Feeding time and losing marbles

I’m guessing most of you know that old golf balls in the jar analogy, amiright? It has nothing do with controlling significant others, cos if you’re me, that’s not even a pipe dream. It’s the old ‘room for the important things in life’ philosophy, where the totally made up professor asks his awestruck class about whether his jar is full after stuffing it full of golf balls. They say yes. He then astounds them, by filtering little pebbles in to fill the jar further and fill all the gaps, so the jar we thought was full is now, in fact, heavy as all crap.

For the purposes of my story today though, we’re replacing pebbles with marbles. Bear with me. I’ll get to the point. See… The jar is my brain, and my body, and my heart. Just when it looks like the pretend professor in the pretend story has truly shocked his class, he pours sand in (to my brain) and fills all the remaining spaces, until no light remains. The class nods. Yes. That brain is bursting.

‘MWAH HA HA” roars the professor. ‘I’m not done yet’. And proceeds to pour a glass of vodka in to soak and confuddle any dry bits of sand. The point of the professor’s story is to say that “no matter how full your life is, there’s always room for the important things in your life”.

Ahhhhh. That’s better, says the jar. A kid then runs in to the room and grabs the marbles out, rolling them around on the floor. A man walks in, casually tossing a couple of the golf balls around, fancy juggler style, while he chats to the jar about his day at work and how the world of production is falling apart. A puppy runs up to the jar, squats, and pees on the sand. When the professor is telling my story, he says “you’re doing it wrong, and you’re a GREAT BIG FUCKING MESS”.

Oooh look Little A! Mummy's brains are falling out again!

Oooh look Little A! Mummy’s brains are falling out again!

The jar (my brain, remember? full of vodka, sand, golf balls, and lost marbles by this point) knows about making time for the important things in her life. But by this time, so many of her bits are rolling around on the floor, being juggled or peed on that she’s not actually sure how much room is actually inside the jar at any given point. So she says yes to a few more bits… Just a couple of seashells, like a social outing, to pretty things up a bit inside the jar.

Sometimes there’s a cleanup, and with everything brushed back inside, the jar overflows. The brains spill out onto the table, causing a tidal wave.

After that happens, I’m just a jar, depleted of contents. I need filling back up.

More in, less out. I need feeding. I need food (I am skinny, and not in an ‘ooh you’re so lucky you eat all the chocolate’ way). I need books. I need sleep. I need quiet. I need music, I need my family. I need less stress. I NEED A GODDAMN NANNY. That’s my self-assigned job this year. So far, I’m failing. One more win for the Falling Face First blog, one more fail for me personally. I’m starting to feel that we’re not in this together, this blog and me.

OOOOOOOOH WEEEeeeee!! That was a fun one! Hope you enjoyed it dear readers! I’m on the road to reality. Apologies in advance. xxx

Goddamn green smoothie bandwagons

I hate a bandwagon. If you need to know something about me, it’s that I’ll climb onto a bandwagon very reluctantly, only when my feet are blistered and bleeding and I can’t physically walk the remaining 5 miles home without help from a donkey. (Do donkeys even pull bandwagons?)

If cocktails in a bar are being served in cocunuts with straws, I’ll probably order a wine. In a pint glass.

But, dammit, my health needs to be taken in hand, like, with handcuffs. I’m drinking goddamn green smoothies. I throw in enough berries on top of the spinach to turn them poo brown so they can’t be called green. Shhhh. Don’t tell anyone I actually like the taste either. And you will NEVER catch these abominations on Instagram with a caption saying ‘oooh I feel green and clean’. Promise.

Here's a frigging green (reddish brownish) smoothie for ya, to wash down my daily handful of au natural pharmaceuticals.

Here’s a frigging green (reddish brownish) smoothie for ya, to wash down my daily handful of au natural pharmaceuticals.

I am doing the things I laugh at people for doing. I know what chia is. I know how to say keen- wah. I’m getting freaky with freekeh. I put Stevia in my tea. (Aka tea with Steve. That Man is well jealous.)

The thing is, no migraine in 4 weeks. Less headaches. Face looking more like skin, less like pepperoni. And I am no fun anymore. What a frigging conundrum.

I read the well-holy wellness green food sites with two fingers at the ready, to make the gagging noises. I hate that shit.  I should clarify. I like the food. I like to eat healthily, and I always have. What I don’t like is a supercilious attitude towards food and eating, and the   prosyletising of health like a religion. Do what works for you, I say. I don’t need to see your hemp seed whale glue tree bark smoothie in a jam jar with a stripey paper straw to know you’re healthy. If you say you feel good, then great. I believe you. Pictorial evidence not required.

Work lunch. Will put hairs on your chest and spinach in your teeth. Grossly hypocritical gloating pic of healthy eating. First and last ever.

Work lunch. Will put hairs on your chest and spinach in your teeth. Grossly hypocritical gloating pic of healthy eating. First and last ever.

Unfortunately, I love healthy food, but I LOVE ALL THE FOOD. Including cheese. I want to be moderate and healthy, but I can’t even manage that right now. And this stupid ‘un-diet’ is working for me in a head-being-less-explosive guts not speaking in exclamation marks kind of way. I’m smiling spinach at people on the train to brighten their mornings too, as an added bonus. Damn you, bandwagon body. Climbing on without asking if I wanted to come.  I want to drink the wine and eat figs and goats cheese and prosciutto until I’m a dairy nitrite headache acne filled cretin. But body says no. Too tired. Too sore.

No fun Kim. Pleased to meet you. Let’s see how we go.

Are any of you doing this ‘green’ thing? Are you out and proud or are you in the closet like me?

The Wax

Have you been in any confronting situations lately? Perhaps involving paper undies? Or Milanese women speaking very little english, wielding spatulas of hot wax? Good. So have I.

I thought I’d tear in to Pitt St Mall for an extremely speedy and cheap bikini wax immediately before the Christmas holidays (sorry males and the squeamish… this post will only go downhill from here. Geddit? Sorry. The brave, read on). The key motivation was the promise of spending a week in a bikini on a beach holiday with our gorgeous friends, and the knowledge that small children will grip the nearest object when in the surf. Mummy’s bikini bottoms are often the nearest object. I wanted to be ‘prepared’ for any emergency situations.

Steve Carrell. Without you, many men would never know the true horror. I bow down and worship you and your bald bleeding nipples.

Steve Carrell. Without you, many men would never know the true horror. I bow down and worship you and your bald bleeding nipples.

Now, being a tightarse AND a bargain hunter means I was suckered in for a G-string wax upon arrival, given it was only $3 extra. Bargain. My dear therapist’s accent was so chunky you could carve it. In fact, it was so northern italian I didn’t even recognise it as Italian, despite having spent a few years learning the language. You know where this is going, don’t you? I ripped out my tragic, rubbish, washed up and incorrect tenses, and attempted to make conversation. I couldn’t think of the words for ‘awkward’ ‘embarrassed’ or ‘paper undies’. I stared at the sky. She was indulgent of my awful italian, and kept asking questions about my travels, and saying ‘And you?’ and I’d reply ‘Si, blah blah blah’.

My leg went to the ceiling, while my knee made small talk with my nose, rudely before doing any warm up stretches. Pilates thrown in for free too! WHAT a bargain. She then made a noise like ‘ahhhhh!’ like she’d found a pot of gold. Imagine her rubbing her hands together with glee, though she couldn’t as they were weighed down by rivers of burning hot wax. As my eyes watered, again she asked, ‘And you?’

‘And you?’

And me what? I decided to get over my embarrassment (since I DID sign up for this after all) and take a look down at what was going on.

It was then I realised that ‘And you?’ meant, in I can’t speak any english and have no idea what I’m saying speak: Do you want me to rip this bit here out too? 

And me, thinking we were having a conversation, kept replying ‘Si’ or: Yes, yes, blah blah blah I think I’m talking super-awesome italianese here. Go me. 

I was left with an area that would be perfect for landing model aeroplanes. I got a bargain, I think.


I‘m pretty new to this whole deal. Do you ever get over the awkward factor? Or do you just forget about it and go free-range? 

Wardrobe tricks of the lost and the damned

It’s wardrobe unravelling time! It’s also… FIRST BLOG BIRTHDAY TIME! Somehow the anniversary of this blog came and went with a whimper sometime in mid-September, that I failed to notice while I was tangled in the timetabling of my life. I’m limping in to this anniversary with a sad 95 posts, instead of a victoriously round-numbered 100. How appropriate. WOOOOO!! RAAAAAA! ONE YEAR OF BLOGGING. Shit has happened. Shit then didn’t happen. Then shit happened again. Then we got to here.

So ok then, let’s move on to discuss wardrobe tricks for my fellow brethren (What are girl brethren? Sisren?) who need to occasionally look presentable. Do you, like me, need to look like you’ve got it together; like you have a brain; like you haven’t screamed ‘WHYYYYYYYYYYY?’ in frustration at your children before diving head-first into a vat of wine only mere hours earlier?

If you ever go out for dinner with ‘those people’ who ACTUALLY have it sorted (i.e. are childless) or go to an office semi-regularly, or just feel like you’ve TOTALLY LOST YOUR SHIT but want to pretend you haven’t at school dropoff, then I can help. 

My # 1 rule? If you feel like crap, increase the appearance level of awesome.

Some of it even seeps in occasionally, particularly if you nab a compliment. So. The tips.

  1. In an office, avoid white. Coffee can smell white, and is drawn to it like a magnet. It will leap exuberantly from yours or anyone else’s coffee cup and dribble on you, making you look like a drinking-incompetent child. Just don’t.
  2. Make like Angelina. Black, black, black. If you’re at work, who needs to look fun? Tell it how it is. BLACK. Misery darlings. Shock them occasionally with an acqua resin bracelet or a brightly-coloured jacket. I have a favourite one from Zara – $100 in a fuschia-apricot-pinky sort of colour. I’m so down with fashion. I’d show you a picture but Zara isn’t online. They’re SO BEHIND. GET ONLINE ZARA. HURRY UP. I NEED YOU.
  3. Perfume. Smell nice. If you step in anything or the kids rub yoghurt on you or you forget deodorant, you have a STRONG COMPETITOR against the forces of evil.
  4. Makeup. It’s your mask. Don’t get told you look tired because you’ve been up all night with vomiting kids. That’s YOUR STORY TO TELL dammit. Shock them with your story. Don’t wear it on your face.
  5. 50 pairs of stockings. Because face it. That still won’t be enough.
  6. Shop online. Who gets time to shop? Does someone have kids who let them out? Does someone have a husband that’s not a Superhero (i.e. Mr Invisible)? Cotton ON for underwear. Witchery on big sale. Country Rd. Portmans on big sale; Zara in a quick lunch break dash… and I can almost stop panicking each morning before work. And my feet? Are encased in box-sized Hush Puppies. Shhhh. I’m old now. I’ve earned the right to wear the puppies.
  7. Wear cardigans, not jackets. Jackets attract small fingers coated in peanut butter like bears to a honey pot. Dry cleaners? Who has the time? Cardigans in all the colours of the rainbow (not at the same time) FTW.
  8. Scarves? This will be controversial, but I say no. Scarves in winter, yes, but in summer they are just ageing fluff. Necks are pretty. Necklaces are pretty. Wear your necks. Unless you’re a man, and then avoid necklaces at all costs. Probably still avoid scarves too, to be safe.
  9. Somebody pour me a gin and make me stop being a lecturey lectureson. I have NO IDEA what I’m talking about. I look like a pot-ful of vegetable soup some days, with random bits of clothing thrown at me, and different coloured makeups launched at my face. This is just me, and what I do when I’m pretending and I get it to work occasionally. Listen, don’t listen. Just make sure you pour the gin.
  10. After all that lecturing, here is an important video about HILARIOUS. Because it’s my blogiversary and I want you to laugh.

You know J Lo’s song ‘On the Floor’ which is loosely derived from the ‘Lambada’? It turns out the Lambada is actually derived from THIS. Llorando se Fue. Don’t show your children. They’ll get strange ideas about gender stereotyping. This clip has everything. Passionate pan flute. A man with a woman’s voice. A sparkly blue hat. Plaits to the waist. Gold boots by the dozen. Watch for 4 minutes of your life you’ll never get back. You won’t regret it.

Thanks for coming on the ride with me this year.


The best, the best, the best of me

I’ve got another confession to make. These words aren’t mine. Dave Grohl, Mr Foo Fighter God, you’ve called me out. Someone is getting the best, the best, the best, the best of me. Not in the way he thinks though. His jealousy is unwarranted. Grohly – I’m all yours.

I’m not entirely sure who that someone is yet. This week I’m in disk defrag mode, pulling all the bits apart and putting some bits back into the places where they should probably go… Hmmmm technical computer analogy not really working for this technomoron. In Face First speak, I’m trying to do THINGS, times MANY, and am only just pulling off little bits of little things. Kids, not yelling, sorting before and after school care, trotting off to interviews, and being PROFESSIONAL (ermergherd – wearing heels and smiling at the same time!! Don’t make me. I won’t.)

One of them is not blogging. I have about three draft posts glaring at me, saying ‘Hi! I’m in BITS! Will you please finish something?’ And I go back and yell at them ‘POSTS! Can’t you see I’m doing everything and my disk is being defragmented? Surely that means something to you since you live in a COMPUTER!? I will come back and complete you when the bits are in all the right places! And all the words are not being given to other people! OK?’ And they meekly agree that it sounds reasonable. Posts are good like that.

I won’t be writing my best post today, so I’m offering something from the past I quite liked. It’s long. Apologies. It was about a LONG DAY. (Bit like Stephen King’s The Long Walk). The future? There will be many, many words. Hopefully good ones, with all the bits in the right places.

‘Auspicious’ dates – heralding a load of crap?

The 12th of the 12th of 2012, what have you done for me lately? Apparently you were supposed to be some mystical karmic oooh-ahhh date of significance. All you brought me was a day of shitpoo.

I’m sorry I can’t express it more mature terms. I could try, but it would sound like ‘on this day of December, in the 12th year of the 21st century, I was arraigned with torrents of excrement, metaphorical in origin, which may or may not have been borne of a cosmic nature, heralding impending doom and the end of our time, or in fact may just have been another ordinary day worthy of flushing’. Utter rubbish.

So the Mayans stopped making their calendar. Maybe they just got bored. Seriously, if you just had to keep writing down numbers, over and over, wouldn’t you find something else to do and stop? Just because the calendar on your wall runs out at December 31, 2012, doesn’t mean there won’t BE a New Year’s Day. Of course there will be, full of headaches and regret. You just need to go down to Westfield and buy your 50% off 2013 calendar, as soon as your vision clears. It’s not the Mayans’ fault they didn’t have Westfield.


This was my flushable day. It started with the dentist (again. If you want to see why this is AGAIN – see here). This is something of an ongoing saga for Little L, so some backstory: I hauled little L away from the last dentist who was about to extract the hurting tooth that had recently had baby root-canal, in the chair, telling me ‘every anaesthetic takes your child one step closer to the grave’ like she DIDN’T HAVE EARS. She was so traumatised from his treatment and ‘tap tap – yep I have to pull it out – here 5-year old girl, swallow a tablet goodbye’ I had to carry a sobbing child into this gorgeous children’s dentist last visit, while they gently coaxed her trust back. Too scared to be treated, we had to go back again today, while they did some safeguarding of some early decay on the top and had to put a filling in. Diabetes can TRASH your teeth. Who knew?! Not me.

Anyway, that done gently and nicely, we got on with the day. It went on in the usual as can be sometimes crappy fashion. Mini-fights, complaints, Mexican standoffs, whingeing etc. but then this afternoon playing up the road at a neighbour’s house WE LOST THEM. Little L and her friend took off out the front door which I hate them doing but they’ve done before to be cheeky, not telling us before they took off. I grabbed my bag and went to follow, knowing they are pretty careful when they cross our quiet road, but prepared for my ‘don’t do that!’ rant when we caught them up. We were chatting, saying goodbye while they had gone at 5-year old speed, so by the time we’d arrived in my front door and found nothing, and no answer, then raced back up the road to their place to see if they’d ducked around the back to trick us, hearts were pounding and parents were yelling. We were asking neighbours, yelling in the vacant lot, looking down the easement, and running breathless, of course thinking the worst… There have been reports before of cars trying to lure kids in the neighbourhood.
More frantic yelling, and they emerge, blessedly, sheepishly, from my house where they’ve been hiding in my bedroom. Hilarious. Starting to yell, instead we hug, so very relieved.

Recourse came later, and remorse, but little L’s remorse was extreme, and hysterical, with sobbing and screaming. Emotional outburst? Blood glucose check. Sure enough, she’s quite hypoglycaemic (very low blood sugar), and forgot (again) to mention she was feeling bad. Yay. Diabetes strikes again. Topping off a great day!

Just as she’s slowly climbing back towards the safe zone, above 4 and safe to leave unattended, a holler comes from the bathroom from little A: ‘muuuummmeeeeee the bath’s overflowing! Quick!’

Blessed I am. My cup overfloweth, as does my bath. The river in the bathroom was not too dire, and finally, all is peaceful as I lap my gin. I’m a spectacular human specimen today, and I’m high-fiving my superior and intelligent mothering skills. Not. Which is probably a good thing in light of what follows.

I watched a Stephen Hawking doco the other night suggesting that it would be a super-great idea (he didn’t use those words obviously, he’s a bit smart and sounds like a computer) if we looked for somewhere else to live other than Earth, what with the likelihood of it being smashed to smithereens by an asteroid, or being nuclear irradiated.  As he sensibly pointed out, INTELLIGENCE is not so important to survival, and may in fact be the key to our downfall. Amoeba and microbes have been getting by just fine for millions of years without intelligence, and yet dinosaurs with their tiny brains couldn’t make it through a little sauna time.

I think there’s something in this for all of us. Perhaps we need to get back to our petri-dishes of gin, and soak away our intelligence. Maybe then we’d stand a better chance of survival? I don’t know about you, but I’m not keen on a red-hot life on Mars in a spacesuit, living in a bunker on dehydrated peas. As far as theories go, this is probably not quite SBS-standard, and I suspect Stephen Hawking may poke a couple of holes, but it’s good enough for me after today, and I’m off to soak it away with a tonic or three, splashing in gin.


Is someone getting the best, the best, the best of you? 

Throwing myself on Rachel’s lounge at Theviblog today. You should too. It’s soft and comfy.


Wednesday, bloody Wednesday

How was your day dear? Bloody, like mine? Did you get rejected for a job you really want, after getting down to the last two candidates? Did you make a gourmet dinner again, then have to whip up some tinned baked beans to get the small things to eat? Is your head thumping? Treat it to a bloody drink! It bloody deserves it.

While you’re at it, don’t get mad, get Mary. Wine is for wimps. Rum is for ruminators (the loud and bloody rowdy kind). Gin is for gimps. Get your grump into a big, hard, mean, spicy Bloody Mary.

Feeling grumpy? Have a bloody Bloody Mary then and stop your whinging.

Feeling grumpy? Have a bloody Bloody Mary then and stop your whinging.

This is how you do it, Face First style.

  • Pour vodka until somebody stops you
  • Ice is nice
  • Squeeze in a wedge of bloody lemon
  • Pepper and Salt
  • Celery bloody salt
  • A martha farking truckload of Tabasco
  • Lea and Perrins (YES fussy I am – it’s important) Woosta sauce: shake it till you should probably stop, then bloody shake it again
  • Top with tomato juice
  • When you think it’s all over, add a bit more Tabasco, just in case.

In case WHAT? I don’t bloody know! Stop asking me questions! Don’t you know I’m bad in interviews?

The good news for tomorrow is you can’t drink too many of these bloody things before you get full. Now you’ll have to move on to wine. You bloody wimp.

Tomorrow is another day. With pilates in it. Peace out, man. Yo.


Jumper pants. FTW by she who fails best.

I’m sure you’ll believe me when I tell you this fail post wrote itself. Falling face first is what I do, right? The internet with all of its ‘fail’ blogs and memes is my natural home.


A little pop culture factoid for you: The earliest documented use of the term “FAIL” can be traced to a Japanese 16-bit scrolling shooter game, Blazing Star (1998), often mocked for its grammatically incorrect “game over” message that reads:


According to Google Trends, Internet users later began exchanging and searching for pictures and videos labelled with “FAIL” as early as in 2004. So look at us here, on this Lounge, reclining like recalcitrant lizards. We’re so positively late to the party, we’re ironically, um… ON THEME.

Guess I’d better tell you about my biggest and best personal fail.

Three little ducks went out one day, over the hills and far away. Mother duck said ‘I’m just going to the cafe to get a coffee, but if you feel comfortable playing in the playground where I feel comfortable having you in a group together, you know where to find me’. Then only one little duck came back. That little duck said the other little duck was happy playing in the playground, and she smiled and waved at me when we made eye contact from just outside the gate fencing the playground.

Lo and behold, little duck A said to mumma duck ‘Mumma duck, I need to wee, NOW!’ Did I mention mumma duck is holding a 40 kg dog, a bike and a scooter? Did I mention also it’s started to rain? Not a teeny weeny drip drop (like in a nursery rhyme), but a SYDNEY SHOWER kind of downpour. We all know that ‘NOW’ means 5 minutes ago in 3-year old speak, so I counted my limited options, and grabbed dog, child and ran for the bushes. No time for the toilet. Plus, dog.

It was too late. Her undies and jeans were soaked through. Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she contemplated humiliating nude-scooting.

As I perched on my haunches in the bushes, rain dripping off my nose, I became somewhat close to panic as to how I would take my nude-bottomed 3-year-old scooting back to the car, while holding a 40-kilo dog on a lead, AND also find another daughter in the playground simultaneously. Without David Tennant’s help, that is. The little duck L was returned to us in the bushes sobbing, utterly distraught, by a lovely kind woman as she’d thought she’d lost us thoroughly. Cue heart-stabbing guilt. The nude bottom still presented a problem.

Then I remembered something I’d seen on the Melbourne Comedy Festival not so long before.

Jumper pants.

There was a song. You can watch and sing along (starting at about 1:19). It’s quite catchy. I had a jumper. I could do this.

You won’t believe this, Melbourne Comedy Festival guys, but somebody saw your idea and THOUGHT YOU WERE SERIOUS. They are making them as REAL PANTS and trying to sell them. Oops. They did reduce their price considerably from their originally marked RRP $260 down to only $99, and now, they are OUT! OF! STOCK! So… now I’m not really sure who has failed here. The person who took it seriously as an idea? Or the person who thought it actually looked cutting edge with ankle boots and (this is awkward) bought them.

Uhh.. yeah. You look totally, like… amaaahhhzing.

Uhh.. yeah. You look totally, like… amaaahhhzing.

In my humble opinion? The only person this look could possibly work on is this girl. The one with all the attitude in the world. The girl who says she wants ‘the chicken head’ when asked what part of the chicken she wants for dinner.

Here’s my little scooter girl. Dry bum but soaked everywhere else. Big sister tearfully bringing up the rear, while I reign in the enormous dog. Winning at failing, like only I know how.

Jumper pants. You know you want to.

Jumper pants. You know you want to.

Add your link below, PLEASE guys, and tell me you know how to fail too, like I do. We can toast our inadequacies and dance to being rubbish by the light of the moon! Or something.


Sloppy Friday roundup – In China

So, That Man’s in China again. Every time he says he’s going on another trip, I get worried. Aren’t I sweet? No, not really. More self-preserving. In China, bad things happen. In Sydney.

This is what happened last trip. The trip before? Was weirdly isolating. I somehow managed not to speak to a single adult for about 7 days, and have strangely never felt so lonely in my life. It’s times like that I hate living in a big city like Sydney. To be so surrounded by people, seeing them, driving amongst them, yet feeling completely alone. I tooted some of them in case I had accidentally turned invisible. I had not.

My friend even has a code-word for me needing her to drop everything and come. I just need to tell her ‘I’m in China’, and she knows that’s a Code Red. That I’m going loco inside my brain and need adult conversation, company, or alcohol intervention (adding, not subtracting), STAT. Thank God for these friends, and HAPPY BIRTHDAY to them!

This time, I’m prepared. My preparation went like this. Shop for easily preparable meals. Make no social engagements. Plan to sleep early and a lot. Place no undue pressure on myself or the kids. Get to the gym to clear my head and for energy. Eat healthily. Sleep some more.

The reality? Sunday night, my gorgeous dog Herbie went… strange. He is my constant shadow, so being clingy was normal, but then to sleep in the girls’ bedroom instead of mine? Unheard of. Still, it made Little L happy so I let it lie. Like a sleeping dog, so to speak. *Cough* (sorry). Did the 10pm blood glucose fingerprick on Little L. Did the 3 am  fingerprick on Little L. Happily a straightforward night. But at 4, I hear her yelling. Herbie is wailing and yelping, and he’s all glassy-eyed and twitchy. He’s also completely floppy when I try to make him stand, and a dead weight. He doesn’t appear to recognise me. He’s 9, and I think something’s happened, like a stroke, and that maybe the end is on its way. So I grab some blankets and wrap him up since he seems really cold and shivery. At 5 Little A yells out with a nightmare. I crawl under the blankets on the floor with Herbie between the girls’ beds and sleep there for an hour. Wake up feeling 500 years old. My hips don’t lie, like Shakira’s, and are no longer built for floor sleeping. Looking in the mirror, I see the zombie apocalypse was also part of that night’s adventures. I am HOT. Like only the walking dead can be.

Thankfully, I think, Herbie had a seizure. He has recovered fully. Perhaps it’s old age, or a slow-growing tumour. Time will tell whether it’s isolated or the onset of doggy epilepsy. I paid the vet some LOVELY MONEY! Cos she was nice, and I like to give people MONEY WHEN IT’S CHINA. Then, the toilet decided to keep running. Running, and running and running. But not flush. How fun! We can go and use the one outside in 10 degrees and pouring rain in the laundry! Oh, WOOPS! Little A forgot and dropped a chocolate submarine in the toilet! What fun!! Let’s just pour some buckets of water down there, shall we, while we find a plumber? Cos we LOVE to spend money when it’s China.

Doggy-lickin' love.

Doggy-lickin’ love.

Today, I found that everything in the laundry has stopped working. Oh, the boring mundanity of EVERYTHING BREAKING AND STOPPING WORKING! The fridge is defrosting, the washing machine won’t turn on, (which is fine because I’M ABOUT TO BUILD AN ARK ANYWAY), and nor will the dryer. Fuses, obviously. Because I know about all this stuff, and it’s probably caused by the terrible weather, which is also likely a pre-warning of the real zombie apocalypse, because CHINA. Shall we find an electrician? To spend SOME MORE CHINA MONEY? Ah, no. My lovely dad will come to the rescue. LOVE dads. I am also pleased I can turn my freezer back on and don’t have to eat a leg of lamb, 3 kgs of frozen chicken and 10 sausages all by tomorrow night. I would have been quite full.

Some things are working in my RIDICULOUS plan for China week. I am going to the gym. It’s keeping me SO CALM! Can’t you tell? Sleeping? Is not working out at all. That one is in the bin. I plan to get payback and ask for 3 sleep-through-the nights in a row when That Man gets home. I’m not spending enough time with the girls, enough time cooking great meals, enough time keeping my house tidy, enough time washing clothes, enough time being any kind of functioning blogger, and just a little bit of time doing everything badly. I can’t blame myself though. I haven’t the spare time or cash to do so, because somehow, someway, blaming myself would likely end up costing MONEY.

I blame China.*

[*Please, also, if you are China and you are reading this, please don't take this personally. I'm just having a less than optimal week. I'm very fond of your imported goods, electronic equipment, and iPad covers. Please send That Man back in one piece. Preferably toting Duty Free alcohol.]



On Bacon and crises of the existential variety

I’m not sure how you’ll feel about this, but I can’t give myself to Bacon. For one thing, I’m married. I’d maybe consider him if I was still single and looking for something to lay on my plate, but, well … I’m already well and truly committed, hook, line and sinker to his Italian fratello Signor Prosciutto. Secretly, also, I’m having a recent little affair with his distant cousin (or, as I like to call him, his brother from another mother), Jamon Serrano. Call me picky, but I’m partial to a little Eurotrash. Then – if I’m living LARGE and getting out of the Eurotrash zone, I’d like me some Jamon Iberico please. Just don’t tell my husband Signor Prosciutto. He thinks he’s big in Europe. He is, but in an overexposed kind of way; somewhat like Ibiza, and all of its Embarrassing Bodies in the popup clinic on the beach.

Shall we swing north a little to the German Black Forest and its delicious little piggies? Nope. I’ll leave them for you, because I’m generous for one, and because I’ve also drowned in a vat of sangria under a ton of Jamon. Mmmmm.


Offputting, what? Zombie prosciutto hand, GET IN MY BELLY!

Offputting, what? Zombie prosciutto hand, GET IN MY BELLY!

Ummm.. what was the point of my post? To wipe the drool off my keyboard? Yes. And also to point out that, since we are all only separated by 6 degrees of Kevin’s Bacon (cos that dude must have got his Foot Loose around a WHOLE lot more than just middle America), we need to reach some kind of committed stance on Bacon. And the Bacons. And how people who are called bacon probably should not eat Bacon (did I just confuse my capitalisation? You can see the potential problems inherent in names as foods and vice versa) as you can see how this could cause problems.


Francis Bacon, TOTALLY AWESOME DUDE, and also a quite good philosopher, statesman, scientist, lawyer, jurist, author and all-round guy, circa 1500-1600s, brought us some very important thoughts on just about everything. Particularly the modern scientific method. So in his free time he just sat around, thinking about how his name was the same as a food, I’m sure. Despite his 100 shades of wow, apparently he wrote years later of his regret at not having married the young widow who was snaffled away by the lawman with the modern multinational moniker.

Mr 16th century Bacon (not to be confused with Kevin, as, you know, time travel and Deloreans are just in the MOVIES you silly rabbits) was to have married a young widow, Elizabeth Hatton, who broke off their engagement to marry for money. The modern day multinational equivalent, if you will, Sir Edward Coke. This guy was a barrister, Chief Justice and politician. Despite Bacon being a dude, he was a poor dude, while Coke CJ had CASH and influence. He’s the daddy of common law. So much so, in fact, that we spent many delightful hours picking apart his words in Law 101. He was a multinational arse, though, and seems to have married Liz purely because Bacon wanted her. Bacon was a true intellectual, philosopher, and thinker, while Coke was 100% law-man, investing spare energy in tearing his competitor down. I think we will call him roast pork. Too long in the oven. Overcooked and very dry.

So back to the modern day, and I’m left asking what it all means. What is the square root of bacon? All this thinking about Bacon as a pig and a food and a person, and then as a philosopher, and then how we’re all, in fact, separated by only 6 degrees of Bacon has brought me to my little existential crisis. That is the logical endpoint at which to arrive from these meanderings, surely?

And that's all I have to say about that.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

Bacon, for all his wide-ranging interests, and fingers in different pork pies left his political career in disgrace, and with regrets. Coke? Dry pork man? He focused and won. I don’t like this analogy if I apply it to my life, because I feel like I’m attempting much and winning at nothing. But neither do I want to be dry pork.

Paulo Coelho, one of my favourite writers but also a philosopher in my eyes tweeted some pretty great words the other day that I’ll be keeping close. ‘Feign madness but keep your balance’.

In bacon terms, and Bacon terms, I think that means to eat prosciutto hands with relish, enjoy a little from all of the cured pig food groups (balance, see?) skip the regrets, and avoid drinking Coke or watching spills, because that shit will rot your brain.


Horizontal on the Lounge this week, guzzling a pinot gris with Slapdash Mama, cos it goes so well with bacon.


[Picture Credit: Zombie hand - http://www.collegehumor.com

Things that are Epic

On Saturday, amidst the storm clouds and rain, little L and I drove fiercely through the car flock to Fox Studios to a preview screening of Epic in 3D. It was, erm… an Epic adventure. My first fail? It was actually Sunday. Little L pointed this out to me after a confusing few moments where she explained that no, she truly hadn’t been at school the day before. Thank goodness for L. She is 5 and knows everything.

Little L was unsure whether being squeezed by a giant bug was a wise decision.

Little L was unsure whether being squeezed by a giant bug was a wise decision.

I’m not going to actually ‘review’ the movie, because Kimba has done a spectacular job already over here: Epic in 3D : Movie Review. Turns out she was there. In the rain and mist and snow (oh, wait.. it wasn’t quite that bad) I missed her completely. I feel, also, that I’m far too immature to accurately review a movie. I was swept away by the loveliness of the world created, and was so ready to immerse myself in a pretty green 3D forest with small dancing flowers that I threw my critical hat right out the door with my choc-top wrapper. I did find Mumabulous Brenda and her two wee Ps, however, all dripping and cuteness in their raincoats with choc-topped noses. Anyway. The movie? It was really good.

Enthralled 3D girls - What? This photo is blurry and rubbish? Who are you calling a bad photographer? ME? Yeah. Fair call. I am ASHAMED OF MYSELF.

Enthralled 3D girls – What? This photo is blurry and rubbish? Who are you calling a bad photographer? ME? Yeah. Fair call. In the bin SLAM with me and my bad photographing ways.

The movie aftermath? Now THAT was Epic. I managed to get lost inside my own city for over 40 minutes while I drove up and down backstreets on a magical mystery tour of WHERE THE HELL ARE WE? Added to my angst was the birthday lunch we were due to attend for my dad, back over the north shore and a 40 minute (direct) drive away.

I went on an accidental tour of St Vincent’s hospital, somehow driving through the emergency entrance in my state of epic confusion. There may have been an epic amount of inappropriate language streaming from my lips, followed by ‘Sorry L, mummy shouldn’t have said that’, followed by another epically inappropriate word as I turned the wrong way down a one-way lane and was confronted by two rows of parked cars and an angrily oncoming car. Mean streets, I tell you.

I may have had an epic showdown – a navigate-off, if you will, between the two directing ladies who live inside my phone. The first one, insanely, tried to make me drive through the cross-city tunnel, after her inability to re-route forced me to keep backtracking to go back to her original ‘desired’ route. In Little L’s words, ‘That phone lady’s stupid’. Yes, SHE IS EPICALLY STUPID AND SHE HAS NO IDEA WHERE SHE’S GOING.

Cue an emergency That Man phonecall. ‘I don’t know where I am’. ‘I don’t know where you are either’. ‘WELL WHY CAN’T YOU HELP ME!’ ‘Because, you need to pull over, find out where you are, and navigate yourself back out’. ‘WHY CAN’T YOU TELL ME? THE PHONE LADIES ARE ALL STUPID! THEY DON’T KNOW WHERE THEY’RE GOING! I’M AT THESE TWO STREETS. SO WHY CAN’T YOU JUST TELL ME? GRRR! WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BE SO UNHELPFUL!?’ One of my finer moments.

Big bad mean evil trapping Sydney that wouldn't let me out. BOOO! I say BOOOOO!

Big bad mean evil trapping Sydney that wouldn’t let me out. BOOO! I say BOOOOO!

Google maps lady was much nicer to me. We liked her better. It was all good, until I got a little big for my boots with false chutzpah and, smiling with victory through the driving rain, I took the wrong lane leading to the Harbour Bridge and went… back into the city north. EPIC swearing. Sorry Little L. More Epic swearing. Sorry. Possibly a small tear.

Cue wobbly phonecall to family at lunch already. ‘I’m trapped in the city. It won’t let me out’. ‘Remember that day mum was driving us home from the airport, and was upset, and somehow accidentally ended up driving us up Everleigh St behind a police car with 4 police in it? This is like that.’ My brother was soothing. ‘It’s ok. We’ll just eat more olives.’

This more than likely would have been the solution to all the Epic problems, though I'm concerned that there are brussels sprouts coming out of the bottle?

This more than likely would have been the solution to all the Epic problems, though I’m concerned that there are brussels sprouts coming out of the bottle?

And then… then it happened. The clouds parted. The rain stopped. I went around the same roundabout one, final time, and drove onto the Harbour Bridge, northbound! We were free!!!!!!!

I had an Epic nap at the conclusion of lunch. That, too, was really good.


[We were guests of the Digitial Parents Collective and the Natural Cordial Company - an Epic THANKS!]