Word Vomit from a woman on the edge

I have no time to write blogs. I have no time to write Facebook updates. I have no headspace to do anything other than everything, but I need to vomit some words at you, so if you’re here, reading, please forgive me. I’m cleansing. wHERE THE HELL is the Poppins person who is going to stop me from losing my shit completely?

In classic time-poor lazy girl style, I’m going to bullet point this post. You can leave now if you want.

  • I am working all the time
  • When not working, I’m feeding or washing or doing kid’s homework (my Mathis us getting good) or stopping my kids from tearing each other apart with their vicious 5 year old girl words. They may not let each other use the purple texta or play with the unicorn tomorrow, and I couldn’t bear that.
  • I went camping on the weekend. It was not glamping. There was a toilet but it was so far away I had to pee in a bush at 2am.
  • Don’t tell anyone I peed in a bush
  • Suspect others peed in the bush cos it smelt like wee.
  • Like I said, not glamping, but beautiful, beautiful view of Lake Macquarie from our site.
  • Despite tranquil spot, I have no clue how to relax.
  • Storm came through that was so mental it blew our steaks off the table.
  • Found steak the next morning in a box, next to a mug of red wine. Wept over the loss.
  • Not really about the weeping, but the rest is ALL TRUE.
  • Campsite told me to develop ‘shower tips’. I’ll give you 4 minute shower tips. Go in one shower for 4 mins, then the next shower, then the next shower. Make friends in the process if you really have to. Showers are my LIFE.


  • This morning I put a dirty school uniform through the dryer to ‘iron it’ and ‘freshen it up’ because my house and life is such a mess.
  • I am going to FIJI in 4 sleeps.
  • There is a swim up bar, where I plan to sleep.
  • I will buy bikinis everywhere with gay abandon, saying ‘ooh this one will match my Mai tai perfectly’, and ‘the colours in this bikini will really set off my frozen margherita’.
  • Am denying reality that kids will be with me with sunscreen in their eyes and sand in their mouths.
  • I am still drinking green smoothies and they taste GOOD so shuttup.

Woof says Herbie. This is not Fiji.


THIS is Fiji.Look out, Fiji bar person.

THIS is Fiji.Look out, Fiji bar person.


Food of the Future – what’s on your plate in 2025?

Welcome Loungers! Happy not-quite-Friday.

Have I mentioned I love food? I feel ripped off anytime someone suggests ‘brunch’. They stole a meal right from under me! Give it back, now! Today I’m planning my meals 10 years into the future (as well as thinking about my lunch).  I’m a progressive little Vegemite.

So, what’s on the menu? You’ll need to promise not to hold me to this, because even visionaries can get it wrong occasionally. Back to the Future told us we were meant to have our hoverboards by last year, and it’s looking like we may in fact have a couple more years still to wait. Disappointing.

Anyway, without further ado I present my top 5 predictions for the food of the future:

1. Meat – from the printer, not the butcher

Did you know they can print 3D guns now that actually fire? Did you also know they can print replacement organs for the body? It’s only sensible, then, that they should leave Betsy the cow to graze in the paddock her udders un-muddled (umm.. though printing milk could prove messy. We may hang on to those udders) instead of sending her to the handbag factory. Instead, they can print my eye fillet. It’s all the rage on the latest season of Gray’s Anatomy, don’t you know. The docs are all fighting over whether the printing of a new hand or a new liver should take priority. (Tough call, that one. Hand needed to lift the wine glass… but liver needed to process the alcohol. Glad it’s not my decision.) Clearly an eye fillet will beat printing over the gravy beef, however, and we’ll all have champagne beef tastes on a printing budget, while the forests grow and Betsy moos a long and happy life. Everyone’s happy, except the unemployed butchers.

2. Insect sticks

Mmmm a bug barbie. Grasshopper kebabs at the night markets, washed down with a little grass juice. We’re health conscious MOFOs these days (no, silly, the 2025 days), and insects pack an energy and nutrient punch. And the crunch when char-grilled with a little soy, ginger and chilli? Delish.

I guess that will stop them getting away. Chilli sauce or BBQ?

I guess that will stop them getting away. Chilli sauce or BBQ?

3. Chocolate tubes 

Remember sweetened condensed milk in a tube? Our mums would catch us sneaking it and snatch it from our mouths? Well, the health conscious future will make chocolate in a tube, but it will come from cacao nibs. Silken tofu and various other binders will give it a velvety texture, and it will somehow taste great, and be good for you. Not at all like the dairy-free gluten-free friand I ate the other day that tasted like glue. This stuff is actually yum-good as well as good-good. Remember kids, a squirt of chocolate a day keeps the doctor away!

4. Avocado milkshakes

Ewwwwww. I know. That’s what I say too. Ewwwwwww. But, as our gullets circumnavigate the globe, from China, to Thailand, then to Japan, India, Korea, Vietnam, Spain, authentic Mexican, and we’ve ‘conquered’ all of these cuisines, we’ll be looking for our next big flavour adventure. We’ve been doing the mole and agave tequila drinks for a little while now… I suspect the next unexplored culinary frontier will be Africa. And in Africa, they LOVE their avocado milkshakes. I know, I know. But hey, who would have thought balls of tapioca would taste so good swimming around in tea?

Gah. Savoury to sweet is like mixing my metaphors. I can't do it.

Gah. Savoury to sweet is like mixing my metaphors. I can’t do it.

5. 100 year old Peat Bog eggs

You’ve heard how the Chinese eat their 100 year-old-eggs as a delicacy, I suspect? While not ACTUALLY 100 years old, they are some seriously BADDASSLY-preserved eggs. Think about how well the Peat Bogs of Scotland preserve things, like dead men. Remember the Peat Bog man? If a bit of good peat can keep a man who’s ?? years old looking this good, just think about the health benefits of preserving your food in a good bit of peat. Before you know it, everybody will have a nice sunken Peat pit in their back garden, and will be inviting each other around for Peat Pit Pickling Parties on the weekend.

I can’t wait. xx

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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? 

I’m ALIVE! Like Frankenstein

Like Frankenstein, I also have those plugs on my neck, but instead of screws they’re more like stress pimples. I have all the hotness.

I’m now a working girl, like Dolly Parton, back 9-5, making a living, but without the double-G rack. The boob part is an important detail too, because my balance in heels isn’t what it once was, and the balance-shifting qualities of Dolly’s chest would have me nose-to-pavement in a flash. I’m about to start moaning about Mondays, hooting about humpdays, and thank effing it’s Fridays like the rest of the train-commuting chain-gang.

Combine this guy...

Combine this guy…

With this girl... (Minus the rack), you get ME!

With this girl… (Minus the rack), you get ME!

I’ll tell you something else. It’s a secret, because it’s comes with a DELICIOUS dollop of guilt: I’m excited. I love working, and I already love this job. I miss my girls, and they miss me, but I’m there every night by baths and dinner. We’re hugging each other harder, too.

Do you remember why you started your blog? I remember.

I had a lull in my freelance work around September last year, and I was going crazy without work to pour my brain into. I needed an outlet to write, without locking myself into a room, away from my family, to attempt a book. Blogging seemed more social and bite-sized. Before I started, I’d never read a blog. I had no idea about the supportive and welcoming community, or the friendships to be made.

This blog sprog is not really a baby anymore, and I’ve had to think about his daycare now I’ve got such working time commitments, and time away from the girls. Before this job happened I’d thought about stopping, mainly because of guilt around commenting. I love to read blogs, but writing comments takes time, as you’d know if you’ve been doing this a while. I want to get back to commenting for the bursting need to say something about a post, rather than a feeling it’s a commitment that I just can’t manage. I won’t ever, ever leave a comment that says ‘Nice post. Good one’. So it takes time. It stopped me from writing, for a bit, because I knew I had no time in the following days for follow-up.

BUT I CAN’T STOP. I’LL BURST. If my first few days of public transport are any indication, I would also punch a commuter. Blogging is kind of my yoga. When I can’t get to yoga.

I still read, but it’s on a train, when people are bumping me (HUMANITY! ugh) and my iPhone eats my comments before they’re sent. I still want to write. But I don’t want anyone to feel they HAVE to leave a comment. Comment, don’t comment. (Though in the timeless words of Justine Clarke – I love it, I love it, I really really do.) Read, don’t read. I’ll just keep doing it because I have to write, and because I’ve met such wonderful people.

I’m going to write in the hope that I may not be struck by lightning and burned to ashes for being a blogging sinner, reminding myself that this IS a hobby. I’m fairly certain people who knit don’t throw their hands up and fling their scarves out the window because they’ve dropped one too many stitches and can’t handle the guilt or their inadequacy as a knitter. (Or maybe they do? I wouldn’t know. My scarves all come from online, in nice little online packages all tied up with metaphorical string.)

I’ll keep feeding the blog sprog when I can. I look forward to popping in to yours for a cuppa (or a wine) when our schedules next align.


How do you do it? I do mine in the shower.

Blog, I mean. How do you do it? How do you write yours? The typing part is obvious, as is the flinging of words into the internet ether with carefree abandon upon smacking ‘Publish’… but that’s not really what I’m getting at here.

Where do you derive your inspiration? I write my blog in the shower. It’s the nearest body of water, and water is SO. VERY. INSPIRATING. It inspires me to create new words, even. I have no bath, so I can’t submerge fully, and dunking my face in a sinkful of water may be pushing things … even for me. So, the shower it is, until such time as the heavens open and something other than monopoly money falls from the sky, blessing me with a new bathroom and a giant bathtub, with JETS. Then there won’t be any reason to blog anymore. I’ll just become a mermaid, and do mermaid things, like blow bubbles and comb my hair and sing songs…

Digressing. It’s one of the things I do best. Unfortunately being a digression queen is not one of the strengths you can actually discuss in an interview. Writing the blog in the shower means I’m sometimes forced to scribble or type naked, before an idea escapes. You know the old adage about writers keeping notepads next to their beds in case ideas strike during the night? Well – WHERE is my waterproof notepad, please inventor-people? And my waterproof pen? Hmph. Yes. I know, you’re busy curing diseases and newer more ergonomic less ball-hurty bicycle seats and such.

Yes smartipantsesses. I know about these. But EASY TO CLEAN!? uh.. with bleach and a gurney gun perhaps??

Yes smartipantsesses. I know about these. But EASY TO CLEAN!? uh.. with bleach and a gurney gun perhaps??

My usual writing process is as follows. BRAINWAVE! That’s how that silly lurking draft post needs to tie together. If it doesn’t just fall out when I’m sitting at the keys, I leave it till later. Oh. I’m in the shower with a head full of shampoo. I jump out of the shower, towel-off, and scarper back towards the bedroom, passing the computer on the way. Ooooh, yes, best just jot it down. My kids? They never bat an eyelid to see a naked mother tapping away at the keys or hovering over the desk scribbling on her notepad while her hair drips on her nose. I apologise for any disturbing mental images this may be causing you. If it helps, put a nude body stocking over me. It may help the mental view. Slightly? No? Sorry. Let’s just move on then.

I took a little break the other week, to try and find the quiet place in my brain, and to do less hopping here and there in body and in mind. Social media quiet equals brain quiet, right? It did, for a little while. I realised something though. I MISSED you guys terribly. The community and the support when I had an awful day, and the victory when things were great. The dog just didn’t get it. And he refused to toast with me. Teetotalling dogs. Who needs ‘em.

The brain quiet didn’t stick around either. My break meant that though I took a little down-time from the stresses of feeling torn between not quite giving enough to anybody, I was more frustrated and uptight because I didn’t have writing as an outlet. There still wasn’t time to make it to Pilates, either. Life will always be busy. If you have less on, you’ll just stretch the contents to fill your day and be busy still. So now I know, I need to blog in the shower, and to write in my damp notebook, and to interact with the lovely wonderful people hiding inside my computer.

You guys are my yogis. Ah. And now my mind is quiet.

Where and how do you write yours? Are you a morning flasher and dasher like me? 

Linking up with the fabulous Grace for FYBF at With Some Grace.




A wanted woman

It’s true. I’m a wanted woman. My email says so, and who am I to be churlish and disbelieving? There are at least two suitors in my inbox wanting to have a serious relationship with me. It’s very flattering and exciting, the adventures and potential life changes offered to me daily just by opening my Entourage. Should I be concerned that they think I’m a man? Pah. They live in Russia. Mere details.

So, option 1, Olga, is ‘cheerful, kind, sociable and fluffy‘. What more could I want in a woman? Other than that she turn into a man. They have operations for these things though, I believe.

‘You have drawn my attention to a site of acquaintances. I hope, as I shall like you. How I to you in a photo? The truth – pretty? :) But in a life I more nice!!!’ She promises to send me a letter. Sounds like an offer too good to refuse, no?

I shared my excitement on Facebook, and found that Olga had, in fact, been two-timing me. Shattered, with a heavy heart, I discovered she had also shared her deep love for winter and summer with my friend A. In A she had also confided that she also does not love spring and slush. After a tussle with our emotions, and a battle over the length of time Olga had spent in our respective inboxes, we decided that our friendship was not worth sacrificing for this new bewitching slush-hating vixen. A and I banded together, and decided we’d slush her house, in spring. A month or so later, I feel restored and back to my normal self, ready to engage once more with my Entourage.

And now there’s Katya. Ahhh, Katya. Our names both start with a K. Surely this must be fate?

She writes:
‘Hello my name is Katya I am from small city in the center of Russia.
I am 24 years old.I am very friendly and romantic person.’

YES! Me too! I am also 24, (ish), friendly, and romantic!

‘I saw your structure and have decided to do record in you as I search for the friend on the Internet!’

Well, yeah. How could she miss my structure? It’s pretty amazing. Bone structure she means, and she’s been so inspired she’s recording a song about me. I’m glad I’ve been so inspiring to a young woman singer who was only really looking for an Internet friend, and now she’s got her next song! Not surprising though.

‘I want to have serious relationship and it true.My dream is search for the man which will appreciate me and to respect.
I like to get acquainted with unknown people. I am a optimistic girl with sense of humor, who is looking for her soulmate…’

Oooooh, so not just a friend then. A relationship. Oh. With a man. Details…. Next? Yes. I too have a keen sense of humour, though I don’t appreciate bad spelling. I think I can be a valuable guide to dear Katya. Maybe even her soulmate.

‘Sometimes I go to the disco with my friends. I like to spend my free time on the nature.
There are a real beautiful places near my town! Al my life I like sport.
When I was young I was engaged in gymnastics and now I am engaged in aerobics.
Al my friend say that i cherful and sociable.’

Awesome! She’s fit, is sociable and full of Cher. I, too, like ‘Believe’.

‘I hope soon to see your message in my box.’
In your… WTF? Sorry Katya. First date. Slow down.

I’m not sure I’m ready for these Russian minxes. The fact is, I am not a very fat man with a lot of money. What? Stereotyping??? Sorry. I retract that statement and move on. I think, perhaps, my inbox will come in handy when I’m ready to make my first purchase of ‘Vigara’, which I’m certain is chemically significantly different to its sister drug, Viagra. Likely made of talc powder and baking soda, the resemblance is probably not striking.

Vigara… NOT Viagra. For those who want to be… elected?

Also available to me are lucrative investment opportunities. I’m not a sucker. Not falling for any Nigerian scams. However, Stella Sizemore (I suspect this is her stage name) is offering me the chance, as a healthcare investor, to sponsor a company eager to improve the lives of people through the wonderful world of medicinal weed. This is an exciting opportunity made all the more appealing through her use of alliteration, rather than an application of more technically scientific descriptors such as ‘cannabis-based pharmaceutical products’.

What to do? Where to turn? I suppose conscience and willpower must be my guides in this sea of temptation and Vigara. One little blue pill and I could be burping baby’s-bottom-scented breath for days. One slip at the keyboard and Olga and her slush-hating ways could be jumping on the next plane to Australia, ready to drive a ruski-sized wedge between my friendship with A. Or, worse, Katya could arrive on my doorstep demanding that I become a man. With money.

What gems has your inbox turned up lately?


[Photo credit: via Photopin]

My day on a plate – ummm, without the plate

Being a helpful and thoughtful type, I am willing to share my insights into diet and lifestyle with you here, my dear reader, since Sunday Life has not yet seen fit to feature me in ‘My Day on a Plate’. Perhaps they’ll feature my daily intake post-humously, when my innovative ‘forager’ diet has received popular recognition, all too late, and I’m lying comfortably in the ground with worms eating my eyes.

Anyway, you guys get to read it here first, and be early adopters. The ‘foraging diet’ is borne through necessity, but it’s surprisingly easy to follow. Here’s my day as a forager.

6:30am: Awake. Check twitter, facebook, email. Get mad that I’ve wasted time. Fall asleep.

7:15: Awake. Make tea. White, very strong Assam bold with 1 sugar. Whoever thinks sugar is the devil is the devil. Moderation, my pets. 3 sugars? Bad. 1 sugar? Well, it’s better than 1 cigarette.

Race kids to eat breakfast, pack bags, get dressed, do hair, re-do hair, walk out door, come back to yell at second child who is changing into a different outfit instead of putting on shoes, leave for double dropoff. Kid 1 shoves a toast crust at me and says she doesn’t want it. Eat it.

10am: Get home. Very, very, very hungry. Hang clothes on line. Find cherry tomatoes in veggie patch. Eat them.

10:15: Find a pantry! Find a hot cross bun. Is this breakfast? Morning tea? Not sure. Eat bun standing up in kitchen while unpacking dishwasher and tidying up crap everywhere.

10:30 −11: Hang out more washing. Answer emails. Running late!

11:00: Find a mint in bottom of handbag while driving in car. It is fluffy. Eat it. Get lost, yell at navigator who keeps telling me to do u-turns. (You can’t do them in NSW – STUPID woman), be late for meeting in city. Meeting person is lovely and doesn’t mind. Find a glass of water at meeting. Drink it.

12:30: Back at supermarket on north side. Shop. Eat a grape when nobody is looking. They might have been squishy. It’s yummy. Eat 3 more. Buy food. Eat apple on way to car crashing trolley into walls because should have waited until inside car to eat apple.

1:30: Gym: Pilates. Realise very hungry when think chi ball starts to resemble mango and need to stop self from eating it.

This is a chi ball . Deflated, when hungry, it’s mangoesque.

2:30: Find half a le snak biscuit in girl’s car seat. Eat it. Go home, unpack shopping. Find a stick of salami in shopping bag. Munch while unpacking. Find block of cheese. Munch a chunk in car while driving to school.

3:00: School pick up. Daughter starving. WTF!? She had a whole lunchbox! And recess!! Ahhh but we get home and she makes ME a coffee. I think this may be why I had children.

3:30: Find cruskits in pantry! JACKPOT! Slightly stale! Can’t tell with vegemite. Eat them in car while driving to preschool. 

5:00 Children home. Won’t get in bath. Won’t get out of bath. Won’t wash selves. Won’t dress selves. Won’t stop whingeing. Cooking pasta. Find some wine in fridge. Check it’s ok for cooking with. Have a sip. (swig). Find some pickles. Eat the pickles with a fork from the jar and pretend am somewhere else. That’s better. 

So, Pete, do you marinate them in caffeine? Poach them in Red Bull?

I think all the furore around those ‘activated almonds’ of Pete Evans’ came about because he wasn’t willing to actually share his insights into the origins of the almonds. Did he activate them by marinating them in eau de caffeine? Did he poach them in Red Bull? Did he plant them in the garden until they’d grown up through the heart of a lettuce? It was unfair not to share. I will do this for you now. You activate an almond by putting it in the couch. It’s part of my diet. After a week or two it’s absorbed nutrients from the surrounding environment, and you can forage for it while watching TV. You double the energy quotient by not expending yours walking to seek almonds, and by absorbing the added nutrients activated within the kernel itself. Win win.

So, guys, you see the basis of this diet is really to get back to simpler, caveman times, when we were out in the wilderness foraging for our survival. You find food, you eat it. If it looks ok, it probably is. I do sit down at dinner and eat proper food (and drink proper wine, from a proper glass). And sometimes, if I’m very lucky, I find some chocolate hiding in the recesses of the couch after dinner.


[Pic credit: Sunday life]

What body type are you? I am morph, man.

Body types, hey? NOPE I am not doing that body image thing. This is not that. I want to discuss those delightfully Matrix-sounding body labels of ‘ectomorph’, ‘endomorph’ and ‘mesomorph’. Such fascinating stuff on the interwebs. The home of such friendly terms as ‘skinny-fat’.

Do you know which one you are? I’m the ectomorph one, apparently. I’m long and straight and pretty-much boobless. Like a ruler. With hair. I’m the one that people don’t like at the gym because they think everything is all just chocolate cake and peanut butter with a spoon, and lying around on couches pointing at things with my long fingers. This is not my reality.

Before I explain, I’ll give you the rundown of the others so you can play along.

These ‘somatotypes’ were originally invented by some guy called William Herbert Sheldon, a psychologist who theorised that body types were somehow connected with human temperament types. Hmmm… kind of a long bow.

Ectomorphs: are typically characterised by long and thin muscles/limbs and low fat storage; usually referred to as slim. Ectomorphs are not predisposed to store fat or build muscle.

Mesomorphs: are usually referred to as an ‘athletic’ or ‘muscular’ build, characterised by medium bones, low fat levels, and wide shoulders with a narrow waist. Mesomorphs are predisposed to build muscle but not store fat.

Endomorphs: are characterised by increased fat storage, a wide waist and a large bone structure. Endomorphs are predisposed to storing fat.


Obviously, none of us (with the odd exception Kate Moss) are a pure and exact sample of any of these body types. Perhaps more obviously, Sheldon’s theories have today been thrown out the window as outdated and loopy. However – it hasn’t stopped his scientific-sounding names from being glued to a million-and-one weight-training and fitness websites on the interwebs. If you’d like to learn some deeper insights into your psyche, or perhaps some quirky personality traits, do read on.

Endomorphs, not only are you ‘globular’ in your general appearance (I’m afraid I don’t really know what this means, sorry) you also have a ‘specific skin texture and a particular shape of the head’. To me, that doesn’t sound too good. I’m picturing one of those pointy-headed blue men on Star Trek. Is this accurate?

Mesomorphs – an interesting fact for you. Since your well-developed muscle mass is distributed on the entire body, you may even be the proud owner of muscly digits. I’m not declaring a thumb war with you guys. You do have hair heavy in texture though. I hope that’s nice for you. Hobbits.

Some other interesting factoids I found about ‘me’ on the interwebz. Did you know ectomorphs have a ‘feeble’ constitution? I will bitch slap THAT writer. With my feeble-wristed slap. I am also apparently faking my height, since “The lack of muscle mass creates the impression that ectomorphs are taller than they really are.”

They can also tell my personality from looking at me. Genius. ‘As an ectomorph body type, you’re as delicate inside as you are outside. You’re often introverted, artistic, private and thoughtful.’ [EXCEPT WHEN I'M NOT] ‘Your skin may burn easily and you may suffer from extreme body temperatures. Your hair is often fine and grows quickly.’ YES damn ok. All this last part is correct.

I’ll tell you what else is correct? My true body type is MORPH. I might be naturally tall, but I have to exercise or I look like a slab of ciabatta. It’s hard to carry off a bit of extra weight if you don’t have the curves to slinky it around on. You just look a bit like a block of cheese. I tried this after high school when I went backpacking and discovered Europe and beer and cheese fondue. Granted, it was only 4kg but I had nowhere to stash it that looked good. It refused to sit on my bum or boobs. Belly button or bust (my jeans).

I just started on some new migraine meds the other week, and this little old ectobody whacked on 2kgs in ONE WEEK. While I realise 2kg is a fairly insubstantial amount, I would like to draw you a graph to illustrate the uphill trajectory of this trend over the course of a year taking this medication. I would like to, but I can’t, because my skills are lacking in the graph-drawing arena. I will give you a number though. In a month, I would gain 8kg. In a year, 104kg. On my currently 60kg 5″10 frame, they would have to hire a forklift to move me to the aircraft hangar where I’d reside, migraine-free, with the aeroplanes and baby elephants.

I stopped taking it though, so I lost the 2kg again. Thank god I have a body type that eats food, goes to the gym occasionally and sleeps. Rocket science, I tells you. Just like all this stuff on the interwebs.


All the burning questions

I’m bursting with burning questions. I need answers, people, and I need them now. Please help, and if you can’t, send chocolate. Or booze. Or boozy chocolate.

What follows is a random and eclectic mix of the questions filling up prime real estate in my brain. There is not enough space in there. These need clearing out. Don’t be dismissive. They are all VERY important. They all NEED ANSWERS. Don’t be upset by the lack of flow. Or be upset – but don’t ask me to help you with it. I am too busy with my questions to care. Sorry.

  1. Where did the ridiculous expression ‘wanting to have your cake and eat it too’ come from? I want to have my cake and eat it too. Is that bad? Of course I want to eat it too! Who wants to just look at cake?
  2. Why can’t I catch the rabbit roaming freely in my garden (eating all the herbs in my veggie patch)?
  3. Do I have to cut down on my viewing frequency of ‘Breaking Bad’ if, when I go to make my Easi-yo yoghurt in the morning, I say it in my head like an instruction to a dude who needs to calm the hell down, like ‘Easy, yo’.
  4. If you shave your legs down ‘with the grain’ (also – does hair even HAVE a grain?) instead of up, assuming you had magical contortionist arms, would they last longer between shaves? Do any real people actually do this?
  5. Why is everything 10 times more funny when you need to pee?
  6. Kids. AGH. This is not a question. Merely punctuation.
  7. Why is there a Jeans for Genes Day, and a Canteen Day with bandanas charity day, but no charity day yet that involves wearing pyjamas all day? I would fundraise the CRAP out of that day. Oh yes.
  8. Why do Americans on TV shows say ‘I could care less’ when they’re implying they don’t care – when Aussies in the same situation say ‘I couldn’t care less’. Does not one person stop to consider that in saying this expression, they’re in fact saying ‘Yes. I care. More than I want to.’ Don’t get me started on aluminum.
  9. Why is the amount of late you’re running directly proportional to the number of times your kid will decide they need an outfit change?
  10. Will Jennifer Aniston ever do something different with her hair?
  11. Will Angelina Jolie ever wear a colour that’s not black?
  12. Will the world ever stop turning?
  13. Will I ever stop gazing at my navel?
  14. Why is Facebook so stupid?
  15. Did unicorns exist once, like dinosaurs, and evolve into horses once their horns dropped off? Perhaps we’ve just not dug up any unicorn horn fossils as yet. Food for thought here…
  16. Perhaps most importantly… vodka or gin?


photo credit: via photopin

Checking in while checking out – The Blogies!

Somewhere in here is a dolphin. It’s like Where’s Wally?

We’re crossing to you live today from the sandy yellow carpet of the NSW mid-north coast, where our fresh new Blogess Kim from Falling Face First has donned her best bikini in preparation for the acceptance of her recent Sunshine and Liebster blogging Awards.

Kim was tickled to discover she’d been passed the Liebster belt by Kelly @ Handmade Tears and Triumphs. In fact, as she spies our cameras she drops the small child she’s been holding and trots up the beach Gangnam-style, (tripping only once and dusting herself off with panache), eager to take hold of the microphone, oblivious to the ridicule she is attracting from onlookers.

Breathlessly, she agrees to conduct a brief interview before she resumes her important dolphin-spotting, kindle-reading, and lying prone-on-the-beach duties.
We unfurl our questions in quick succession before Kim can get herself into any further trouble standing in the upright position.

So, Kim, how long have you been blogging?’
‘Three months. Since September. If that’s still 3 months ago.’

‘Messy play or clean play?’
‘Clean. Though messy is heaps of fun when someone else is cleaning up!’

‘Plain or patterned?’
‘Plain or patterned what? If you’re discussing leggings, please don’t. They’re not pants, even if you put patterns on them, and pictures of zips, and pictures of pockets. In this case, PLAIN, at the gym. Otherwise, if you mean animals, dresses or couch cushions, then patterned. Oh – though I’ll usually take plain skin over patterned.’

‘What is your favourite animal?’
‘I’m torn. Meerkats or lemurs? They’re both cute and ridiculous. Nobody can be sad with a picture of a meerkat on their desk. Can somebody please give me a picture of a meerkat for my desk?’

Fingers, calculator or in your head?
‘I realised some time ago I’m missing that side of my brain, so definitely not in my head. On my fingers, till they run out, then caluculator all the way.

‘Where was your favourite place as a child?’
‘Our pool, till I grew chlorine eyes and everything had a whitish halo around it.’

‘Inside or outside?’
‘Outside, but only if conditions are PERFECT i.e. 29 degrees, sunny, light breeze.’

‘How often do you clean your house?’
‘As little as possible. Boring. Next question. That said, I hate mess and it drives me crazy. So that’s the “as little as possible” determinant.’

If you could have as many children as you wanted, how many would you have?’
‘Two. Once I thought maybe three, but two is a bit like what you want with your boobs. Just more than a handful. That’ll do.’

Do you think you will ever stop blogging?’
‘In all likelihood, yes, unless the world becomes a slightly dystopic secret-opinion driven world where Parrots earn lucrative sums as they do in the last chapter of A Visit From the Goon Squad. Then I think we could say my need exists, my corruptibility is low, but my reach is, hopefully, growing.’

‘What is your favourite TV show at the moment?’
‘Tough question. 30 Rock, Grey’s Anatomy or Breaking Bad’.

‘Thanks Kim. That’s all we want to know from Lieb-land. An award in recognition of a small blog with less than 200 followers, in German meaning “sweetest, nicest, kindest, dearest” etc. Also a pat on the back, like your kids telling you occasionally, after you spend years wiping their poo ‘we love you mummy’.

‘I just want to say thanks to Kelly too. I Liebster her too.’

Kim has dropped the microphone in the sand and is already sprinting towards the water, arms akimbo in her trademark unco-ordinated running style, when I remind her she’s failed to address her Sunshine Award passed on by the fabulous Mumabulous.

‘Oh yeah. Which one is that?’

‘The Sunshine Award is an award given by bloggers to other bloggers. The recipients of the Sunshine Award are: “Bloggers who positively and creatively inspire others in the blogosphere”. The way the award works is this: Thank the person who gave you the award and link back to them. Answer questions about yourself. Select 10 of your favourite bloggers, link their blogs to your post and let them know they have been awarded the Sunshine Award!’

‘OK. Today’s a good day for this one since I’m standing in the sun. I don’t know that I manage any of those things, but they’re good on the aspirational front for 2013. Thanks Mumabulous, you rock lady. Harder than Bardot!

1. Favourite Time of the Year?
My birthday- the festival of Kim! Mainly because it’s closely followed by our anniversary, Valentine’s Day, and is in summer.

2. Favourite Festive movie?
Love Actually. I can rewind and watch the Hugh Grant dancing-like-nobody’s-watching even though you’re the PM scene about 10 times before I get bored.

3. What is your Passion?

4. Favourite Colour?
Cornflower blue

5. Favourite time of the Day?
Evening, first wine, just after the kids are in bed. Ahhhhhhhhh.

6. Favourite Flower?
The tiger lily, OR phaeleanopsis orchid. I said the first one cos you’ve probably said Huh? to the second. I only know because it was in my wedding bouquet.

7. Favourite Non-Alcoholic Beverage?
Non … What? Sorry… I don’t think I’ve understood these words correctly. I do drink tea in the morning. Assam bold, baby! Love a cup of Twinings.

8. Favourite Physical Activity?
Are we keeping this PG? Ok. Too many… Swimming in the surf, kayaking, Zumba, Pilates, and, ummm, is sleeping a physical activity?

9. Favourite Vacation?
This one. Hawks Nest, beach house, for an inexpensive family holiday. For the ultimate non-kids getaway luxury escape, Twin Palms Resort Phuket. So much luxury, so little time.

So, who’s up next? She rambled on so long everyone’s straggled off to the car park for a coffee.

‘WAIT! There’s more!’
‘You need my Leiby-shiny nominations!’

We return. We hold our breaths. TV crews assemble. Home and Away extras stop pacing back and forth across the camera. Staring takes place.

‘Right. Here are my Leisbster noms:
Enid Bite ‘Em – she seems to love words as much as I do, and is just plain awesome.
The Things I’d Tell You - with all of the book love. And a wonderful, warm soul.
The Kids Are All Right - Rachel is a WISE WOMAN. Heed her teenaged advice. She is also very lovely. I intend to drink wine with her soon.
Bachelor Mum - is inspiring and full of culture and knowledge. I want to eat her brain, not at all in a zombie kind of way.

And my Sunshines:

Babbling bandit – It hasn’t been sunshine for you, but your blog is like the sun – open, warm and honest
Take Charge Now – She’s my Veuve kindred spirit, and gets on with shit when shit needs to be got on with, in a very sunshiney way. That certainly deserves an award.

I’m not great with rules. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to change the questions or not. I’ve run out of beach juice in any case. Sorry. And I know this isn’t enough peeps. I love so many of you – but you’ve been tagged already!

PHEW! Over and out xx