Keeping up with the Blogdashians – Sloppy roundup

Holy mother of pearl it’s hard work keeping up a blog these days! How do people do it?

Other people must have magical unicorn families that don’t have children turning 5 even though they were only just ejected from their loins all of 30 seconds ago. Or bottles of wine that accidentally open themselves and thrust their contents into their mouths night after night, as mine do, preventing anything much useful from happening other than the investigation of whether that blonde guy in Downton Abbey really IS losing his jowls as the seasons go by. Or have jobs that require working, or putting on work clothes, or other inconvenient intrusions like turning up to that office place, over and over, all the stupid time. I have a blog to write, dammit!

How did this puffin turn 5? I just pushed her out yesterday!

How did this little puffin turn 5? I just pushed her out yesterday!

Two things I recently mastered. Being the BEST sloppy parent I can be, and buying CHEAP matching earrings in 3 minutes that match my outfit perfectly, and still being only marginally later than I was already. It’s a tough call, really. Already late, without earrings, or 3 minutes later, but INFINITELY more fabulous, wearing earrings that match my outfit. I’d make the same choice again.

So I may be a crap blogger but I’m almost cutting it as a person. Sloppy parenting 101 looks like this.

Filthy tantrums and a foul mood you can’t crack with cajoling, kindness, or threats? Throw a slurpee at it. They come in sugar-free now, so that almost counts as responsible parenting. Birthday party? It’s a teddy bear’s picnic. Get the kids to sit and stuff their own bears for the picnic. It will occupy them for a whole hour of the party. They all sit in the one spot. Can’t be arsed filling lolly bags? Do a bear hunt. Make them find their own. Feed them some tiny teddies (oooh look! Premade! Winning).

I don't trust you, strange lady doing things to my feet.

I don’t trust you, strange lady doing things to my feet. Pretend she’s not there. Pretend she’s not there. 

Kids behaving like small demons? Give them a fairy door. Very cute. Very sweet. The ‘fairies’ can deliver subliminal messages on improving their behaviour, (like ‘now you’re 5, we hope you’ll share your toys with your sister as nicely as you’ve shared them with us!’) all while making it seem like a good idea by sprinkling them with pixie dust (that looks very much like purple glitter. Note to self – remove all traces before catching train).


A fairy door in a fairy wall.

A fairy door in a fairy wall.

I’m almost a high achiever at sliding by.

What else has been happening? Oh yeah. I have been sleeping. Preparing for Australia Day, I am sleeping for Australia, in case it’s one day a national sport. I eat lamb, I drink beer, and I can do our country proud at the Sleep Olympics.

I slept through my alarm this morning. I slept through That Man ringing to check I hadn’t slept through the alarm. I mostly got dressed (GOD BLESS you dry shampoo gods!) but forgot my ears. I am naked without my ears. I bought some that perfectly matched my dress for $12, and was still only 10 minutes late. And then I was asked if I work out and what do I eat to be so healthy and ended up discussing my age, and NO WAY am I REALLY older than 26??? Yeah, OK, it was my barista and that’s part of his job description, but I’m sure it was the earrings taking years off my face.

That’s all. Just stuff. So much for blogging better. I’m sloppy as ever and crushed under the weight of January, that heavy mother-trucker. But AUSTRALIA DAY! YAY! Tattooed flags will be on my face because I’m immature!

Also, THE LOUNGE will be returning to the top of this Faraway Tree after an extended absence THIS THURSDAY!!! Come and link up. It’s books. Booky, booky wooks. Or Russell Brand, and his loose connection to books, if you prefer.







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.]



F and K’s European Vacation!

Travel, oh travel, I heart thou. I’ve had my share. I’ve been spoiled. I could tell you about luxuriating on the beach in Thailand without kids last year, or about travelling to Italy with my best mate a few years ago for a wedding, WITHOUT KIDS. But I won’t. Not today, anyway. Today for my Lounge travelling tale I’m trawling the photo archives, taking the time machine back to 2001, when I hit Europe with a backpack for the very first time.

I had my trusty buddy F with me on the Eurostar, wearing our daggy jeans, sneakers and neck safety belts for our travellers cheques and passports (HELLO, people, this was 2001. The internet had only, like, JUST been invented). We were so cool. So chic. So au fait with the French language. So ready to take on Paris. SO unprepared to be reduced to tears by the train ticket dude at Gare du Nord.

Do you like Paris in the springtime? We liked Paris in 35 degree summertime sweat, when all the streets smelt like pee. Ah… the beauty of a city of dog-lovers. We made our way out to the fancy schmancy burbs to stay with our acquaintance Walter in Sceaux. Walter was Charmin – as in, German. Charm, itself, was lacking, though he laid an approximation of it on pretty thickly at first. Walter, Walter, Walter. He kindly put us up, and was no threat at all to a couple of 22-year old girls in daggy shorts, resembling an IT-nerd crossed with Ronald McDonald. He told every person we spoke to that we were Australian, and after the guffaws died down (and we scrabbled through our dictionary), we discovered he was also saying we’re from a British colony full of convicts. IRATE we were. FURIOUS! Being stuck in the middle of Epernay, surrounded by des Caves, it made the most sense to sink our fury into the teeth of all the French champagne we could muster. We were like drovers. Rounding them up, and putting them down. We showed him.

'Did you just call me a convict again?' 'Why yes, yes I believe I did.'

‘Did you just call me a convict again?’ ‘Why yes, yes I believe I did.’

Still somewhat upsetting to me to this day is that I was only hit on ONCE in my entire three months of travel in Europe. I blame being oblivious to what being hit upon looked like (until it was actually grabbing at me), my HORRENDOUS wardrobe, my natural F*(&* off face, and being desperately in love with my boyfriend (who is now my husband). These factors, combined with the fact I was a good head and shoulders taller than most of the men in Europe made me a very unappealing prospect. In any case, this particular hit was hard to miss. ‘Want a Vespa ride?’ Sure. Where are we going? Oh. ‘Your boyfriend, he no thinking about you. He with the other girls at home. What you come here for? He forget you’. This photo was taken on the way BACK, after I refused to get back on the bike with blondie (the perp) and rode home with harmless instead. I have sunburn and ‘bugger off’ written all over my innocent face.

Dodgy, dodgy, italianos. Nonplussed, sunburnt, pissed off Kim.

Dodgy, dodgy, italianos. Nonplussed, sunburnt, pissed off Kim.

Quite famous I was in Rome though. They made me some coffee. Still waiting on the royalties. Bastardos.

When, will I, will I be famous?

When, will I, will I be famous?

And Spain? Spain was MAD. A whirlwind of wonderful. We decided to randomly jump off the train in San Sebastien, which was a brilliant decision, since they had the running of the bulls that day, and a thousand million tapas bars in every street, and beaches that burned my legs to a glorious shade of purple, and a festival that saw men peeing up the walls until 2pm the following afternoon. Then Barcelona (with Spamburgers, and more wonderful), and Madrid (with less wonderful), and the COSTA BRAVA. Ahhhhhh. The beach, and a week to relax at Llafranc. Except, it was September 11, 2001, and the World Trade Centre was hit. It was a surreal place to experience the media trickles of tragedy, amidst such relaxation and beauty.

This walk was extremely taxing. Beautiful AND flat. With my friends shops and cheap beer at the end.

This walk was extremely taxing. Beautiful AND flat. With my friends shops and cheap beer at the end.

We walked, we swam, we read, we drank Sangria in the sunset, and ate paella in the dark. We walked to the shops by the seaside path, and drank bottles of San Miguel that were cheaper than water. We recharged. Then we threw on our packs and launched into the rest of Europe, a couple of sunburnt girls heartsick for our boyfriends, with really crappy wardrobes.


Linking with the air hostess with the mostess, Rachel at


Sloppy Sunday roundup – close encounters of the Wiggly kind

What a week. My head’s been beating the days away in a thumpy thumpy sinus-rhythm, That Man’s in China, my foot’s decided to get itself an infection that is making me want to toss my cookies, and yet here I am writing. Is it dedication to you, madness, or addiction? Yes. Prepare for a sloppy incoherent roundup of events.

On Friday little A and I went on an adventure to Westmead Childrens’ Hospital! What fun! They have lots of bears there – we could have brought a picnic. Nothing dramatic – just for her 4-year old vaccinations, since she decided to go all floppy, febrile and non-responsive after the 1-year vax. I know she likes to ignore me sometimes, but that was taking it a little far.

It was a blast! We waited in a room, then we waited in another room, then we answered questions, then she went ‘aahhhh’ and poked out her tongue like a little champ. We did blood tests instead of the vaccination (long story – blah blah I’m bored already) and on our way out I saw a WIGGLE IN THE WILD.

It was the Blue one. He was Anthony carrying a guitar, and looked bigger than he looks on my telly. (Amazing. Taller than 2 inches – who’d have thunk it!?). I waved at him initially, since he looked familiar, you know, like an ex-work colleague or something, but out of context so you can’t pin it? You can’t blame me – he was dressed undercover – without his skivvy. Easy mistake. He looks like somebody that I used to know. He waved back, VERY unenthusiastically, with no smiling. Great people skills. Then I realised he is VERY EXTREMELY FAMOUS AND IMPORTANT and did not want to be bothered. On his way to entertain the sick children. Of course.

Unsmiling without a skivvy. The Anthony one is almost unrecognisable in the wild. Sorry, blue one. I may have put my coffee mug on your face.

In other hot news, I haven’t had a drink in 6 days. I should clarify. A drink, containing alcohol. Otherwise I may be close to death, and surprising as it may seem, I AM NOT. It’s like I don’t even know who I am anymore. Lime and soda – the drink of the tired and exhausted woman who has lost the will to mix her own drink or put a bottle of wine in the freezer. Sad times.

What else? Oh. We’ve scaled this foot bizzo up a notch and I’m now sucking back 8 antibiotic pills a day to bash this little staph/cellulitis whatever infection on its head, because I’ve already come up with far too many strange and unusual ways to incapacitate myself in the past. Hooking myself up to an IV of non-caffeinated or alcoholic juice does not really float my boat. So drugs, WORK.

Hakuna matata. (I think that means look out for zebras.)