleeping children in my time but never, ever, anything to match the wild restlessness that little girl exhibits whilst apparently fast asleep. She thrashes, she yells, she bangs on the wall, she wails, she gets her head out on the floor and her legs up the wall, she burrows head-first under the covers with her bum on the pillow. You may recall she managed to give herself a black eye in her sleep a while back. For anyone who’s seen her in action, that’s easy to believe.

On one visit, exhausted after a day with two little kids, I lay awake till about 4 AM while P went through her gymnastics, shouting and crying, falling out of bed and banging on the wall. At about 4, something changed and she went still and quiet, so of course I finally fell deep asleep. Only to be woken at about 5 AM by P’s indignant voice: “Nanny! Beanie (this is her bed-time doll) can’t sleep from your snoring!” And with that, the day began.

So it was with a bit of trepidation that I undertook this solo mission. However, in the event, all went incredibly well. For a start, P’s beloved cousin A was staying with her grandparents, my brother and sister-in-law, on the same weekend. They live only a few minutes’ drive from my place – a sort of outlier to the family compound. So, on our return from the Gold Coast I drove straight to their place and was then able to sit and chat to my gorgeous niece while the two little girls played dress-ups with my sister-in-law’s clothes and accessories. Peace and harmony reigned.

Later I was entertained by a lively disagreement between the two little girls as to the correct title for my sister-in-law (remember Slapdash Great-Aunt?)

“She’s my Nanna,” insisted A, who can be quite adamant in her opinions.

“She’s my Aunty L,” replied P, whose opinions are also firmly held.

“No, she’s my Nanna!” etc.

This continued for a while until I saw storm-clouds about to burst and tried to calm things down. “Well, you see, A, your Nanna can be P’s Aunty L too. That’s how it works. “

Well, A wasn’t having that. “SHE’S MY NANNA!!!” she yelled in outrage.

“Oh, A,” said P with icy sarcasm. “So, I don’t have any aunties? You have to learn to share your aunties, A!”  Which A promptly agreed to do. Peace again.

Later we took the littlies to the beach where they had a fat old time frolicking in the chilly and rather murky water. Is there anything happier than a kid at the beach? Then back to Slapdash-Great-Aunt and Uncle’s for a hot bath and tea, so that all I had to do was drive P to my place and pour her exhausted little bones into the lavender bed, where – miracle of miracles – she slept quietly and peacefully till 6AM the next morning. Yes!

Ed: Obviously I inherited my mother's EXPERT PHOTOGRAPHY SKILLZZZ

Saturday dawned grey and wet so the early part of the day was spent companionably watching ABC4Kids … ah, I mean, doing craft activities and practising the oboe, Slapdash Mama! Later, Grandpa G came over and took P for a babycino, a clear advantage of the family compound set-up. I didn’t even need to provide lunch as morning tea had evidently been substantial to say the least.

It was time to take the little visitor home. P chattered all the way home about how much she was looking forward to seeing Mummy and Daddy and Mummy and B and Mummy but, of course, was off-hand and lacklustre in her greeting when we finally got there, wounding her poor mother’s tender heart. Dammit!

Anyway, apart from that glitch the sleepover was a success and I’ll certainly do it again some time soon. Maybe for two nights!

 Thanks Mum.

I think you need your own blog! Blogging is the new black don't you know.