Hot stuff. Pants off. Logging the forest.

Gosh what a day it was yesterday. Hot as Hades. I've been alerted to the fact that some people don't like discussing (aka complaining about) the weather. It's my favourite pastime! What's one to do instead? I suppose I could read improving works, take up knitting, become a triathlete or at the very least resurrect my fleeting dalliance with jogging, but frankly none of those options give me the same warm inner glow as my current penchant for moaning about climatic developments. So I will just stick with what I know if it's all the same to you.

Nutmeg the cat escaping the heat. Her eyes are glowing in an appropriately hellish manner.

Nudie summer baby engaging in illicit tree handling.

The heat is making us all vague. Mum's staying with us for a couple of days. This morning we had this conversation.

Mum: If you're looking for your walking hat, it's in the spare room here.
Me: Really?
Mum: Yes.
Me: I don't know how it got in there.
Mum: No.
Me: Presumably I went in there while I was wearing it.
Mum: Yeah.
Me: And then took it off.
Mum: Probably.

Scintillating.

Yesterday the Fox in Flats Darecember dare was "on your head". I started off with this sort of arrangement.

But because I was headed off for an appointment with the gynaecologist, I felt it was a little inappropriate, kind of like I was trying too hard for a first date or something so I panicked and changed it for this old staple.

Sunnies atop head.  Imaginative it isn't.

Much less "Come hither you big love machine, let's dance some salsa together and drink sangria" and more "Ok buddy, we both know why I'm here. I'll just get my dacks off pronto, so we can get on with this unsavoury business and move on with our lives".

I'm going to get my body hair waxed today. I've obviously got a taste for getting strangers to manhandle my person this week. I've only ever had the ole bikini line waxed once before and afterwards I was left bleeding, trembling and weepy from the agony. Actually even just writing this makes me want to rethink it and just go with the old faithful eyebrow wax.  Although if I go through with it, the upside is that I'll probably be able to make a rug out of the resulting de-pelted fuzz.

Today the Darecember dare is to wear a brooch. I've got a variety of options...not sure what to go with.

A cornucopia of brooch-like options.  Not really. A measly collection if ever I saw one.

In the next episode - which brooch will I have chosen? Eyebrow wax or full body deforestation? Will I locate some clean underwear or be forced to go commando?
You'll have to wait with breathless anticipation for the next installment to find out.

Until then, devoted readers, I bid you good day.

Edited to add: Linking up with With Some Grace for FYBF

Cat on a hot tin apricot ball. Heat. Hotness. Humidity. Cheerful stuff.

It's so hoooottttt. It's weather like this that makes me glad we don't have ceiling fans or air conditioning. Oh, whoops, sorry, what I meant to say is that it's weather like this that ENRAGES ME BEYOND BELIEF because it reminds me that we don't have ceiling fans or air con.

In today's world of modern conveniences, whenever I tell people we don't have these things they look at me with a mixture of pity and fear. Fear, because obviously anyone who hasn't prioritized aircon when building a new house is automatically a sandwich short of a picnic and such a loonie that they probably stockpile canned food and bottled water in preparation for the apocalypse and should be avoided lest the crazy proves to be contagious.  Oh well, I guess if I can suffer through last summer whilst eleventy months pregnant and working from home in our study, which is undoubtedly the hottest room in the house with only a pedestal fan, a wet washer and a bucket of iced water to keep me cool then I can survive this summer too.

Anyway, here's some cheerful things from the last week to distract from the sound of my thighs rubbing together as I wander around the house in a sort of langurous haze. I'm beginning to regret my no booze during the week rule as I could murder a G&T right now*.

- P and I made festive apricot balls and I didn't eat the whole batch myself. I even froze some of them to be defrosted only in the event of emergency/having company, whichever comes first. I mean I ate a LOT of them but not ALL of them, which is a giant leap for me**.

We've got balls.  P's such a ballsy little thing.  We really know how to grab life by the balls.  And so forth with the innuendo.

- When P woke up this morning she heard B calling out so she went into his room and they played together for a good 5 minutes. Warmed the cockles of me heart, although that could have just been sweat dripping down my cleavage, it's hard to say.

- I ate some delicious cherries

- We had a great weekend despite witnessing some bogan biffo

Having a picnic up the hills.

She's the king of the world!

- M and I had a date at Ikea where we bought a sofa bed and a sewing table for me. So now we will finally be able to transform the spare room into a baby's room. Only took almost 10 months. And I might finally actually learn to use the sewing machine I bought over five years ago. Also, at Ikea, although I was sorely tempted, I did not, I repeat, did not eat anything at the cafe, not even a hotdog. And I didn't buy my bodyweight in Scandinavian chocolate either. Winning. Now next step is to actually assemble the furniture. That might take us another 6 months.

M aka Goldilocks trying out the sofa bed. It was juuusst right.  

A man and his chair.

- I didn't lose weight, but I didn't put any on either.

- B started crawling. Clever little tacker.

B about to speed off into the sunset.

- I hit the jackpot when I discovered that my favourite two dollar crap shop does a mean line in Christmas decorations,  so was able to jolly the house up even more, on the cheap.

Faux garland. Don't worry I won't light the candles lest the synthetic berries spontaneously combust.

Ghastly, isn't it? And yet strangely mesmerising...

Faux Christmas plants.

Faux berry arrangement and gussied up Christmas candle, to greet roaming Jehovah's Witnesses as they knock on the door.

Any nice things happen to you this week? Any tips on chafing prevention? Anyone else suspect they need to go back on the calm the fuck down pills like I do?

Oh, and today's Darecember. Scarves. Too. Freaking. Hot. Took it off immediately

*Edited to add, it is pouring rain as I finish writing. Thank the Lord.
**edited to add - I have actually, now. Eaten them all, that is. Goddammit. Bugger bum poo tit, as my ladylike mother would say. Just swear already, mum! Your seemingly tame version actually manages to sound ruder than real swears do.

Weekend. Beach bogan biffo. Darecember.

Am so exhausted. Will make this brief. I always have a million things to write but am always too knackered.
Spent the weekend at the parentals again, this time M came too. It was dad's birthday.

Saturday M, P, baby B and I, and unusually, both of my parents, went to the beach (I know, I know) in the afternoon for fish and chips. Now although I spent a recent post holding forth like a madwoman on a streetcorner about my fear and loathing of the beach, I actually do enjoy consuming heavily salted battery crumby fish with equally heavily salted and fat laden chippies, in the vicinity of said beach. I was looking forward to it.

We set up camp at a likely looking picnic table and M and Grandpa George went down to the beach with P, Mum went to get the salty consumables, and I minded the possie with the baby. I had already noticed a group of dubious types occupying the adjacent tables and BBQs. In fact monopolizing them would perhaps be a better description. I was sort of half annoyed and half intrigued as I played with baby B and watched the middle aged parents downing a few (ahem) cans of ye olde Jim Beam and coke or similar, while a gaggle of high spirited teenage scamps ran squealing around spraying each other with humongous water pistols. Oh the hilarity.

A while later I saw a guy in maybe his 60s stalk past my table and the classy table next to me. I thought to myself, "Self," I thought, "self, I reckon he looks familiar. Hmm...".

Moments later, the darling little sprites with their sweet little water pistols and their just adorable scanty bikini arrangements came shrieking back to their adoring parents, saying " Oh my GAWD oh my GAWD, that was Mr S______. Muum, Daaad, it was Mr S_____, from Schhooooll!! Oh my GAWD!!"
The adoring mother laughed delicately, paused momentarily from her dinner preparations and said "Awww, youse guys, youse better RUN, gawwwwn, get runnin'!!!".
The youthful dears skipped off again singing hymns and playing The Glad Game a la Pollyanna.

"Aha!" I realised. The older gent had been one of my former teachers, and one of my Dad's comrades from their days in the teaching equivalent of trench warfare, my old high school. Think Michelle Pfeiffer in Dangerous Minds, only with Aussie accents and negligible street cred.

Seconds after the teens scampered off, Mr S returned back our way again, calling out " How are you people doing?" to my tablemates. As he strode purposefully off and crossed the road, I saw the be-singletted father and his equally well turned out son bolt like greased lightning across the road, whereupon the father proceeded to shout abuse at, shove, grab the collar of and generally roughly manhandle poor old Mr S. Naturally I did what any good citizen and concerned onlooker would do and sat on my fat arse watching unmoving from a safe distance, with my jaw hanging open in what I like to call Full Gawker Mode. I couldn't hear what was being yelled but Mr S is no pushover so was able to cool the nutter down,  and the son eventually held his father's flailing arms a back so Mr S could make a getaway. If there's one thing that spending 30 years at a rough state high school does for you it's give you mad skillz when dealing with lunatic parents.
RESPECT. Brother got game.

I've got no real idea what led to this bit of argy bargy and can only speculate that maybe Mr S had felt compelled to give a bit of a scolding to the junior bogans and that consequently the senior bogans got all " Noone fuckin tells my fuckin kids off except fuckin ME fuck em!". Or somesuch.

Needless to say I lost no time in gathering up our belongings and waving my returning family over to a table farther away from those lunatics. What with my own father being a 60 something former teacher I couldn't risk another similar confrontation particularly with Dad's gammy knee. I mean when dad was deputy principal back in the day he once kicked the school assembly hall door in on QCS morning when the cleaner had lost the keys or was drunk or whatever. It quite gave the watching Home Economics ladies the vapours.
He's a firy one. So best keep him out of harm's way is my motto.

I've got shitloads to say but I can't get the computer to work so am blogging from my phone which.frankly is giving me the hardcore shits and is tiresome and also labour intensive.

Before I go, as a way of brightening up my life I'm doing the Fox in Flats Darecember thing. Can't link, too hard. Google it. Here's the first two days.
Day one - hot pink lippy and trout pout.
Day two - denim. Pink jeans discarded on floor.

Too.tired to fix typos and.grammar problems ahahagrjdjdjd. Damm you phone fat fingers blarghhh.