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.

The public v private debate, or "Daft Punk is for weirdos"

Recently, my semi-retired mother returned to work as a part-time high school teacher. For the first time in her life, she is working at a fancy pants private school. After a lifetime of channeling Michelle Pfeiffer in Dangerous Minds (aka working at huge state high schools in low socio-economic areas), and championing the public education cause, she is wide-eyed in amazement at how the other side learns, and is loving every second of it. Loving it SICK. The traitorous wench.

She admitted to me the other day, "Oh darling, it was SUCH A RELIEF! I mean, I was really worried that somewhere like [insert name of my old high school here] would ask me to work there. Oh it would have been simply AWFUL. I am SO RELIEVED they didn't ask me to work at [insert name of my old high school here]."

I rolled my eyes and said, "Yeah. Yeah HOW AWFUL. I mean WHO WOULD SEND THEIR KID TO A SCHOOL LIKE THAT!? I mean IMAGINE! THE HORROR! IT'S PRACTICALLY CHILD ABUSE! Oh, hang on, hang on. WAIT A MINUTE! THAT'S RIGHT! YOU SENT ME THERE! YOU! CALLOUS UNLOVING PARENT! Pshaw! Pftt! UGH!"

It was a little unfair of me really, she has had a difficult* year and couldn't have coped with the stress of it all. She bloody deserves to spend some time teaching in a school where she's not working in a 20 year old demountable with the walls kicked in, and where the kids don't tell her to "Oy! Get FUCKED, Miss!"

"At [insert name of fancy pants private school here], the kids are ALLOWED TO GO TO THE TOILET DURING CLASS!" she told me in awe. "We used to have to fill out FORMS and PAPERWORK before a kid could do that at a state school! And they have a COFFEE SHOP! And a THEATRE! All the classrooms are AIR CONDITIONED!"

"Bastards," I said bitterly.

Ah, the public/private divide.  That old chestnut.  That old sausage. That old grey mare, she ain't what she used to be.

Most of my friends from primary school went to private high schools.  It was only a couple of us that went on to the local public high school.  I remember clearly, on the last day of Grade 7, we all cried and wailed in an embarrasing display of pre-teen hysteria.  As we sat in the middle of the oval, clutching each other and weeping, one of the private school destined friends said earnestly to me, "Sarah! Promise me you'll never EVER wear a short straight skirt with your uniform, or wear your hair hanging down your back. PROMISE ME!"

"I won't. I won't EVER!" I vowed, so sure then that short skirts and loose hair were the quick road to ruin.

HAHA! AS IF THAT LASTED! You know as soon as I got there I was begging Mum to take my skirt up to bum-skimming heights and was wearing my hair hanging loose round my shoulders like the public school hussy that I was.

So the years went by. We stayed in touch with our beloved friends but things changed a bit. They went on to win the Rock Eisteddfod, we went on to lose it. They went on to have an arse-kickingly good concert band that probably won the Fanfare competition, we went on to play gigs at the local shopping centre that involved standing up and shouting "Tequila!" in the middle of a song. They developed passionate interests in theatre and THE ARTS,  we developed unhealthy obsessions with the dudes from Green Day.

Towards the end of high school, I think it was Grade 11, two of the private school friends had a big party, and they invited us, the public school friends, to come. It was to farewell them as they headed off on year long student exchanges. We were to wear red and white, the colours of their host countries.

Because we were NERVOUS and TRYING TO BE COOL and it was THE NINETIES we decided the best idea would be to wear white petticoats, red and white football socks and Doc Martens. SO HOT! HOW COULD ALL THOSE PRIVATE SCHOOL BOYS REFUSE? They would never know that we were all DAGGY DORKS, they would be tricked into thinking we were HOT STATE SCHOOL REBELS MAN! YEAH!

This is us circa 1996/7. Not at said red and white party. At another party. I am on the far left. I've used this picture before. How good are my pants? They totes fit into the Fashion Fails themeing we've got going on for The Lounge this week, I will say that much.

We got there and to our shock a group of the COOL BOYS from our school were already there. Apparently they had part time jobs in the same place as our hosts. Our cover was blown. They looked at us in surprise, like they hadn't realised that we might exist outside school hours. We lurked in a corner watching everyone dancing to the actual live DJ who was there. He was, like, just dropping some BEATS and spinning some PROGRESSIVE HOUSE MUSIC or something.

We didn't recognise anything they played, until a Daft Punk song came on. Daft Punk was not our THING, man. We groaned, and rolled our eyes. "Ugh! I HATE Daft Punk!" we all said, wrinkling our noses.

All the other guests squealed, and ran excitedly onto the dancefloor. "I LOVE THIS!!!" they cried in unison. We watched on, incredulous, as they popped some moves. How could we be so OUT OF IT!? We shuffled uncomfortably and folded our arms, until it finished, and the next song came on.

It was that sexually suggestive R&B song "Pony" by one hit wonders "Ginuwine". Remember??? GHASTLY.

We squealed and clapped our hands together. "OH WE LOVE THIS SONG!" we shouted, running onto the dancefloor to join the other guests.  They all stopped in their tracks, announcing "UGHHHH. HATE THIS SONG! HATE IT!". They left the dancefloor as quickly as we joined it.

We danced a little more self consciously then. I started to realise how crass the lyrics were, and tried to dance IRONICALLY to it, but the jig was basically up. I felt the eyes of the room on us.

    Ride it, my pony
    My saddle's waiting
   Come and jump on it...

After the song finished, we slunk away. Our beloved friend, one of the hosts, L, said to us "OH! I just KNEW you girls would like that song! SO FUNNY!" she smiled and laughed, genuinely (or should that be "ginuinely") delighted. We laughed nervously and changed the subject but I still felt  embarrassed.

Anyway I'm not sure exactly what the point of this story is except that it sticks in my head as a defining example of the difference between private schools and public schools. Like;

Fancy theatre/no fancy theatre
Air conditioned classrooms/75 million year old decrepit demountables with holey walls
Long skirts/Short skirts
Rock eisteddfod winners/rock eisteddfod losers

SEXUALLY SUGGESTIVE R&B ONE HIT WONDER/PROGRESSIVE FRENCH ELECTRONIC MUSIC OUTFIT DUO

VS

  

SEE how crazy big the public/private divide has become??? SEE??? It's a bloody travesty.

I think that there is something in that for all of us.

What's that you say? This whole post is rambling and makes no sense and the parallels I am drawing are confusing and you're not sure what I am getting at?

SHUT UUUUPPPP! IT MAKES SENSE TO ME OK? GAH!


*Understatement of the millennium

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.

Cooking writers I have loved.

I was talking to some lady friends of mine the other day when discussion inevitably turned from Global Politics and Feminist Issues, to the making of the family dinners. My line of conversation was, as usual, moaning on about how I had lost my cooking mojo. I know, ho hum.

Yeah yeah, I hear you say, so she opens a tin of beans for the kids for dinner, ho ho, how amusing, oh yes we get it - SLAPDASH - yes, we get it, stop labouring the point already...

WELL guys if you would ACTUALLY let me get a word in, then I would be able to say that I was ALSO talking about how much I used to love to cook. OK? Ugh!

We were also talking about how great it is THESE DAYS how we can just GOOGLE recipes and look them up on Taste.com or whatever those recipe websites are.

Which THEN led us onto the subject of COOKING BOOKS and how much we all used to love them and how they are presumably going to become defunct, what with the RISE OF THE INTERNET, and all.

Which THEN made me think about my own beloved collection of cookery bookery.  Well, mine and M's. He has a prodigious collection himself.  In our courting days we used to spend the whole time cooking each other nice meals and eating them and drinking wine and stuff. Now we just drink.

Here's some miscellaneous thoughts on cookery bookery and cookery writery types for your reading pleasure.

This is the little bookshelf on the end of our kitchen bench wherein we store our cooking books. The bench itself is for storing sunglasses, discarded cardigans, plastic baskets full of assorted miscellaneous household detritus including pencils, notebooks, kindy paintings and fluff. OBVIOUSLY. Also, we have a kiddy gate. Get excited everyone.

I've definitely gone through a few fads cooking book wise but here's some of my consistent performers.

I've already told you lot how much I love Nigella. And that sometimes I am a conduit through which she channels her raw energy. She is my cookery muse. In fact I was inhabited by her body only last week when I spent a good few hours standing in the kitchen shoveling whole loaves of white bread spread with peanut paste into my mouth. Between you and me, I prefer it when she uses me for good not evil. Anyway this is her CLASSIC book that EVERYONE should get. Do it. Has a really good bit in it about cooking for kids too. Everyone who hates Nigella CAN SHOVE IT because I ADORE HER.

This is one of M's and we both love it sick. It is actually falling apart. I think Jill used to be food writer for The Guardian or something. Anyway I used her recipe for Anzac biscuits today, as I always do. I know they aren't hard but it is a real BALANCE of dry vs. wet ingredients, and we all know what happens when the BALANCE IS OUT OF WHACK. It is a veritable DISASTER OF EPIC PROPORTIONS. By that I mean, your bikkie doesn't stick together properly.

OK I should have put these next two up with Nigella but it's too hard to fiddle round with the pics now so we will MAKE DO.  Nigel Slater. I love him so much. I have this book....

...and this one. This is more recent. He has done quite a few. When I am feeling bleak I just flip through this one in particular and it never fails to cheer me the hell up. It has beautiful photos in it from his cool garden at his London house. I mean, you do kind of have to get over your jealousy of reading about how he just trips down the street and picks up odds and ends from fancy butchers and bakers and candlestickmakers when all we have in outer suburbia is Aldi and Woolworths but never mind. Also the recipes are good. And he is a great writer. He wrote a memoir of his early life called "Toast". I borrowed it from my cousin B. It is surprisingly sad and touching. Also he loves Nigella and she loves him. I KNOW! THE BEST!

I couldn't leave Stephanie out. This is THE BEST. M had an older edition but we snaffled this one up for a song when poor old Borders was closing down, and gave our old one to my mum. Beggars can't be chooser eh Mum? I'll thank you to be grateful. Anyway if you haven't got this then do yourselves a favour. It is organised by ingredient, so if you find yourself with a surplus of, say, mushrooms or lamb or tripe then you can look up a recipe for said ingredient. Bob's your uncle! Also it has useful things like a guide for converting measurements. Particularly useful for me at the moment because I broke our digital scales by immersing them in water to wash them. But don't tell M, I am playing dumb.

And speaking of fads, I present to you last, but definitely least, something from my youth.

Up yours Donna Hay. I used to love her so bad. I used to try and master the "Donna Hay spaghetti twirl". Oh how I yearned to twirl it like Donna. I bought her magazines and her cookbooks, even the Marie Claire ones. UNTIL I REALISED SOMETHING! They are crap. The recipes OFTEN don't work. I am sure they aren't tested. Also, I didn't like her on Masterchef. 

 So there you have it readers, some interesting tidbits from my brain to yours.

Do you still use cookbooks? Or the internet? Do you FREESTYLE it like my mum does? Or do you need a recipe for boiling an egg? Do you Donna Hay while the sun shines?

Tell me everything - and bon appetit!

Blog Power Events.

Blog Power Events run workshops for bloggers, and they are holding one very soon, and they are giving away a free ticket!

As if I would need to go to a blogging workshop!? Pfft. Me? AS IF!

Look we all know that I am just amazingly talented and gifted in many different areas. I am the ULTIMATE MULTI TASKER!

It's actually REALLY HARD for me to think of ways I could be improved by such a workshop. I am practically perfect in every way already!

See! Practically perfect. Like the original super nanny herself.

Like, I am totes a fashion blogger - I can model awesome clothes REALLY WELL,  and have my finger on the pulse, fashion wise, as demonstrated in Exhibit A;

Yeah baby WORK IT!

I am skilled in photography, absolutely a PRO! Exhibit B -

Still life, with thumbs.

I am a SHAMELESS NETWORKER! Exhibit C;

Just hanging out with the Silver Budgie back in the day...

I am EXTREMELY good at all things techy. I am so awesome that I even know how to use the photocopier at work! Sometimes. If you only want a single A4 copy. Behold, Exhibit D;

Here I am just tappity tapping away on the ole computer, HIGH TECH STYLE!

See? I am already an expert at everything.

So look, basically after going through all that rigmarole I've realised I am just on top of pretty much everything, blogging wise, and frankly I can't IMAGINE what this Blog Power Events bizzo could possibly teach me.

I mean maybe I should be PRESENTING at the workshop! Yes I think I should!

I'll be waiting by the phone for their people to call my people. I am sure it will happen at ANY MOMENT!

DISCLAIMER: I do not actually know anything about blogging or photography or the interwebz or searching engine thingummies or anything. I was lying.

PICK ME!!!! PICK ME!!!!!!!! PICK MEEEEE!!!!!!!
*weeps quietly*

THE END.

The garden - theatre of the mind.

I haven't done a garden post for a bit.

A blog is a funny thing. I could choose to show you these pics of our little garden...

Rosy red geranium. Hello cheery little friend.

Banksia, man.

May Gibbs eat your heart out. 

As above. Australiana nostalgia. DOESN'T IT MAKE YOU SICK WITH ENVY??

We have a lovely herb garden. DOESN'T EVERYONE? NO? Just us then. We are so good.

Lavender. Yes we grow it VERY SUCCESSFULLY!

Baby punkin. You know, to feed the kids. They LOVE PUMPKIN AND ALL FORMS OF VEGETABLE ESPECIALLY ZUCCHINI AND ALL GREENS.

When two basils go to war...I LOVE FRESH HERBS DON'T YOU?

OR...I could show you these pics of the garden!

Shitting bloody fecking weeds RUINING THINGS FOR EVERYBODY!

Lone dead agapanthus. Begging for dead heading. 

Random bits of rubbish. And weeds.

Weeds. I hate you you little bastards.

Random weird fern growing up from under the house. Like maybe it's been there since the Jurassic period. Plus random dog that isn't ours. Plus weeds. And so forth.

This is what greets you when you come to our front door.  A big huge fancy expensive pot with - yes that's right - WEEDS IN IT!

Look at this crazy freak out of a plant! WHAT IS IT? IS IT A TRIFFID? I AM SCARED PEOPLE!!!

 You can decide what to believe about our garden. It's all theatre of the MIND, baby!

See youse!

On taking things seriously.

Happy Easter everyone! I hope you all had a great time. It seems like all the people I follow on Twitter are hardcore atheists all decrying Easter as some sort of festival of the zombie apocalypse. And chocolate.

Novel.

The kids and I go regularly to our local Anglican church, so naturally celebrate Easter as, you know, well, Easter. And chocolate.

But whatever floats your boat is ok with me. I know others don't feel this way but there you have it.

Live and let live people!

Anyway, on a not completely unrelated point, I was watching "Miranda" on ABC1 last night, after Call the Midwife. Oh lordie. Sunday night TV viewing has come into its own again.  I love Miranda SICK.  Just in case you don't know what I am talking about here is a You Tube clip I found...




This clip is kind of like a physical representation of what I am trying to tell you in this blog post. 

The older I get the less capable I seem to be of taking shit seriously. I mean, it is starting to WORRY ME!!

I work in what can only be described as an Ancient and Venerable Institution that is Very Important and Serious and Important in its Serious Ancientness.  I don't talk about it here because I don't want to lose said job.  But I will say this.

I find it hard to take shit seriously. The older I get the less respect I have for authority. There is something particular that happens to me when I am confronted with Earnest Serious Suit-Wearing Important Serious people, particularly at work, like in the lift or something. As they frown to themselves, stroke their ties or fondle their Ipads, I have to resist the MOST OVERWHELMING TEMPTATION to tell them a knock-knock joke, rub their belly for good luck, give them a noogie on their bald heads or make farting noises with my armpit whilst simultaneously commenting "How about those BRONCOS, eh!?" or "Did you watch Game of Thrones last night! Phwoooaaarrr!".

Don't panic people because I do generally maintain a façade of respectability and refrain from doing these things but OMG! THE TEMPTATION!

Back in the day I used to worry so much about the IMPORTANT SERIOUS NATURE OF MY WORK that I would sometimes sob in the toilets from stress and anxiety.  I was the MOST diligent student at school, and lived in constant fear of getting in trouble from the teacher, constant fear of not getting into uni because that would be LIFE OVER PEOPLE, constant fear of THE PEOPLE AND WHAT THEY THOUGHT OMG THEY HATE MEEEE and so forth.

Now I'm worried I've gone so far the other way that before you know it I will be putting whoopee cushions on people's seats and giving presentations in the form of Interprative Dance. 

Am I the only one this has happened too? Anyone else tempted to give your boss a wedgie in the lift and then run away giggling? Are you overly familiar with your superiors at work like me? I don't know what I'm going to do next. Think of me tomorrow. I will be sniggering in my office like a teenage boy who just dacked their mate in the playground, trying to resist the urge to tickle one of the suit-wearers until he farts.


DISCLAIMER: PEOPLE FROM WORK WHO READ THIS BLOG, PLEASE NOTE I AM ACTUALLY A REALLY SERIOUS FUCKING SMART AND HARD WORKING DILIGENT BLOODY EMPLOYEE AND I TAKE CARE OF BUSINESS LIKE THERE'S NO TOMORROW

DON'T WORRY!!!

Phewwww...hopefully that's covered it nicely.

Have fun at work tomorrow, readers! You know I do!

My Skin Care Regime.

Ciao fellow fashionistas.

Tonight's edition of the Slapdash Fashion Spectacular is an overview of my very own skin care regime.

This face doesn't just take care of itself you know. I have to put the hard yards in to maintain my apparently effortlessly flawless complexion.

As is my habit, I will present it to you in dot point form, accompanied by helpful pictorial aids.

• Cleansing - It is important to cleanse your skin. I cleanse my skin. Cleanse is a weird word, isn't it? Cleanse. Means clean. But, like, with extra letters.  Woah, does my voice sound weird to you? Hahahahahahaha...it totally does sound weird! Look at my hands they are so HUGE!  Anyway I use stuff to clean my face.

This is the stuff I use. It's from fancy boutique establishment Woolies. When I'm not wearing makeup I just use water. I know! Novel.

I use a washer to cleanse my face too. This one has added stains from wiping the baby's face.  I like to think of them as extra nutrients for my skin. Some people pay the big bucks for that gear you know.







• Moisturising - I mostly don't bother. Sometimes I shove Oil of Olay on. I use whatever half finished tubes and bottles are lying round for my hands and feet. But mostly I can't be arsed.

That's it people! Enlightening isn't it?

Anyway, yesterday's OOTD received an overwhelming response so I am continuing on with today's high fashion costume.

OPI Shorts Story. Chipped to buggery. Forgive me FF for I have sinned. It's been 14 days since my last NP application.

I'm mixing up the bathroom selfies for you. Top and skirt Veronika Maine. Scarf my mum's old one from back in the day. Can you believe I used to wear it as a sort of top arrangement? I wore it today because it has purple on it and my colleague R makes us all wear a particular colour on Tuesdays. Today it was purple. Fascinating, no?

Here I am importantly Taking Care of Business and Getting Shit Done. I was interested to note the development of significant back fat in this photo. Perhaps I need to source some control underwear for my upper body? Any tips for getting rid of it? The back fat? I mean, apart from like, losing weight and doing exercise and toning up and shit. 

My shoes. Also from an op shop.

 There you have it.

Do you have back fat? Do you wash your face? Own any full body control underwear?

I'm dying to know.

It's Fashion Week at Slapdash Mama!

Hi readers.

I'm a bit off my game at the moment due to my poor health and sick kids and blah blah blah moan moan sigh cough cough coughhhhhh hack snort gnnrrgghhhhhh.....

Anyway it is unfortunate timing my friends. Unfortunate timing indeed, because it is at this VERY MOMENT that the judges for the Kidspot Voices 2013 are hovering enthusiastically over nominated blogs, determining WHO WILL BE THE WINNER!? or even who will be in the Top 100??!? No pressure at all dudes. Nope. None.

Everyone just LOOK NORMAL OK!?

Anyway, and this has NOTHING AT ALL TO DO WITH BEING NOMINATED FOR VOICES 2013, but it just so happens that as well as being a talented Political Analyst, Travel Reporter, Satirist, Poet, Restaurant Critic and General Dispenser of Parenting Advice, I also fancy myself as a bit of a Fashion Blogger too.

Stop laughing please you guys, you are embarrassing me in front of the JUDGES!!!!

I totally AM a fashion blogger.

So this week has been designated FASHION WEEK here at Slapdash Mama HQ!  It coincides rather depressingly with my recent resolution to buy NO NEW CLOTHES for the rest of 2013.

I'm not joking.  This is really happening.

I need something to distract me from this decision, so I'm even going to be presenting you with an OOTD pictorial spread.  Don't know what OOTD means?  Neither did some of my new Twitter mates, when we were Twitting about stuff yesterday so I was only too happy to enlighten them with an explanation.

OOTD means "Outfit of the Day". Obvious now, no?  And it is the hashtag that fashionista types give their selfie snippy snaps on Instagram. And fashion blogs are full of them.

The punters go CRAZY FOR THIS SHIZZ.

So I am getting on board too. For the punters, you see.  I give them what they want.

Here's today's OOTD.  You guys are lucky in a way you cannot imagine that the first OOTD was done on one of my work days because it means I am wearing actual CLOTHES!

Here I am wearing a Review dress from 2010, a pink David Lawrence cardigan from a million years ago, and Red Phoenix Emporium necklace and earrings. I saw Red Phoenix jewellery on Faux Fuchsia's blog and because I too am a joiner, I immediately ran off and purchased some. 

Here's my legs and shoes and attractive work office type carpet.  Shoes are from an op shop. You've seen them before. Because I basically wear them every day.

Obligatory bathroom selfie. Large overflowing bin with paper towels really adds a sort of charm I think. Gritty. Like, I don't know, an episode of The Wire.

There you have it guys. Before I go I want to leave you with a few fashion words of wisdom that have helped me over the years.

-  Jeggings are for all!!!!
-  Everyone looks good in a tunic, leggings and ballet flats.
-  When in doubt, wear a dress.
-  Colour is the new black! Or is that grey is the new black? Hang on maybe it's navy blue.  Anyway, let's just say black is the new black and leave it at that!

Stay tuned for tomorrow's post where I regale you with my Slapdash Beauty Tips and post yet another OOTD.

Til then.

Your ever faithful

Slapdash Mama.

EDITED TO ADD: Just removed the post from the IBOT page because I did it wrong.

Faint Praise, and On Being Highbrow.

If you haven't heard already it's been raining cats and dogs in these parts. Still.  Hurrumph. I am thinking of building an ark.  Just for me, mind. Get your hands off it and build your own lifeboat you lazy bums.

P went for a walk in the rain. Squee.

M undertook a craft activity with P.

I know, talk about over achieving [eye roll]. Check out this castle and dragon and sword wielding Princess!

M is always showing me up in this way. So rude.  The first time he looked after P when I had to go to work, I came home and he had made a madeira cake, pruned the lemon tree and tidied the house.  I know! I don't even know what a madeira cake is! Selfish show offy bastard.  As you can imagine I was ENRAGED by this, and rightly so.  I gave him a bloody good telling off.

What's that? Unreasonable? Me? How dare you!

Which brings me to my next point.

You may have noticed over the side there that I have been nominated for the Best Australian Blogs 2013 competition! I know! How awesome!

Some really fantastically nice person nominated me for that.  She is attractive, smells nice, is EXCELLENT at baking cakes, has great dress sense, is hilarious, kind, smart, witty, a good listener, empathetic, creative, well informed, passionate, and just downright delightful.  I think you guys might even know her.  She likes to take the piss out of herself but we all know she is actually a FANTASTICALLY LOVEABLE, WONDERFUL DEVOTED MOTHER AND AN ALL ROUND GREAT PERSON!

Can you guess!?

That's right, it's me! I nominated myself.  What of it?!

I told my mum proudly that I'd put myself up for nomination, and there was a deathly silence on the other end of the phone, until she offered this gem;

"Oh darling that's, ah, good. You know the great thing about your blog is how FREQUENTLY you update! Nearly every day! And you know what, you are really improving, I do think so. Definitely improving!"

Underwhelming, I'd have to say.

I've been damned with faint praise all round the place recently about a variety of things and frankly I don't like it.

I nominated a couple of other blogs too including my ole friend Mumabulous, who was also incredulous that we light hearted mummy bloggers would be considered "highbrow" enough for this salubrious award.

Well frankly I think we are as highbrow as all get out.  If that's what the judges are after then they have totes come to the right place.

I'll give you highbrow! OMG!

Just to prove how FREAKING highbrow mummy bloggers can be, I have written adapted a Shakespearean sonnet, inspired by the episode of Kevin McCloud's man made home I watched last night.

ODE TO KEVIN

Let me not to the marriage of Grand Designs
Admit impediments, a hot tub is a hot tub
Which, altered from a plane engine*
Lies nestled in a pile of mud.
O yes, it is a very fancy robe
From alpaca wool he had it made;
The hands of retro crones have woven**
It for him to wear in his Man Cave.
Kev's not time's fool, nor technology's either,
From his medieval drawbridge deck
He doth watcheth the sheep and weather***
And nary a laptop nor Iphone to check.
   I sigh and yearn to live off the grid
  Just as Kevin, old Smuggy McSmuggington, did.
   

* pronounced to rhyme with design, OBVIOUSLY!
** to rhyme with robe. Duh.
*** rhymes with either. Doesn't it?

There you have it. You want highbrow? You got it baby.

Are you high brow? Or is it highbrow? I never know.  Tell me which is right in the comments!

Mundanity, yo.

Hello all. How are youse guys going? Me, I'm tired, bra-less and wearing stained clothes, thanks for asking.

I'd like to extend a personal welcome to all my new followers! You have just taken your first big step towards happiness and personal fulfilment. Trust me! I am like the Anthony Robbins of the blogging world. No shit. I am unleashing some serious "power from within" right now. I kid you not.

But enough with the fart jokes, let's move onto more serious matters, like my previous post on the impromptu beauty pageant P was in at the cinema.

The cinema emailed me back and seemed very worried and concerned and thanked me for letting them know.  I'm thinking the manager had no idea what the fairy ladies had planned.  Hopefully they will pay more attention when organising this sort of thing in the future. Maybe I should go this Saturday as a sort of mystery shopper just to check up on them. Hmm.

Anyhoo, today was mundane, which was fine with me.  The weather is positively apocalyptic in SEQ at the mo.  Rain, rain and more rain.  Thinking of everyone in places like Gympie who are going under for like the fourth time this year. Bad juju.

As a result we were pottering round inside. Here's a rundown of the day in dot points, my favourite inclusion in a blog post. Apart from irony. I love that bitch sick.  Don't ever leave me.

• Made wholemeal Vegemite and cheese scrolls, baked the shit out of them until they were as tough as old boots and essentially inedible, and then ate like a thousand of them anyway cos that's just how I roll. Or should I say, that's how I "Vegemite scroll".  Ahahahaha.

P declared them too "crunchy". She was right. Check out the one on the far left. Dry as a dead dingo's donger, as they say.

• During lunch P got really tired and excused herself from the table, changed into her jarmies, snuggled down in her bed AND WENT TO SLEEP FOR LIKE 2 HOURS! I know. WTF. Another sign the apocalypse is nigh.  I got really freaking excited that maybe I would have both kids sleeping during the day for the first time in MONTHS AND MONTHS but naturally B, having had a good sleep in the morning, wouldn't oblige me, the little devil.  I rang Michael to tell him and he said "Maybe it's something you did in a past life that means you can't get the kids to sleep at the same time." I think he could sense my eyes narrowing through the telephone line.

• Went next door for coffee in the afternoon and workshopped with my neighbour all the ways we could do more exercise and eat better, then came home and ate a whole lot of ice cream out of the tub while the kids were looking the other way.  Ugh.

In conclusion, I leave you with some Before and After photos of our recent backyard blitz.  Prepare to be amazed. Amazed I tell you.

Before...

 After...

I know what you are thinking but don't worry we mulched the herb garden after this photo.

Somebody call Gardening Australia, I think I can feel a visit from Costa coming on!

Any news, dudes? Spill it.

xx