Cold. Yoga. Hirsutism.

Hi guys.
Hope your week is traveling well.

I was doing a spot of fairly inadvisable reading of the Slapdash Mama back catalogue today. Apart from the whole UGHHHHH people are reading the SHITE I am writing feeling I got, I was also struck by a common thread. So common, in fact, that it is in fact referred to as the COMMON COLD.  That's right. A considerable number of my erudite missives are complaints about either me or (God forbid) M or the kids having a bloomin' cold. Just SO INTERESTING for everyone I am sure.

Well GUESS WHAT!!?? I have a cold. Right now. This minute. The kids and M are just recovering from one too.

Despite my suffering I still went to work. I'm not sure if this wasn't seen in a negative light by my colleagues what with the wastepaper basket overflowing with snotty tissues and all, but a working mother never has any sick leave to waste. Don't get me started on that.

I also dragged my carcass up to the yoga class I go to at work at lunchtime. I was VERY unenthusiastic, but felt compelled to attend. Mostly because I had forgotten to make my payment to the organisers and had to scab $65 off my longsuffering yet cheery workmate MG. I understandably felt that after his generous loan I really couldn't skip it, more's the pity.

Anyway it was quite a stressful class, what with my stuffed up snout rendering my yogic breathing ineffectual, and my feeble attempts to conceal my utterly feral unshaved legs from the rest of the class. I am determined not to weaken and shave my hairy pins until the end of winter, when I can start a brand new regime of waxing, and therefore hopefully reduce the amount of time I spend attending to my body hair.  Anyway I spent a goodly amount of the class today lying flat on my back gazing at the ceiling. Still, it's the thought that counts.

Speaking of body hair, I am totally over mine. Or should I say, it is totally over me! Like ALL OVER ME! I have always been a fairly hirsute lady, but I swear as I get older I get hairier and hairier. I am developing a veritable beard. Not a day goes by when I don't suddenly catch sight of my chin hairs glinting in the sunlight and have to make a hasty dash for the tweezers.  Maybe I should just grow it and get a job as a bearded lady? I could have my own You Tube channel, that seems all the rage these days.

My legs are bloody hairy too, and my bikini line (if you can call it that!) goes almost to my knees.

I've ranted about this before but frankly it's worth repeating. I sort of felt the need to apologise for it at my last de-pelting at the beauticians.

"I swear I'm just getting HAIRIER and HAIRIER! I mean it's practically down to my KNEES now!" I remarked to her.

She shrugged disinterestedly and said, in an accent reminiscent of the Gay Mancunian Heroin Addict caracter "Keanu Reevess" from Saxondale, "Oh, it's just hormonal, all that hair is. Hor-MON-al."

Fuck you hormones, you've been the bain of my existence since I was an early blooming twelve year old, with a bra strap ripe for the snapping by over excited pre teen boys.

Anyway I will leave you with a snippet of a Saxondale episode, featuring aforementioned Gay Mancunian character, for the unenlightened of you who aren't familiar with it. Enjoy.

Break in the Weather. Sweating the Small Stuff.

Ma, the rains are here! [Insert obligatory comment about the weather, Crikey she's a harsh country of extremes, she is, and drought and flood and fire and pestilence and so forth].

Readers, I've got a bit of STUFF on my mind.  Yes, yes, of course we all know that I spend most of my time contemplating Art, Literature, Philosophy, the Downfall of Western Civilisation As We Know It, and my navel.   What time I have left over after I've finished that I mostly dedicate to Keeping it Real, Championing Feminist Issues and Making Benevolent Gestures to the Poor and Unfortunate, but look, sometimes even MY superior intellect and over-developed moral backbone strays into the mundane territory of worry and stress about the "small stuff".

Sometimes the small stuff is actually the big stuff, in a way.  So I've been sweating it. The small stuff, that is.

My comfort eating is back with a vengeance and my nails are torn and bitten.

I need to make a big decision.  But I can't manage it. So I just complain and poor-me about the same stuff endlessly and never change the thing that is really wrong.

Apart from that particular small stuff, there are other smaller, small stuffs that I've been wasting time worrying about.

So, in the words of Alan Partridge, let's just throw them all in the air and see where they land, shall we?

- We can't get the baby to sleep and he's screaming in the background as I type. Relaxing. Like fingernails on a blackboard. Who needs whale music when I can listen to that as I GET CREATIVE BLOG-STYLE.  My muse (or my A-Muse as I like to call her) is laughing at me while she lies on the couch and eats bon bons, I just know it.

EDITED FOR CLARIFICATION JUST LIKE THEY DO IN HANSARD: Don't worry loyal Slapdash Army, he's usually a great sleeper, just bad this evening which I thought added an amusing soundtrack to my Whining Blogging. Apt, even.  Carry on.

My A-Muse. She's laughing hysterically and saying "Don't worry about the bay-by Sarah! Here have a bon-bon!" [Source]

-  I don't want a smartphone any more, I think it's making me dumb.

- As mentioned, my comfort eating is back and my exercise habit is broken. How many months into the New Year was that, some kind of record? Gah.

- I'm worried that P is getting too much exposure to tizzy fairy princess ballerina tizziness mctizz shows/books/general stuff.  She is basically a very imaginative creative little thing and she loves to dress up and so forth, and it's not that I don't like princessy fairy ballerina ness in itself, I just feel that's kind of all she's into.  Anyone got some good suggestions for non tizzy stuff I can show her? Books/movies?  I bought her the movie "Brave" which is fantastic but it's a bit too scary really.

P performing an interpretive dance for a small admirer. With requisite tizzy mermaid style getup. Tizzy.  I like that word. 

So peeps, what are you worried about? Do you like bon bons? What are bon bons anyway? What issues do you champion? Do you like to dress as a mermaid? Or Cinderella? Anyone seen my moral backbone? I think I left it at Woolies.

EDITED AGAIN: To link up with Grace for Flog Your Blog Friday. One day I will work out how to put buttons on my blog. Anyone who nows how to do this feel free to explain in the comments. Grace did once but I still can't work it out. Blargh.

Merry Christmas to my crew.

Merry Chrimbo everyone.

We've had a fat old time here at the Slapdash Family Compound.  We had M's family over for drinkies here to Mums place last night, and I did a hardcore last minute giftwrap and then stayed up til the wee small hours to go to midnight Christmas Eve service with my Daddy.  Lucky because CHRISTMAS NEARLY HAD TO BE CANCELLED! I KNOW!

I know what you are thinking re: last minute gift wrapping but I can explain.  I am not usually THAT slapdash.  My feeling "off colour" all week turned into a full blown catastrophic migraine on Friday night. I had to get a jab in the arm on Saturday afternoon and everything.  I was wondering why I couldn't focus or get anything done and felt so tired and depressed.  As I said on FB, total RESPECT for peeps who get them all the time.  How do you do it?  I could have wept from relief when the GP said there was a needle he could give me that would fix it.  Thank FUCK.  I thought I was dying.  M had to take over and make the apricot jam I had conceptualised as an "easy" alternative to buying gifts for the adults.  Oh what a fool was I...anyway the jam is very nice so that's something.  Dad even had to do an emergency run to our house to look after the kids, even while we were supposed to be driving to his place!  Let me tell you if you don't have your health you have nothing.  Nothing, my friends.

Anyway, I went to the Christmas Eve midnight service a) because I am a good Anglican and b) because Dad has been coerced into some kind of candle wrangling role up at his ole church so he had to be there to offside the lady he's accepting the baton from.   I say accepting in the loosest sense of the word.  Which seemed to consist of him sort of lurking around while she officiously fussed about shaking out robes and whatnot.  If her actions could speak they would have been saying "I am NOT READY to relinquish my VERY IMPORTANT CHURCHY ROLE and frankly YOU'LL HAVE TO PRISE THESE CANDLES FROM MY COLD DEAD HANDS you upstart you".  Dad was very noble and withstood the liturgical attitude being directed his way.  As we left I could hear her lecturing him "And when you do the READING tomorrow you must be sure to SPEAK CLEARLY INTO THE MICROPHONE so that they HEAR you at the BACK OF THE CHURCH! CLEARLY, mind!".  Poor Dad, I wanted to shout "Love, I think he'll be right, he used to be a Deputy Principal and spent 90% of his time yelling at halls a thousand kids strong with or without a microphone.  No problems with vocal chords here", but I restrained myself.  Dad has a better grasp of the whole humility thing than I do.

So Dad came over to Mum's this morning to watch the smalls open their pressies.  They got tonnes as usual, with some hits and misses.  P's favourite pressie was a pair of Hello Kitty PJs I bought her at the last minute.  Lucky!  She promptly stripped down and wore the jim jams all day long.  She's wearing them in bed again now.  Cutie patootie.

P lounging in her new, er, lounge wear I spose.

 

We had a VERY HOT day and so of course ate a huge pork roast with all the proverbial trimmings.  No, but seriously it was delicious and then we had cherry sherry trifle and some of good old Heston Blumenthal's pud.  Oh yeah.  Hubba hubba.  I overcame my uncharacteristic migraine induced lack of appetite and did the dinner justice, more or less. 

Me at the feast with a small.

 

Mum at the feast.

Hope you all had a nice day.  I'm off to indulge in some Christmas Day Night festive "nibblings at the leftovers", as is tradition.

My good friend Gordon has popped over and he's going to help me eat....

 

...some of this.

Peace be with you my interweb family.

TV is crack for kids. Other kid stuff. Garden.

Don't read on if you hate people going on about their kids and child rearing stuff. OK.

I'm aware that I waffle on about kids TV quite a bit. You could be forgiven for thinking all P does all day is watch "ABC da Kids", as she likes to call it.

Well for the last 9 months, she has! It has been on ALL the time since B was born. It's been all TV, all the time!  And don't get me wrong,  it's been fantastic.  I haven't had regular family support this year and I am not ashamed to say the TV helped me through the first 6 months of B's life. When P stopped having a reliable day sleep, it was the only respite I got, and I used it to keep her out of B's room when I was getting him to sleep. And frankly the kids programs on ABC2 are about fifty million times more entertaining than any of the utter shit and tripe that plenty of adults watch. Give me Peppa Pig over X Factor any day.  I may have just alienated a few hundred thousand people with that statement, but that's me, always controversial and TELLING IT HOW IT IS!

EVERYBODY likes jumping in muddy puddles! [Source]

And yet. And yet.

The time has come for TV rehab. It's been great, but the carnival is over. Life is back to normal, we no longer have a newborn to juggle and I am feeling strong enough to break the TV habit! Our new rule is no TV until the afternoon, which means the part of the day when I'm getting dinner organised. Oh crikey it makes for a long day with a non-sleeping, spirited 3 year old who is awake before 5am and not in bed til 7pm.  6pm if we've really got it going on bedtime wise.  I was desperate for it yesterday morning when getting her ready for kindy - I used to plonk her in front of the TV to distract her while I brushed her hair.  So I had to chase her round the house while she wailed and screamed, "You are HURTING ME MUMMY!!! AAARGGGHHHHHH MUMMY IT HURTS, IT HUUURRRTTSSSSSSSS!"

Hopefully no-one was listening.  It wouldn't have sounded good, and what with the filth and mess on the floor that morning it would have painted a suspicious picture for any child protection worker types passing by.  Sometimes I watch that show Hoarders and get bloody paranoid that I will end up living surrounded by teetering piles of tins and newspapers and then I'll die and be buried in my own filth and the cats will eat me and no-one will know.....ahem. Sorry for that little visit into my psyche.  Not pretty is it?

Anyway, as I said to a very anti-TV mummy friend "It's like breaking someone of a crack habit!".
Unfortunately she looked completely horrified. Oops. Sometimes I need to keep my gob shut.  Look away, child protection people, nothing to see here, NO CRACK INVOLVED OTHER THAN A TODDLER'S PERPETUALLY NAKED BUM CRACK! Thank you.

In other parenting news, B can plank like a hardcore pilates guru. Check out his abs of steel.

Go, son!

Also, my wonderful friend J, who has just had her second baby, is obviously not busy and hasn't got a million newborn baby + toddler related things to do at all, because she just MADE ME A WHOLE LOT OF CLOTH NAPPIES.  She is very clever.  I've never gone down the cloth nappy route but I'm giving it a red hot go. So maybe I'll be buried alive Hoarders-style in dirty nappies instead, we'll have to wait and see.

Cute as!

I'm feeling glum at the moment because I'm eating like a total puritan and exercising daily but THE SCALES DID NOT BUDGE LAST WEEK.  I feel thinner, perhaps it is psychological.  So here's some nice pictures of the beautiful flowering gum tree in our front garden to cheer me up.

There's always lots of bees, of the bumble variety and also the native variety.  I feel good about this because one of the things I lose sleep about is the situation for bees at the moment.  Which isn't good.  I also worry about the polar bears and the whole melting ice cap thing.  I wake up in a cold sweat replaying the image of polar bears floundering around in the middle of the ocean like I saw on a documentary once.   

Lovely isn't it?  It's very festive I think.

Do you worry about bees?  Or something else?  Or nothing? Do you use cloth nappies?  For yourself maybe? This is a JUDGEMENT FREE ZONE my friends.

Walk on by. Melbourne Cup.

So my injured toe still hurts, probably because I didn't actually do anything to help it heal like tape it to its larger neighbour as advised by that esteemed medical professional Dr Google.  So I haven't been running. Or even getting off the couch much, ha!  Look it's not all doom and gloom,  I did manage a couple of walks over the last week.  The other day I took myself off to tramp the picturesque avenues of our bogan suburb and made a brief foray into one of the streets with slightly older (ie more than 5 years old) and fairly unloved houses.  This is the kind of vignette I am confronted with around these here parts...

A high class beverage juxtaposed with...

Some high class undies.  The mind boggles.

As I was just getting into it, with a spring in my step and a twinkle in my eye, I was accosted by a small and shaggy mutt who came bounding along at full tilt and jumped upon my person.

"Oh good Lord," I thought as I tried to extricate myself from the eager beast, who was pawing me and wagging its tail and grinning, "Why does this sort of stuff always happen to me.  This is why I never exercise."  I tried to catch the eye of a man sporting a high vis jacket in his garage, to ascertain if this was his animal, but he assiduously ignored my pleading expression and promptly headed off in his utility vehicle at high speed. Coward.  Anyway, I gently kicked the beast off my legs and attempted to keep walking, pretending I wasn't being followed by a small and desperate dog.  Finally I grudgingly bent down to check its collar - of course there wasn't one.  So I did what any respectable citizen would do - I turned on my heel, and walked quickly the other way.  I cast one glance back over my shoulder to see the small animal standing staring mournfully at me.  I kept going until I was well round the corner.

"Yes!" I thought. "I've given it the slip!"

I continued on my merry way, waving neighbourly hellos, until all of a sudden I heard a thuddida, thuddida, pant, pant, pant!  And I was again barrelled into at full speed by the poor abandoned canine.

"Shit and bum," I muttered.
There was no escaping my civic duty now, no matter how hard I tried.  So I did what any actually properly good citizen should do.  I scooped the little creature up into my arms and kept walking.  There were a couple of slack-jawed yokels in their garage, so I asked them if they recognised the dog.  They answered in the negative.  There wasn't anyone else around so I made the hike all the way back home with the bloody dog in my arms.  Let me tell you it was no mean feat.  Thank goodness I am used to lugging a toddler around or I would have collapsed and would have been in need of rescuing myself.  I phoned ahead to warn M of what was about to arrive at home, lest he think I had finally gone totally mental.  When I got home, we put the dog out in the backyard so it didn't freak out our already fairly neurotic cat.  P was keen to come and see the dog, but we all went inside so we didn't frighten it.  I was just Googling the animal control number, when M went outside to check on it, and the ridiculous creature had vanished.  I ran out the front to see if it was on the street, and it was totally gone.  Ungrateful wretch.

I felt sad. I'd grown fond of it during the 15 minutes it had spent in my arms.  So I rang the council anyway, just to let them know in the hope they could find it and take it home.

I went for a walk again yesterday, and when I returned P said, "Did you find the little doggy Mummy?"
"No," I answered.
"Oh", she said, lip quivering.  I faffed on and told her it had gone back to its own people and its own house.  I hope it has, and that it isn't still wandering the streets or on death row at the pound.

In slightly more glamorous news, I had a couple of fellow llaaaadddiiieeessssssshhhhh round for a bit of lunchie poo for the Melbourne Cup, it was gggrrreeeeaaassshh.....

I asked M to print out some pictures so I could hang them up round the place to create ATMOSPHERE.  I think he did well in his selections.

Why, hello Megan Gale!

Looking good Miranda.

Oh, you know, just hanging out with Jen and Snoop.

I made a sign to stick out the front.

Doesn't it just make you feel like you are THERE?! Who needs the Emirates tent!

 After the guests went home I stuck the poster on our bedroom door, just to jazz shit up and add a bit of SPICE! That's how I roll.  M was suitably, er, bemused is probably the best word.

Me wearing my only racewear appropriate head thingie. From high class establishment Diva.  I get this baby out every year.  Next year I might lash out and treat myself to a new one from, I don't know, maybe Target?

Did everyone have a nice Cup?  Ever stolen a dog?  What's the latest?

The comfort eating stops here.

We had Baby B christened on Sunday.  It was a wonderful day.  He looked the part in a dinky little sailor's suit I bought online from Gilt.com.  My first and enduring blog love Faux Fuchsia would be pleased.  She is an expert on snappy dressing for small boys.

Thank you internet shopping, you've proved yourself yet again.

What a dapper little chappie.

The proud parents, who, as you can tell from this picture, are positively wasting away and need a jolly good feed or they will be SKIN AND BONES! I don't think.

With the priestly legs of the priest (Hi Father M!) and with P wearing her new dress.  

I was a bit worried that P's dress was borderline Mormon Sister Wife but decided that unless I did her hair like this, it should be right...

[Source]

I realised afterwards that I wore blue on this occasion and wore pink to P's christening in what could be mistaken for deliberate gender specific coordination.  'twas not on purpose I assure you.

Mum and I comparing bosoms.  P only had eyes for mine so I won.

There's nothing more motivating than seeing unflattering photos of yourself. I've been scrutinising the christening photos obsessively.  Oh my.  The comfort eating STOPS HERE PEOPLE!  I am not kidding.  OK maybe not including tomorrow which is Melbourne Cup.  But DEFINITELY AFTER THAT!  I SWEAR!  I'm thinking of taking up a different habit, something that can keep the pounds off, like exercise (I've fallen off the running wagon a bit), or meditation, or maybe crack cocaine.

Whatever works.

I wore some voluminous Bridget Jones-esque knickers underneath the dress (my mother was happy about that naturally) to smooth out the lumps and bumps and obviously to save innocent passers by from witnessing the full horror that is the flesh-rippling effect of my normal undies.  I am simply ALWAYS thinking of others.  Unfortunately this altruism backfired slightly when I came back from the loo and lined up for communion, only to have an elderly man tap me on the shoulder and whisper confidingly "Scuse me love, but you've got your dress caught up at the back".  The humiliation.  I laughed shrilly and yanked it all down.  Damn you huge undies, it would never have happened if I'd worn normal pants and been able to feel my legs.  I can only imagine the vision he copped an eyeful of, poor unsuspecting parishioner.  The stuff of nightmares.

Oh Lordy!

[Source]

Home alone on Halloween.

Home alone again for another night as a widow to the inevitable last minute assignment completion that occurs around this time during the term.  I told M and the kids at breakfast this morning that the blog now had 3 official "followers" and thirty something Facebook Fans so they better start treating me right or else, because now I am an InterWeb Sensation and I might start getting ideas.  Didn't do a bit of good, they all behaved exactly the same anyway.

I suppose I should do an obligatory Halloween Post.  I used to get really Scrooge like about Halloween, and rant on about the Americanisation of Australian Culture, Sugar is the Devil, trick or treating is unsafe, blah di blah blah, but let's face it, that ship has sailed now.  Particularly the whole Americanisation thing.  As if it's Halloween that is Americanising our culture.  Look around, people!  It's ALREADY HAPPENED!  We are watching the Frankenstorm LIKE IT IS HAPPENING IN OUR OWN COUNTRY!  May as well adopt the holidays too.  And Halloween isn't even American, it's originally Celtic or Briton or something.  All Hallow's Eve, remember?  I quite like the idea of adopting Thanksgiving too, it seems like a pleasant tradition.


So M bought 3 bags of lollies to hand out to the random kids who sometimes turn up.  But since he hasn't been here, I had all the lights out the front turned off and the door shut while I single-handedly wrangled both smalls into the bath and bed, and I think it must have put off potential callers.  I only had one,  a pushy girl who ran down the driveway and banged on the door, sullenly staring at me and muttering "Trick or Treat".  Nary a parent to be seen.  WTF?
As a kid I had a friend whose family always put on a Halloween party and it was really fun, they would organise the neighbourhood and we would all walk round the pre-arranged houses with our parents, trick or treating.  I find it really weird that people would just let their kids wander around random houses in their neighbourhood without planning it first.
Anyway, I gave her a mini Cherry Ripe and she slunk off without egging the car so we're ahead there.

So the laws of science and mathematics tell us that three bags of lollies/chocolates, minus one tiny Cherry Ripe bar, equals a shitload of leftovers, to the power of "Get in Mah Belly!".  Anyone see that episode of the Vicar of Dibley where she wakes up on the couch covered in chocolate wrappers after a big night on the good stuff?  That's pretty much how I look right now.

Couldn't find a pic of that episode so here's the one where she sticks her whole head in the chocolate fountain.  Same thing really. 

Weather. Cauliflower Cheese. Yoga.

I think I'm turning into one of those dullards who can only ever talk about the weather.  But it's just so damn INTERESTING!  I spend half my life checking the BOM site or looking at the weather app on my phone.  I'm constantly wondering whether to put the baby in a sleeping bag or not, turn his fan on or not, have the window open or not.   My single tip of the cap to living an organised and streamlined existence is to have the clothes I will wear the next day laid out the night before.  Without full knowledge of the weather I am rendered impotent in this most important of activities, and start the day entirely wrong footed!  And my goodness, it's just so mercurial at the moment, if I don't remain on top of all forecasting developments I could make a fatal error of climate-appropriate clothing judgement.  Nothing worse than seeing a poor sap shivering in thongs and shorts in the freezing rain, or a sad creature wearing jeans and boots when all else are living la vida loca in a sundress.  I will not let that be me!

Seasonally appropriate clothes are one thing, but food is definitely something else.  Today was roasting, so naturally I did the obvious thing and slow cooked an enormous lump of corned beef and then made steaming hot cauliflower cheese to go with it.  Yes, the house was beautiful, fresh, breezy and cool after that, I don't think!  I was sweating like a fat man in a sauna when I finally sat down to eat.

Mmmm.  Grey scummy meaty goodness.  As refreshing and invigorating as a spray of Norsca on your pits.

Cauliflower cheese...as cooling as a mint julep on a hot summer's day. Who needs an icy cold jug of Pimms when you can get your laughing gear round this baby? 

Earlier in the day, despite Baby B still suffering from a bit of a cold, we went to P's friend M's 3rd birthday party.  Her mum K went to a lot of trouble and all the small fry were very well behaved.  There was lots of delicious party related food, but naturally I took my own stash of wholesome snacks (celery and cottage cheese) and refused all offers to partake in the sweet or salty, saying "lips that touch fat shall never touch mine", and so forth*.

In other healthy lifestyle moves, I went to yoga again last night.  When I arrived I bailed up the instructor and querulously moaned about my injured foot and how I'd have to take it easy.  She was obviously thinking "Stop your whinging, porky. Drop and give me twenty" because at one point during the class,  she came over and lay on top of me with her full body weight, folding me virtually in half  and forcing my face ever closer to my feet.  All I could think was thank God I hadn't eaten my dinner before I'd left home, because it was curry, and the pressure she was placing on my tummy could have resulted in a highly embarrassing gastro-intestinal incident.  As it was, it merely had the result of forcing all the air in my body out of my mouth in a strangled groan, but it could have been much worse had other orifices been involved.  Ahem.  Still, I have to admit it was strangely exhilarating.

Anyone else got some tips for keeping cool in the heat?  Ever farted in a yoga class? Tell me everything!




*Not really.  I may have stood vulture-like over the party food table, blocking the path of small children and shoveling fairy bread and pikelets into my face at a rate of knots.  When will the madness end?

Laundry. ALDI. Mojo.

Wore the same outfit two days in a row in an attempt to redress the "time spent doing laundry": "time I don't spend doing laundry" ratio imbalance.  I'm a veritable martyr to the bloody washing at the moment.  I tell you, drop the ball laundry-wise for a few days and you better watch out because around here you are likely to be BURIED ALIVE in it, be it clean, dirty or waiting in vain to be ironed.

Get this look!  Breastfeeding chair doubles as laundry recepticle.

I'm not sure about the re-wearing of the outfit, it's possible that it is just a slippery slope to crazy town.  Perhaps next I'll be skipping showers...oh, wait, I did that too this week!!  Naturally the day I couldn't manage a shower just had to coincide with the day that I was forced to madly dash to daycare/hospital with concussed child.  Lucky my clothes were clean.  Apart from the vomit.  Anyway.

My parents took turns to come and hang out here for a day each to help me watch over the concussed one and look after the infant.  I took the opportunity during Mum's visit to make an enjoyable trip to my new favourite shop....ALDI.  That's right readers, ALDI.  It is the business, the bomb, the bees knees of supermarket shopping.  And there's a new one open now just down the road from us!

Now it's taken me some time to come to terms with the fact that I've ended up living in a very, very, very outer suburban area, in a low-set brick house in (of all places!) the Gold Coast.  I'm sure I should really be whiling away my days in a loft apartment in Manhattan or a garret somewhere in Paris, gaily filling my shopping basket with baguettes, bagels and other market-related tidbits.

Not the Gold Coast.  Taken by me, a million years ago.

I'm not sure what happened there.  I probably should have had a ten year plan that didn't include racking up a huge HECS debt studying an Arts degree and librarianship where you can only ever earn about 2 cents an hour.  You reap what you sow, people.  I should have listened to my father, but don't tell him that.

Anyway, the point is that probably if I was living the dream in one of those locations, my favourite shop would be, I don't know, Chanel or Hermes or something, but when in Rome (or the Gold Coast), do as the Gold Coast-ians do.  So I've embraced the cut-price experience that is ALDI shopping with gusto.

As I was fiddling round with the trolleys, a fellow shopper and I shared a moment of ALDI love.  

"This one is so QUIET and with such great parking!" she marvelled.

"I know!" I said, "And we live JUST UP THE ROAD!"

She gazed at me with awe. "So. Lucky," she whispered. "You have EVERYTHING."

It's all in the eye of the beholder I guess.

I am starting to even look forward to the mad bit at the end where I am in an unspoken battle with the checkout attendant, trying to shove the groceries back into my trolley faster than they can scan them through. My checkout person on this occasion was a nice fellow who gave me a generous headstart.

"I think I'm getting better at this now," I boasted to him. "My husband simply cannot handle the pace, but I enjoy it".

"Yes, some people can't handle it, that is true " checkout man confided to me. "But if you make a game of it, it can be lots of FUN!"

"Oh YES it is FUN!" I trilled back, gaily packing my purchases into bags and skipping lightly back to the car.

Look, take your pleasure where you can, I say.

I am forced to note here in a late entry that my pleasure has been muted somewhat by my discovery this morning that I left a whole bag of shopping in the boot of the car, including some frozen (well, not any more) salmon fillets.  The horror.

Also, I have totally and utterly lost my exercise mojo this week.  Please someone help. I could blame stress and worry but let's be honest, it's pure laziness. 

ADDENDUM:  Some loyal readers have queried my assertion that Gaspard and Lisa are dogs, and have alleged that they are actually giant rabbits. According to reliable sources (what? Wikipedia is reliable, right?), Gaspard and Lisa are indeed 6-year old anthropomorphic dogs.     

ADDENDUM TO THE ADDENDUM:  I've noticed my total pageviews have gone over 1000 now.  Weird. If you are reading this, join in!  Comment!  You'll never look back.

Diarising. Shuffling. Swearing. A night off.

As advised by experienced colleagues (that is, mainly my talented friend L) I think I'm just going to make this blog like a diary.  But, you know, an awesome one.  Funny and erudite and stuff.

So, here we go.

Saturday morning I indulged in my new habit, which, unusually for me, is a good one.  Running.  Or more accurately, shuffling.  I'm enjoying it.  It helps to have a marvellous playlist on the old Ipod, I find it helps trick my brain into thinking it's doing something pleasant.  Interestingly, as I shuffled along the path it occurred to me that my carefully assembled songlist is not dissimilar to the one I listened to when I was in labour with Baby B.  Except  this time I'm not leaning over a hospital bed, alternately moaning, crying and dry wretching.  OK, maybe there's been a little bit of dry wretching.  I bet you are all dying to know what I listen to on my little sojournes.  Well, fret no more, here is my super jogging playlist.  Eclectic, to say the least.  Make of it what you will.

Elton John - "Tiny Dancer"
Everything But The Girl - "Mirrorball"
Everything But The Girl - "Missing"
Florence + The Machine - "You've Got the Love"
Florence + The Machine - "Dog Days Are Over"
Gotye - "Somebody That I Used To Know"
Gotye - "In Your Light"
Gotye - "Eyes Wide Open"
New Order - "Bizarre Love Triangle" (Thanks to my 80s loving husband)
Old Blind Dogs - "Is There For Honest Poverty"
Silverchair - "Straight Lines"

I spose you've probably never heard of Old Blind Dogs.  Well you are missing out, they are Prince Charles' favourite band.  Do yourselves a favour people.

As you can probably tell from the number of songs on the playlist, I can't shuffle for very long just yet.  But I'm getting better.

On Saturday evening we had some new friends over for a BBQ, the family of P's lovely kindy friend H.  P, unused to socialising after dark, got overexcited and  tried indulging in her latest hobby (nude trampolining) whilst  shouting "Poo-poo!" at random intervals.  The little exhibitionist.  Luckily we managed to avert too much nudism and the smalls played nicely together.  I, being equally unused to night time socialising, also got overexcited and started swearing like a madwoman.  I was dropping the f-word like it was going out of fashion.  I'm sure our lovely genteel guests were expecting me to break out the Winnie Blues and crack a VB at any moment.  How embarrassment.

I've always been a swear bear.  It's like the pressure of repressing my swearing urge while hanging around small children all the time just got to me.  After they left, I said to M, "Gosh, I feel like I was swearing a lot tonight".  M said thoughtfully, "Yes.  I did notice that." Dear oh dear.  Uncouth.  No wonder P spends her whole life talking about poo and bums, she obviously inherited it from me.

In a first for our family, yesterday afternoon M took P off to Brisbane to stay overnight with her cousins, N and S, leaving me ostensibly with the night off.  You know your life has changed forever when being left alone to look after a 7 month old baby for 24 hours can be considered a night off.  Ha ha, she laughed hollowly.  No, but seriously, it really was quite relaxing.  I got him off to bed at 5.30pm (yessss!), which left the whole night stretching in front of me.  I really made the most of it, prowling around the house looking wistfully at P's empty bed, sipping a glass of wine, eating cheese and biscuits for dinner, locating and then devouring M's secret chocolate stash and finishing off a packet of leftover BBQ chips.  I topped it off by fiddling round on the interweb and then watched "Call the Midwife" on the ABC.  I love that show.  I really do know how to enjoy myself, I'll say that much.

I guess most other people in the known universe watched the Rugby League grand final, but as I may have mentioned before, I generally do not indulge in this past time.  I used to be fond of saying that my worst nightmare was to wake up one day to discover I'd accidentally won a backyard BBQ with the Broncos as a prize for something or other.  Tres uncomfortable, as they don't say in France.

P's abandoned bedroom. Sob.

This morning I felt so bad about my awful dinner last night that I got up and made a "Green Smoothie".  I'm not kidding.  I blame Instagram for this.  It's full of pictures of healthsome people and their luridly green breakfast smoothies.  I'd never even heard of them until I got on the IG bandwagon.  Basically it's a smoothie made from fruit etc. with some sneaky greenery added.  This morning I added green kale.

It was surprisingly tasty, but as you can see mine isn't green, it's brown.  And served in a beer glass.  Typical.  Still, I felt virtuous, even if it did remind me of Aunt Loretta from "Grandpa in my Pocket" and her "Green Gloop".

Naughty Grandpa, this time you've gone too far! (Click for link)

Poor old Loretta. (Click for link)

So, how about that Alan Jones, eh?