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...

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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!

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Disgusting things.

This week has been noteworthy for subjecting me to a considerable number of ghastly and grotesque things.  I mean more than normal.  Of course as a mother my duties consist primarily of wiping arses, sweeping the floor, swishing out the toilet, scrubbing unidentifiable sticky crap off the floor and walls, wiping arses, wiping noses, and let's not forget wiping arses, but this week there was even more ickiness.

DISCLAIMER:  I know there's more to it than that, and in between the arse wiping there's a whole lotta love and a modicum of "enjoying-the-journey" with a pinch of "being-grateful-for-the-small-stuff", and a dollop of "not-wishing-the-time-away", so don't get your knickers in a twist or panic or anything.

P enjoying the hell out of the journey and representing Cronulla-riot-style in an Aussie flag t-shirt.

WARNING!  PEOPLE WEAK OF STOMACH OR ILL OF HUMOUR OR GENTEEL OF MANNER PLEASE DO NOT READ ON!

1.  Because I am a responsible citizen, I generally, if at all possible, tip any solid deposits from the baby's nappy into the toilet before disposing of said nappy in the bin.  It's what all the cool mums are doing this season.  It's the new black.  Anyway I was trying to get a particularly, ahem, sticky one off the nappy and into the loo, and I must have been leaning too close to the bowl (can you see where this is going??) because when I finally gave a vigorous enough shake to dislodge it, it landed with a resounding splash.  A positive tsunami of toilet water came right out of the bowl and whacked me in the face like a slap with a wet and decaying fish.  I reeled back, shrieking in horror and rushed to cleanse the foul residue off my mouth and nose.  All the rest of the day I kept having flashbacks.  Nobody writes about   this in the baby books.  I am ALL ABOUT THE FACTS.  People without babies, or parents-to-be, be warned - THIS HAPPENED AND IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU TOO!

2.  Yesterday, I was reprimanding P for pulling all the clothes out of one of her drawers.  I looked closer and saw what looked to me like a large gumnut sitting all gumnutty like in the aforementioned drawer.  I picked it up in my soft bare hands.
"That looks like a weird gumnut," I thought, bringing it closer to my face "Really weird, it almost looks like...um..OH MY GAAWWWWWWDDDD!"

It was a lump of cat turd.

The horror.  And I had lifted it up to my nose for a good identifying sniff.  I am dry wretching just remembering it now. I sprinted out the laundry door and chucked it in the garden, sprinted back to the sink and gave an excellent impression of Lady Macbeth.  After attempting to cleanse the drawer itself, I then had to spend another good many minutes of my precious time sniffing all the items of P's clothing to ascertain whether they had come into contact with the turd or not.  My trusty nose told me to my dismay that many had indeed.  Bloody long haired cats with the wispy bums and the trailing of the poo and the oy!  Who knows how long it had been sitting in there?  Who knows how many other cat turds are lurking in wait for me in other corners of the house?

3.  The third and camel's-back-breaking gross-out incident was a trial run of sleep-time toilet training.  Resulted in fifty million wee-soaked sheets and endless, endless washing, including a bag of soaking sheets from kindy that I forgot about and left to marinate to their full rancidity in the laundry.   Suffice to say for the moment we are back in nappies at night.   Well, P is anyway.  I'd put a nappy on myself if it meant more sleep.  But I digress.

Just some of the washing.  I know, it's so interesting.  I'm glad I wrote about it too.  Won't be long til the Pulitzer Prize people are on the phone to me!

Also, in unrelated news, I was listening to ABC radio and they were talking about the Frankenstorm again.  The reporter was talking about all the destruction and so forth.  Highlighting the devastation, he spoke in hushed tones and gave examples of locations that have been particularly effected.  None drew more emotion from him than this (I'm not quoting him directly, this is the gist of what he said)...

"The whole row of casinos are all boarded up, and no one knows when they might be opened again."

Oh God noooo! The casinos!  Won't somebody think of the casinos!  Where will all the displaced storm victims gamble away their remaining worldly goods?