I think you deserve a little smile...
Katie thinks: 'Hmmm, I wonder if Tom is going to give me back those sunglasses...'
The possible de-throner of Robbie...
With thanks to the Warner Bros site for indulging me...
Even greater evidence of pregnancy than the bump and possible V.V.V.
Today, in the glorious sunshine I had a truly pregnant day of spontaneous tears and impressive yelling at children for nothing more than them being children.
As Oscar endures his 'wearing in' of super legs - which made me cry as much as him so therefore descended the situation to hell as parental weakness = victory, even in the teary eyes of the most gorgeous child in the world - I am trying the diversion of every musical DVD known to mankind. We've gone through Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and are now onto Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
Incase the medical tests, the impressive girth, the pelvic congestion and the almost constant internal kicking wasn't proof enough. Felix asked me, "what's the name of that boy?" (as in Charlie) to which I replied, "I can't remember Felix, maybe Sam?"
Big Red Car
Oscar had his botox injections today. Yes, botox has a purpose for good not just the vanity of yummy mummies, trophy wives and rich old hags.
We LOVE Sydney Children's Hospital. Not for what it is and what it means when we're there, but for the people in it. Truly remarkable, caring, generous, patient people who deal with kids every single day that are sick, stressed, scared and just kid-like.
The downside of course, is waiting. And when your kid is starving, scared and bored, the creation of a Postman Pat like push around car is a gift that proves the existence of a greater being. Oscar can push this car around or be pushed around in it quite happily for HOURS. Today showed growth and development as he also, on occassion, did sit on his bed and watch TV. Only those who understand what twice yearly (or more) visits to the Ambulatory Care unit will appreciate the joy that is a child who will happily sit still and watch TV for hours.
Anyway, he had his botox, got his super legs - and is home. The other upside of hospital visits like today, is that we were home by 2pm and with Chitty Chitty Bang Bang fired up in the DVD, I.got.an.afternoon.snooze.for.TWENTY.minutes.on.the.lounge.
PS - to clarify the V.V.V. issue - I don't have them, well I think I had one but it went down, but apparently, because its the third and it seems to like burrowing through my pelvis, I'm a prime candidate for them to come back in all their ropey glory.
No, not the ice cream. Scroll down, bit further, bit further, just a little bit further.
Aha, yep. Right there.
That I really like strawberry ice cream. Quality strawberry ice-cream, not that dog-penis-pink stuff.
This is quite a breakthrough as normally eating ice cream renders me bulimic by reflex not choice.
It is official. Apparently I have 'a lot of pelvic congestion'.
What a legacy.
The incubus has decided to burrow into my pelvis. The upshot of this is that I need to wee every hour, and every hour its about a teaspoon of relief. It also means that doing a poo requires the focus and mis-guided focus you apply to trying to squeeze icing out of a small hole you've cut in a bag to make all manner of amazing kids birthday cakes. I imagine my fecal matter feels about the same as that poor icing does. It also means. . .
Vulval varicose veins.
I believe I'm setting a new standard for this blog.
Last Friday night as we farewelled the beautiful Bob & Linda, another very dear friend - Lara - and I sat discussing what we wanted from life.
Both of us want to be famous.
The first time I told AB this - when he asked what I wanted to be in my life - he replied, 'that's so conceited'.
I am not kidding.
Seriously, everyone prior to that had just indulged my delusions of fame (and obviously associated wealth) and he was the first to make me question whether it was a noble gesture or not.
So you can imagine my relief on Friday night to find a friend of more than a decade has the same lofty ambitions. She of course writes for a national broadsheet so is in a much better position of achieving The Goal, but still, it was reassuring all the same.
Then we realised, it was not so much the concept of being famous, as in recognisable on the street, but of being 'known'.
Today, I appeared in a full colour photo with Oscar in the Daily Telegraph that claims to have a million readers a day. The pic ran two thirds of the page's length and the same of its width. The article was about Oscar and our need to raise almost $100,000 for the most important and remarkable service for special needs kids and their families. I'm - for once - not exaggerating to say the story filled two thirds of a right hand page.
Apart from a few factual errors that came about because Oscar was present for the interview and kept interrupting us, it is a really good story.
So I'm wondering why I feel so weird about it? That my thigh looks like a leg of mutton? That I don't have a chin? That there are errors of fact? Or that I'm just unsatisfiable? As I'm now making words up, I figure its probably time for bed.
Wow. I think I should write something profound, but all I can think about is how we let number 69 slip by without a snigger.
Hey Kim, over to you for the glory of our 100th post... I'll do the 1000th.
The Evil Twin
They tell you, in the books and in the hospital and in the Multiple Birth Association coffee mornings, that there is no such thing as the Evil Twin and that it can do irreparable damage to label one twin 'good' and the other one 'evil'.
Only one of our three children can look our Attack Cat in the eye and laugh in the face of danger.
Only one of our three children thinks it's funny when her dad goes too far in throwing her up in the air and actually drops her.
Only one of our children can cackle in a style almost identical to the sound the Wicked Witch of the West makes when flying off after destroying all Dorothy's hopes and threatening her little dog Toto.
She blacked her right eye three times before she was 2 and a half.
You get the idea? She loves heights, she adores being scared, she eats peanut butter with her fingers out of the jar (ok, lots of kids probably do this but she went for it like a monkey to nits when her big sister - the analytical one - would no sooner eat out of the jar than, well, do what the monkeys do to nits).
For the past week, whenever caught red-handed doing something unmistakeably wicked - like whacking her much larger and stronger twin brother over the head with a metal spoon - she has turned to the supervising adult, ignoring the howling victim, and yelled, "I didn't!"
I have a very clear vision: if I'm lucky it will be 15 years away, if unlucky it will be 10...
Here I am, opening the front door at 2am, with my unrepentant younger daughter grinning at me, and I am saying:
"What did she do this time, Constable?"
ps - written after a particularly spectacular bedtime trauma with this littlest of the little ones tonight...
pps - ...you know how all your kids have something special about them? Well this one doesn't just glow, she sparkles; she's 110% courage and I can hardly wait to see just audacious she becomes.
Ahh the good old days...
During our blissful Sunday which involved spontaneous park visits and MacDonalds, I referred to some time in my dark distant past to the boys. The-soon-to-be-Middle-Child asked "so Grampy was married to Grandmama?".
This is always an interesting conversation.
Anyway, after reassuring him that yes Mummy and Daddy were married and no, neither of us had ever been married before, the following question filled the car like that weird expand-a-foam...
Felix: So Mummy, what if a boy wants to marry another boy or a girl wants to marry another girl.
Mummy: Well Felix, sometimes boys fall in love with boys and girls with girls, in a way like Mummy and Daddy love each other... (and so on and so forth.)
Seriously, what ever happened to the Mummy, why do spiders have eight legs? Mummy why is the sky blue? Mummy, why is my snot green?
I yearn for these questions.
the most commonly uttered phrase by fridge repairmen...
Oh, they don't make this model anymore...
Despite his prophesizing that the last time he found the right part for our only-EIGHT-year-old-fridge it was in Queensland, he rang this afternoon to say he'd found the part and it was in Sydney.
While this was a huge relief as really, being a GenXer and all, living out of a bar fridge just wasn't really cutting it for me, I was a little sad that we couldn't spend the money we don't have on a new whizz-bang pidgeon pair shiny stainless steel fridge and freezer Chef found on the web yesterday.
I might wee every time I cough or sneeze, but at least I don't look like this...
CREDIT: MB / MALIBU MEDIA from People
A true friend (she'll get the pun)
While we reel from our latest bout of childcare disasters, a sparkling moment today when a true true friend brought her lovely little boy over and looked after the terrible two for a few hours so we could both make an appearance at work.
In the interest of thinking kindly of my short people, I'm recording her reaction to them, here:
you have the most wonderful, generous, very bright kids and even though they
want to kill each other occasionally, they're still reasonable!!
i just wanted to say that i had fun today and i hope the kids
did too. my favourite memory is in the last 10 mins before chris came, we
stomped down the hallway, a la pied piper, singing, "fruit salad yummy
yummy" and even A, who brought up the rear, was stomping and singing along.
it was a perfect memory.
you need wholemeal bread as they all had a vegemite sandwich.
also, there are only two bananas left. i brought one with me for A - despite
this, a banana monster was apparently set loose for
when i turned around, bang, the bowl was nearly empty.
they ate bananas, apple, tangelo, sultanas (i brought them, hope that's ok),
a vegemite sandwich, and a partridge in a pear tree
See: the next time I feel like selling them, I can at least be sure of getting a decent price.
Non, je ne regrette rien
I have two things for you and your pelvic floor exercise regrets:
- A distraction: How did Edith ever expect anyone to believe she had no regrets when she always always always looked so stunningly beautifully miserable?
- An initiative: Boy, do I have a market research gig for you.
When you are so sick of a cough that makes you feel like you're hacking up a lung, all the while presenting quite a case for why you should have done those pelvic floor exercises before, during and after the numerous incubations. Seriously, its becoming quite an issue. God knows what it will be like in another 12 weeks. Digression. Sorry.
Anyway, when you're so over coughing, you come home and consume two slices of white bread with butter and raw garlic (its Linda's Mum, Agata's, home remedy) have home made pizza with about three garlic cloves cooked on it, and then a few fish oil tablets before bed.
Oh the heartburn. Oh the garlicky fishy burps.
In light of my scary dark moments a few weeks back, I've decided to relish the happier lighter moments as well, rather than just taking them for granted by not referring to them and not writing dark, grim, morose posts. So, happiness is:
- the boys attacking me as I walk through the door each night
- the boys climbing into bed and falling back to sleep but not at FIVE AM like this morning
- Chef's little text messages throughout the day asking how I am and how my day is going
- the projects I get to work on at work, and the sense of self and satisfaction I get from them
- cooking, baking, cooking, baking, cooking, baking - and seeing how happy and appreciative people are of it
- Oscar's spontaneous cuddles, and Felix's relentless smooches and sweet nothings he says to me each and every day. Apparently I'm as beautiful as a swan, a princess and a unicorn.
- clear winter days with stunning blue skies and not a cloud to be seen.
- reading Dooce every day and not feeling alone in the weird and wacky world of parenting
- reading Go Fug Yourself and feeling like I've had a drug fix
- my friends. Knowing they know me and that my silence is not intentional, just appalling correspondence ability. Knowing they have similar thoughts and experiences as I have and drawing immense comfort from not being alone in any of those.
- Chef's custard.
I just don't know you anymore
I'm so confused. Bec, you own yoga pants and now I find out you actually do yoga and with someone called Clare and in your kitchen? Are you doing yoga with that serenely scary woman on Foxtel?
Has the world has gone mad?
On a lighter, far more encouraging note, I discovered today that one of my bestest school friends is a) back in the country and b) on the verge of a new romance. How cool is that. Welcome back Dot!!!
It's always handy to remember just how bad labour pains really feel
I know this is not the most tactful heading for a blog shared with an incubating woman, but I honestly have to go there...
See this? I want you to picture me, in the kitchen this morning, at the start of a perfect day - not actually going through a yoga routine but attempting (yes, with s.p.o.n.t.a.n.e.i.t.y Kim!) to demonstrate to my husband why even flipping pancakes was giving me cause to wince.
So I say to the Prof: Check this out, yesterday Clare made us do these really low warrior poses and (I position my legs as above, right heel turned well out, left knee at right angle) then she kept making us drop another inch, then another inch...
Now look again at the picture above and imagine if, instead of a serene and glistening sea in front of my left leg there was an unseen splash of water left over from unpacking the dishwasher...
Who says yoga is not a contact sport? Because I am pretty sure my left hamstring made contact with the back of my head before sproinging back into what is now laughingly known as my leg.
The Anatomy Formerly Known As Bec's Leg would like to apologise and nameste all the gods of yoga for showing unforgivable hubris over pancakes, to accept its punishment and to seek forgiveness and healing.
In the meantime, I can at least be grateful that, since these aren't REAL labour pains, at least the gods won't add injury to insult and force me to take on another child in order to make them stop.
mtc (but dear lord, not too much more I hope)
Good Lord, woman...
You blogged like a demon AND you still had time for playdough. Yes, the lady definitely deserves her God card back in her wallet.
Is there anything more glorious than a Sydney winter's day where there is not a cloud in the sky, the air crystal clear and the sun shining brightly on us all below?
Today was meant to be a journey into Sydney's deep South-West for a gathering of my uni class from last semester. Unfortunately, about 10 minutes from home (with about an hour 20 to go until arrival and several road tolls in between) the petrol light was on. It was - there's money for tolls or money for petrol. So around we turned.
This could have sent me into a 'I hate having no money' 'my life is crap' mega-moment, but instead, we made an impromptu call to some friends and ended up at one of the best parks in the known universe. Here we spent a few hours catching up, kids playing, sun shining. Then we bumped into our old next door neighbour and had a chat, and then we saw some other dear friends and their kids. I'm telling you, this is my idea of a great idea - no domestic chores, children largely keeping themselves occupied, relatively uninterrupted discussion with friends, s.p.o.n.t.a.n.e.i.t.y. and no sweating.
Divine, people. Divine.
Oh, and the petrol money ended up going on a couple of kids Happy Meals and me reading a Sunday newspaper while they went mad on play equipment at the Golden Arches. Who said I wasn't a cool (albeit dietarily questionable) mum?
when someone borrows your children
This morning after tennis, we visited the inlaws as they've been away (again - these people travel) in Adelaide. I got go off on a massive tangent about the state with both the highest unsolved homocide rate and sales of Taft hairspray for the highest blonde fringes in the Southern hemisphere, but, later.
Anyway, on leaving, Oscar was so devestated - think lying face down on the driveway wailing as if to summon the piss-off-parents-I'm-not-going-anywhere-without-a-fight spirits - the inlaws, bless them, asked if he could stay for.the.day.
As we hooned off down the street with - just.one.child. - I reckon they took it all as a yes.
So the rest of this stunning Sydney mid-winter day was spent having a quick snooze on the lounge, hanging out with my sensitive second child and - wait for it - m.a.k.i.n.g. p.l.a.y.d.o.u.g.h.
Yes, my status as god-parent has been completely restored.
At one stage - after I made playdough cupcakes and fat little people, Felix said, "this is exactly what I dream of when I want to have you just to myself."
Yes, today is a good day.
The title's just a ruse. This is really about childlike lust objects. Well, OK, teenage ones then.
Along with the mighty husband AB who's height, sparkly eyes and cheeky grin get me every single time, there's the original, Robbie (Williams that is. Linda, you can relax) and a few other men in the world who I can quite readily daydream about. (As opposed to my normal tendency to daydream on just who will lead Labor out of the wilderness, water supply issues, channeling my hatred of Howard and Costello inot more positive energies and the like). Sure they're cliched lust objects but hey, a girls got a right to her fantasies...
CREDIT: HFPA / RETNA from People
Jake... (just ignore skinny on-again gf Kirsten)
CREDIT: SARA JAYE / ABACA from People
And that will do for today...
laugh out loud moments
"I could hear the distant sound of Louisiana steam trains blowing their horns."
Oh Daisy you sure have given us your answer, true and all.
I can not imagine the anger, humiliation and hurt that Sienna Frost is feeling at the moment, but there is something so delightful about a blonde with what looks like a lazy eye keeping meticulous diaries of a fuckfest to then sell it to a newspaper - it proves even the blondest blonde can be canny.
Thinking: God, I could have gotten better lines from the worst scripts I've read...
CREDIT: IAN MILLAR / SPLASH from People
That and if Sienna was want for details or felt Jude was holding back, she need go no further than the Sunday Mirror to double check his story. I believe this is what's called "moving on".
CREDIT: MOCKFORD / BOUWMEESTER / ALPHA / GLOBE from People
The next big DNA discovery will be...
It's all very well to have discovered the genes that predict obesity and heart disease and the ability to orgasm, but when are they going to find the marker that makes us so unhappy with our own hair?
Case in point: I have straight hair. Thick, fine, straight hair. I don't need a single product other than a blow dryer to make my hair so flat, straight and shiny that it could almost rate the catwalk, if it weren't attached to my whalewalk body, that is. Not that whales can walk, but you understand where I'm heading.
So while electronic store catalogues are full of versions of the girlie-must-have-ceramic-straightener, I can toss my head of gloriously, naturally straight hair and flick right on by to the stainless steel dishwashers.
Can you guess what my girlie-must-have-hair-appliance is?
I'll give you a hint: it rhymes with hurling bond, and swirling frond, and, oh fuck it, it's a curling wand because I HATE STRAIGHT HAIR.
And I know this comes as no surprise to any woman who may stumble across this because I have never, ever, ever met a woman who was 100 per cent happy with her hair. If it's curly they want it straight and if it's straight they want it curly and if it's dark they want it blonde, or red, or a particularly unattainable shade of chestnut brown just like someone they saw in a magazine in a doctor's surgery one day when they were 15...
I have a friend who is pleased to be a natural blonde, who is pretty happy with her straight hair, but who can't stand the fact that her hair just stops growing precisely one inch past her shoulders.
I have a daughter - the Pea Princess - who is in my view blessed with hair that is straight on top, wavy at the sides and ringlets underneath. In other words, she can pretty much make it go any way she likes. At the age of SEVEN she already requests changes of style at least once a season - fringe to no-fringe, short to long, always tied back to always loose - and complains that brown hair is boring and looks like mud.
I could hazard a guess that primitive woman spent a fair bit of evolutionary time down at the local still pond, rubbing in different berry-based concoctions and asking her friends whether her head fur looked better held back with mud or fluffed up with the lemur-bone comb.
There is a terrific irony in the fact that I - and the sisterhood - are not only unhappy with our hair but so unhappy to be unhappy with it that we will spend countless hours and dollars trying to make it other than what it is in the hope that we will, at last, be happy with our lot. I think back fondly to 1988 and the spiral perm that cost me a week and a half's wages as a cadet journalist and lasted 10 days.
My fond hope is that one day the Great Scientific Work of decoding DNA will not only produce a vaccine that lets you eat vast quantities of salt and peppper squid without getting fat, it will also produce a genetic switch that lets us all be happy with our hair.
In a late, half-arsed attempt to link this rant to The Glamorouse Rousing Routine, Thursday is Library Day and this story from today's Sydney Morning Herald gives us a book by an Australian scientist about another use for DNA that made me smile.
Of course, it just means that if they haven't already, the Mormons will shortly have to discredit the validity of DNA and genetic testing. But people who think the word of God arrived in Bible pages made of gold and buried in an American hillside, that shouldn't be too big a leap.
A molecular biologist at the CSIRO is facing excommunication from the Mormon Church after writing a book challenging its central teachings.
Dr Simon Southerton was raised a believer but in 1998 abandoned the church of which he was a bishop - the equivalent of a parish priest - when he could not reconcile his faith with scientific research.
A year ago he published a rebuttal of the Book of Mormon teachings which claim native American and Polynesians were descendants of Israelite tribes who had migrated to the Americas centuries before Christ.
In Losing a Lost Tribe: Native Americans, DNA and the Mormon Church, Dr Southerton challenged the church to declare the Mormon scriptural text an "inspired fictional story".
"The DNA evidence we have today clearly shows that native Americans and Polynesians are both descended from Asian ancestors," he told the Herald.
He said more than 7000 native Americans had been DNA tested, proving 99 per cent of their DNA came from Asia.
If you are this skinny:
(CREDIT: GARCIA / X17 - from my new obsession People.aol.com)
Why THE HELL would you where an old muumuu out of your mum's closet? And dude - the tan bag, the white shoes, the dark belt. Sigh.
And frankly Ms Denise Rogers, soon to divorce Mr Charlie Sheen:
(Credit: X17 - again from people.aol.com)
To look like this FIVE weeks after giving birth is SO letting.the.side.down.
Warning: Red Alert: Tired Pregnant Hormonal Whinge Ahead
This morning is my morning for dropping boys at school. I love this as I get to pretend to be a 'real' mum while also practicing miliary like drills at getting everyone dressed, fed and out the door in a calm, orderly manner.
So the irritants began when I had to spend half an hour cleaning up the kitchen even though AB had just had two days off. There was also no milk.
I got to work at 10.
I think that is the definition of a lost battle or failed military drill.
Anyway, work was grossly dissatisfying in that there was lots done but nothing achieved.
I got home, after stopping at the supermarket for milk, at 7.20ish. Felix cried approximately 1minute 30seconds after I walked through the door because at approximately 30 seconds after arrival he asked for dessert. People, I had maybe HALF my body actually inside the family home at that stage.
Bec and I have conferred before on our ability to say no to child requests without even really thinking about it because we're so tired its just an automatic reflect, even if the request is pretty basic and requires little effort on our part. This was not one of those as they were in the midst of getting their teeth brushed to go to bed. This was a no for all the right reasons.
Anyway, I then spend the next half an hour cleaning up the kitchen from a dinner for which I was not even present. I'm talking plates in dishwasher, saucepans, chargrill pans.
So by this stage I was so fed up, tired, cranky that - naturally - I took it out on the kids. So instead of a bedtime story and song, it was a 'up to bed' and 'i'm not coming in until its quiet' type evening. I did explain to them and apologise for taking it out on them, but still, its another day gone.
I saw a new naturopath on Friday who specialises in women, pregnancy and all the craziness that goes with those two. She reckons I have excellent cognitive understanding of my emotions and what I'm feeling and why, but don't actually 'allow' myself to feel them in their wholeness. This apparently makes me live in my smallness rather than the greatness that apparently all of you see in me.
So, I'm here to say, I am 'allowing' myself to feel tired, cranky and generally pissed off.
This is bad, this is very very bad... now we have pictures and I just want to play!
Before I do, however, re the shot of Mr and Mrs Federline, did you notice that oh-so-high school action of running her hands up inside his sleeves? What is she doing in there - checking that Lil Kim hasn't slipped down his collar to hide from the Mob?
In the interest of Wednesday being Washing Day let's visit a favourite - the Mobile Crotch Ache himself
And now, just for the record, take a look to the right
What on earth was she ever doing with him in the first place?
Here's Shane's current take on the issue
"Unfortunately we live in a society which is pretty judgemental on whatever you do. I have had to live with that. I have loaded the bullets myself a few times. I have made you guys' jobs very easy."
Yes, Shane, we're pretty judgemental (sic) when it comes to SERIAL ADULTERY AND REPEATED PUBLIC HUMILIATION OF YOUR WIFE AND CHILDREN.
And a final juicy link to a TomKat moment, which is too much fun to miss.
Where to look - the rouge, the cheap negligee, the no matter what latest season Ralph Lauren citrus themed polo you put on, you can not hide white trash genetics - its just compelling in the most base form. The site is a treasure trove of Britney's remarkable insights into life...
Late night musings...
The following is because the incubus is playing with my bio rhythms, so while I've been snug in bed asleep since about 9.15pm, its now 1.25am and I'm as bright as a button. So much so, I just knew Felix was awake (which he was), have hung out a load of washing and thought of myriad things for Glamorouse.
Firstly - have you ever noticed in the top right corner of our site it says, "Next Blog"? Finally, curiosity got the better of me, and I'm pleased to introduce germ. For some reason it seems highly fitting that our neighbour blog has a title that encaspulates various microbes, bacteria and viruses as really, the life of a parent, particularly one of small children is basically ruled by them. So Jeremy in Cincinnati, I hope we can live in peace and harmony.
Secondly - I have further proof that I'm not deep, at least not all the time. I realised this evening that my last fall into the abyss can be largely attributed to the fact that Go Fug Yourself and Snarkywood were remarkable tardy at updating themselves and providing me with any inane material on the American rich and famous (and ideally skanky) to indulge in. There was also little going on (short of the male incantation of skankyhoe Shane Warne - who, I've decided is the Australian answer to Kevin Federline - and really that is a poor substitute for cheap but well deserved shots at Britney, the Olsen twins, and anyone in between) in the realm of celebrity gossip. This week however, brings us the delights of Jude Law - someone I have missed the train for in the whole swoon, he's so gorgeous kinda way. Now we find out he slept.with.the.nanny. and after feeling immense remorse (according to her dutiful note taking, something to be commended I say) after the first deed, felt the need to do it all over again - in.the.same.night. - and then, after the horror of his child walking in and discovering them - doing.it.again. Sadie Frost must be feeling sooo vindicated and glad she is outta that bedroom. We can only hope jilted fiancee Sienna who is only 23, gets the hell out as well. I mean sure, it is impressive he can go three times in one night, we sure as hell haven't been in that realm since our early 20s, and I'm sure Sadie and Sienna could confer with the nanny's musings he was a good lover and made her 'tingle all over' but there comes a time when sharing is just plain wrong.
and thirdly, in closing, a word from our sponsor...
Lets take a moment to bask (sp?) in the glory that is not listening to me wail on and on about the ills of the world unchecked anymore.
WELCOME BACK BEC! You have been sorely missed.
I take offense at the notion I am deep on any level - particularly as I regularly critque those I work with for what they wear and their very personalities and, with my growing girth and the fact no denim will probably ever grace this body again lest it forms a tarpolin, it is a real case of throwing stones whilst standing centrecourt in a glass house, just for kicks and a giggle with the snappy dressers I work with.
I also take real issue with the zoo. The zoo blows. There, I said it. Firstly, its built on a cliff face. Secondly, my children insist on what I call impulse viewing - ie, in no logical start at the top work to the bottom order of animal sightings, but "lets see the tigers!" "lets see meer cats!" "lets see the giraffes!" blah blah blah - and screaming tantrums if we attempt anything less energy sapping and mountain climbing.
Seriously, there is someone sitting in a control room somewhere, watching zoo CCTV and laughing all the day long as parents as stupid as us indulge our children in these various whims of ambling all over the mountainside.
Finally, you are really setting a bad bad example for the rest of us with kids who actively avoid physical intimacy, let alone in.the.morning.when.the.kids.are.sleeping. I'm not shocked as I know what you two are like, but I'm disappointed. You know its that sort of activitiy that results in incubi...
Having said that, and not one to ever be outdone, AB is quietly, well actually quite publicly, rejoicing at the pregnancy hormone flow-on effect in that area of our lives and is using it as the main reasoning behind him believing the incubus is a boy.
Oh yeah, I'm back and I'm still shallow
Back to rouse up Glamorouse after two weeks with NO INTERNET ACCESS. Have almost caught up on Kim's postings which are, as ever, insightful, thought-provoking, intelligent and deep, deep, deep - especially the hornbag one about Robbie Williams: girl, I hope you had the grace to blush for the sake of your 26 week incubus.
There's no better way to make a holiday feel longer than it really is than to spend it with your three children, and I mean that in the nicest possible way, I really do. I can feel a list coming on; let's make it Holiday Highlights:
- The professor brought me coffee in bed EVERY morning, because I didn't have to get up first
- Most days I also got breakfast
- Some days, when the kids slept in, I got even more, which was strangely relaxing and confirms that Mother Nature knew what she was doing when she invented recreational sex (ahead of red wine and Prozac)
- I got to read the newspapers for fun
- Some days I did BOTH the Sudoku AND the cryptic crossword in the Herald
- We went to the zoo - man, how I love the zoo
- My Dad came for an unplanned vist, which could have been manic but was actually really nice
- The two littlies saw their first ever "big movie" - Madagascar - and have ever since been entertaining us big people with lemur-style duets of "I like to move it move it"
- We packed picnic lunches and took them to the park
- The first time we picnicked my gorgeous nearly-three boy suddenly realised that instead of our usual playground routine, the holidays meant unlimited access to rice cakes, the slide AND his mum and came strolling over to me (and the rice cakes) with a huge smile, saying "It's a perfect day, mummy"
So now I'm back on line, but technical problems (the Prof's lost the cable) mean that I don't have access to my work connection so I feel free to play around with the Glamorouse and have been trying to work out the image uploading by putting a pic on my profile box.
Ah, which pic to choose? The one I really wanted was the shrouded in steam pic Kim's photographer took when Kim was being a glamorous (no E) foodie magazine editor, because shrouded in steam, or fog, or thick black plastic, is my best angle these days. Can't find that one though (kim, help?) so went for the next best thing - a favourite pic from (ahem) some years back...
I think it's transparently obvious to anyone reading this blog - myself included - that one of us is meaningfully engaging the world in all its large and small parts, and the other is just wishing her own large parts could fit back into those jeans.
PS - I should point out that I was secretly six weeks pregnant with my first child when this shot was taken and while I didn't want to drink the wine, it would have been too obvious to others that I was pregnant if I'd just sat there with it ... so when the Pea Princess misses out on her university scholarship by 1 mark we can safely trace the fault back to this gestational moment.
despite all that...
Friday night went off hitch free. (See my post about procrastinating) I'd even call it a raging success considering I walked through the door at 5.15 and nothing was prepared or ready. Not bad eh.
Stop the world!
My thanks to a colleague who used this phrase earlier today when we were talking about Australia's appalling performance in regards to Timor and us basically trying to shaft them out of what is legally theirs. There is a great article in The Monthly on this - and what a bully we're being in regards to oil and gas fields in the Timor Sea that it just made me feel so ashamed to be Australian.
- as we face the most antiquated puritanical, draconian IR reforms - all in the name of progress of course,
- as we adjust to a life that decisions made on behalf of us by our government now mean we are not safe in any public place on any public transport or at any large event or venue,
- as we try to work out how to right the wrongs of the past and basically show some humanity and common human decency to nations that struggle basically because of the way they have been treated and ruled (by people or parties inflicted or imposed upon them or supported or kept there by us,
I say, in the worlds of my colleague...
Stop the world I want to get off.
Behold the queen of procrastination
Tomorrow night about 25 people are coming to dinner. A Christmas in July when the food we eat in 36 degree eat in December is actually enjoyable and seasonally appropriate.
It seemed like such a good idea at the time - when I asked them all that is. But of course, then there is reality.
I have quite a penchant for list writing. No, not a bread, milk, butter list but strategic, thought out, precision lists. My shopping lists are broken down to dry goods, dairy, refrigerated goods, vegetables, fruit, entertaining, cleaning etc. My shopping lists are good.
When I entertain, the lists can be daunting for some, but I draw great comfort merely from their existence. This is important as unless I'm doing drugs (which I don't out of pure geek-based fear I will get the bad batch and die a horrible frothing-at-the-mouth-soiling-my-pants kinda death) they rarely get adhered to.
So tomorrow's the night - by tonight I'm meant to have made a pumpkin pinenut cheesecake w/ spicy pumpkin relish, quince relish and onion marmalade (to go with the ham), have sliced the potatoes for potato dauphinios and topped and tailed the beans for my beans tossed in breadcrumbs and garlic.
I haven't done any of that. I haven't even done the shopping to pretend I'm getting these things underway. Instead, I watched SVU and have channel flicked for the better part of an hour and a half. All the while thinking to myself, man I'm thirsty and gee I'm buggered. I should go to bed. I haven't done those either.
So you see, my ability to procrastinate is impressive, even when its procrastinating out of something I love doing - cooking and entertaining. God knows what we'll eat tomorrow night as I have a homeopath appt in the morning, then an appt w/ my psychiatrist on the other side of the city, then a trip home, a trip back to the city for an interview about Oscar at the Daily Tele and then home to start preparing for dinner.
I do like a last minute adrenalin rush, but what with the incubus and all, even I'm impressed with this one.
Cause for concern...
When I feel like a salad sandwich for lunch, actually order one and then... enjoy it.
Last Thursday, on meltdown day, a woman sitting on the window side of a seat on the bus, leant across the man sitting next to her and offered me a seat. He of course jumped up, and apologised that he hadn't realised 'my condition'.
So you can imagine my relief that the reason all those misogynistic bastards and skanky bitches who live on the Northern Beaches not offering to stand for me on the bus is not due to some moral highground that if I got myself pregnant I can damn well pay for it by standing for an hour plus commute each way every day, it's not because of their natural predisposition to their character descriptors, its merely because they just think I'm fat.
What a head slapping moment of realisation that was.
Food really does cure all ills
A cold weekend is a good weekend I say. It provides carte blanche for unrestricted and comprehensive eating and ditto for cooking.
Saturday featured some pretty darn tasty spag bol and a choc self saucing pudding, the recipe of which originated from dear friend Sook and seems failproof and to easy every time I make it.
Last night featured left over spag bol. There had been intentions of making a lasagne, but by the time I made a Christmas Pudding for our no-we-really-do-have-a-life Christmas in July party this Friday, I was feeling a tad over it.
So instead, I whipped up a caramel self-saucing pudding thanks to fellow control freak Donna Hay in one of the Sunday paper mags yesterday. What a treat it was.
Then an evening of tele and - sigh - figure skating on ESPN.
staring the gift horse right in the mouth
today we had free tickets into the zoo. That sounds fairly tame but when you consider it would otherwise have cost almost $100 just to get into the joint, its a great thing.
So lets play the day...
Oscar falls asleep in the car
Felix insists he is pretending to be asleep, so wakes him up to prove it.
We arrive, and have to wait a little while for the people we're getting the tickets from.
Felix decides this is a good time to play in the garden beds.
We get in.
First whinge about not buying them Madagascar merchandise - Felix swings a ceramic mug around as if its an object that won't smash into a bazillion pieces on dropping.
Then "I want an iceblock". Play this line over and over like a chorus in your head behind all that follows.
At the map place (so we're like, 5 metres into the zoo) Oscar has a melt down and almost throws himself into the manky duck pond. From what we can gather, this is solely because he can't see the giraffes from where he is standing.
Oscar wants to see the giraffes and ride in the skyway, Felix wants to see dingoes. I'm freezing.
Felix calls me over to the manky duck pond where, for the first time in my life, I see ducks mating.
We wander down the hill. There's a Felix fuss about not being able to see the wombat well, even though it is less than a metre from them. This is because I won't pick him up.
Are you still playing the "I want an iceblock" refrain?
Meltdown at the koalas as they are not giraffes nor an outlet for iceblocks.
We make our way to giraffes. On the way we see the dingoes. Well, one. The other one is sleeping in the furthest corner of the enclosure.
A scene follows when Felix accidentally swings the binoculars around and it hits Oscar in the temple.
Oscar has another meltdown at the mere fact we try to move on.
I take Felix to the chimpanzees - where I proceed to see one poo.in.its.hand.then.smell.it.then.eat.it.
Oscar and AB are about 10 metres away and Oscar is s.c.r.e.a.m.i.n.g.
The type where people stare then shake their head at the appalling parenting that must instigate such behaviour.
How's that "I want an iceblock" working for you?
We find iceblocks.
It starts to rain.
We make our way to the skycar.
AB and Felix have a joke that we're going to crash. This naturally freaks Oscar out.
We finish the ride and leave.
Oscar melts down that he has somehow been tricked and we're now outside the zoo.
Whole trip - 1 hour 10 minutes.
All that aside...
Made spag bol for dinner and chocolate sludge pudding. Divine.
Pulled spare mattresses into the lounge room and the boys and I watched Tele in bed. They're now sleeping down there having a big adventure.
Good times return.
What do you say when people just going about their everyday lives are killed in a pointless horrific stunt by a group of extremists?
the outskirts of Crazytown
As you can probably tell, my headspace is pretty cloudy at the moment and I've realised things that should therefore not be added to the mix:
- red wine (sorry incubus)
- caffeine (again, sorry incubus and I'm sure I'll stop clenching my jaw and shaking any time soon now)
- raisin toast w/ butter - the heartburn, combined with the caffeine induced manic sense of apprehension is killing me!
Things I should be doing:
- drinking green tea
- listening to ClassicFM as opposed to Nova or Triple J
- eating lots of fruit and vegetables (that won't happen until after payday on Thursday week)
- thinking calm and happy thoughts (not how draconian the Liberals or how fascist employer organisations are, or how rude and selfish Sydney has become or how my life and mental wellbeing is completely hinged on the state of our bank balance)
because it dawned on me this morning that if I stay on this road of ugly thoughts, I may, in the words of one of my favourite websites, "plunge into a dark downward spiral the likes of which will make Kate Holmes-Cruise's recent antics look like nothing more than a gentle gust of wind on the outskirts of Crazytown.. . . .
Batten down the hatches
There are days when you cry too often, or are too quick to tears. When you think ill of too many people for too slight an issue (although the pure vitriol I feel for those who do not stand for a pregnant woman, instead are content to sit and watch her - ie me - stand for over an hour on a bus commute home, is I feel, completely warranted). When you eat too much with it drawing little comfort, solace or even just satiation. When you procrastinate too long by simply staring at the computer screen, keyboard, or wall. When no matter how hard you look for, write down and remind yourself of the wonderful things in your life it all seems lost, inconsequential or incidental. When your heart seems sluggish and resentful at having to beat at all.
These are the days I feel the rollershutter of my soul jarring shut, early 'for personal reasons. We regret the inconvenience and will open again in the near future.'
It's Nude Tuesday at Glamorouse and while I'm not nude, the stockings cutting circulation off to my legs and probably causing the incubus' head to malform, and the skirt that keeps.falling.down. is making me want nothing more than to strip down and nude-up.
Just a thought.
The unfailing industriousness of the American spirit
is no more evident than here. The mug or the t-shirt with the hands pressed against a window in a desperate plea for freedom are my favourites.
About the only thing better is the amazing mind behind Save Toby, which has now raised over $28,000 from the stupid masses.
For every bad sad thought...
There has to be a positive one. Right? So here goes...
- Oscar is talking more and more - and its divine.
- Felix and Oscar are relentless at giving me cuddles, telling me how much they love me and as Felix says, "Mummy, you're as pretty as a swan and a princess." And after my various meltdowns over the last week, "Mummy, you're as pretty as a swan and a princess and a unicorn."
- Friday and/or Saturday nights at home, with the boys, after a dinner of our favourite pasta and yummy dessert, settling in with pillows, doonas and each other for a video before bed. I love these times more than anything.
- Oscar or Felix coming into our bed anywhere between 2-4 in the morning and snuggling in to me before going back to sleep.
- Watching them grow up and their personalities shine like the brightest of beacons in the foggiest of nights.
- Feeling the incubus kick and squirm all.the.time and the growing excitement at it joining these boys on the most remarkable journey of discovery.
- Baking. Anytime, anywhere.
- and... (once more with feeling please)
Highway to hormonal hell - a,b,c style
I find weekends challenging.
Firstly, I am completely exhausted from working all week. By 'working all week' I mean - getting up, feeding and sometimes dressing children, putting a load of washing on and/or haning a load of washing out, picking up sundry items off the floor that have either
a) created a deep impression in my foot as I tried to complete the great Narrabeen transect or
b) cost a lot of money and will be very anger-inducing if broken or
c) been killed by the cat during the night.
Occasionally there is vacuuming but that depends on my rage-levels.
Then there is my showering and dressing and if I'm lucky, breakfasting, prior to about 1hr10minutes commuting (usually standing) to work.
Then I work whilst at work.
Then I come home and do - again - many of the items listed above that happened in the morning.
Weekends are basically my mornings and evenings in stereo.
If I'm lucky, I may get to read a section of a Saturday paper, unless
a) Mum has taken everything except sport and employment or
b) AB has cut a big hole in spectrum to take the Suduko to work.
Otherwise it is just a rolling cavalcade of bending over and picking things up, washing, hanging out washing, putting washing away, taking kids to sport and/or homeopaths (where I can hear how happy they'd be not living with me).
I also get L.O.T.S of visits from my Mum, who, if you had forgotten, lives upstairs. She comes down with lots of great ideas about
a) moving (normally to a smaller house with less separation than we have now,
b) things I should do with the children,
c) passive agressive requests for help at moving items around the backyard or
d) trips to the nursery.
Occasionally my brother drops in with my niece. That involves my house actually becoming a supermarket and an open-door policy to come in and help yourself to whatever you need or have forgotten to bring to look after the little gem. That can even involve using my computer to upload and send images - oh, always asking if its OK, just after
a) the items have already been borrowed or
b) you're already standing at my pantry, even if I am on the phone or on the toilet or
c) already walking past me into our office and sitting at the computer.
It's around this time I
a) maliciously attack our floor with the vacuum or
b) get angry at my kids or
c) stroppy with my mother or
d) relentless with my eating.
What gets me in all of this is the expectation through inaction.
It is obviously expected of me that
a) I will take out the massive pile of magazines I de-shelved three weeks ago, as they have sat in the middle of our lounge room ever since.
b) I am meant to lug several years of white and yellow pages to the recycling as they have stood tall and proud in the corner for the better part of 18 months.
c) I am meant to do the washing as otherwise it festers in the laundry, the loungeroom, the hallway and our bedroom floor.
d) I am meant to hang the washing out as otherwise it sits in the machine for days. And days. And days.
e) I am meant to empty the dishwasher as the plates, bowls, saucepans, cutting boards that line every single benchtop in our kitchen tell me so.
f) I am meant to keep our cupboards in some semblance of order as no one else seems to notice or care they don't shut properly anymore or stuff comes tumbling out when you do open them. g) I am meant to put all the washing away as otherwise it just piles up on the back table or on the chair or floor of our bedroom.
h) I am meant to do the grocery shopping as no-one else ever offers to.
So yesterday I cracked.
Think screaming, think tears, think begging for support, input and pro-active involvement in the household, think storming out, think sitting in the car in the driveway sobbing, think small child coming up to me and hugging me saying "I love you Mummy" over and over and then saying, as he burst into tears, "you're making me cry now". Think no apology, no support, no comfort. Think of disappearing off to bedroom and sulking in dark for better part of an hour. Think no anything. Nothing. Not a nada. Think small child coming up to me hours later saying, "I can tell you're sad on the inside Mummy".
And this is my life.
Oh the sordid things I'd happily do
Apart from hubba-hubba only one thing comes to mind...
Gratuitous reference to car crash Tom...
which comes from here
we can now post pics without palaver...look out world!
This is South West Rocks - we C.A.M.P.E.D there in April. More amazing, I really Really REALLY enjoyed it.
At the homeopath today, Felix was asked "when are you the most happy or what would make you the happiest?".
His reply, "not living with my mum and dad." Incredulous, the homeopath prompted him again - and he replied exactly.the.same.
It cost me 90 bucks to hear this.
She assured me he must feel so safe and comfortable in his life to be able to say this.
I want it noted that it was said at FIVE and will be reminded as such when he is THIRTY and still.living.at.home.
My hand is up
Does almost peeing my pants reading your post make me eligible to attend? At this point in my life, I would seriously consider doing almost anything for $60.
Lets start a list. If 35-65 is a new demon-graphic that allows companies to blanket market adult nappies to, what else is there?
Bec, you could have unwittingly tapped into a whole new streamlined marketing coup - think of the savings for all those hard-done-by advertisers:
- adult nappies
- arthritis aids for kitchen utensils (is there one for the mini-tap on the cask?)
Urinary Incontinence for Fun and Profit
Once upon a time I used to get invited to market research for wine
coolers and chip packaging; then it was for baby care products, but NOW look what they send me!!!
It's finally happened. I AM A CRONE.
Hello from Ekas Group Discussions and Select Opinion Leaders,
We are currently looking for women aged between 35 and 65 years, who
purchase incontinence products.
The groups are to be held either in the day 10.30am or evening at 6pm in
Sydney on Tues 12th and Wed 13th July and will last for 1.5 hours.
You will receive $60 for your participation.
Please feel free to pass this information to family or friends who may
be interested in participating in this group discussion project.
Please call Sally on 02 9976 7409 or reply to this email with your
daytime and evening phone contact numbers.
Ekas marketing research services.
NOTE: if you wish to Opt-out of our email market research system ,
simply reply to this email and specify OPTOUT in the subject line
Sadly, I confess I briefly considered pretending I bought incontinence products just to get the $60. Deciding that was too meretricious even for me, I instead fired off an email saying that as a 37 year old I was horrified to know there even was a demographic covering 35-65.
I don't expect a reply, but I'm on a roll now so let's examine this in a bit more detail.
Firstly, why 35-65? I can deal with 35-39, I will grit my teeth and tick a box for 35-45, but I see absolutely no reason to tolerate being lumped into the shallow end of a 30 year grouping like this. Could it be that urinary incontinence makes equals of us all? Sorry. I think not.
Incontinence in your 30s can either be the relatively healthy by-product of a recent bout of childbirth, spending so long getting your three children to use the public toilet in the shopping centre that the sound of running taps while number 1 washes her hands becomes unbearable while you're still helping number 3 wipe his bottom, or, even healthier, being so pissed that you think you're in the toilet with your pants down when in fact you're in the ATM cubicle with an accident that you'll endearingly think you can cover by jumping the bar and sitting in the overflow tray.
Incontinence in your 50s and 60s, however, is clearly the result of not enough yoga (refer to early Glamorouse posts) and too much tea. ENTIRELY DIFFERENT MARKETS.
And another thing - why stop at 65? Incontinence certainly won't. Do they only want employed people who wet themselves? Well it doesn't say so in the email, does it? Do they only want people with some hope of regaining muscular control before dotage really sets in? Given the chance that this group is being called to better market incontinence products to existing customers, that seems unlikely too. Although if the purpose of this group is to test out the efficiency of those weird egg shaped things they have in my doctor's office that work like an exercise machine inside your fanny, it could be a very interesting focus group and I wonder if they sell the videos to fetishists?
Which brings me to my final point on this matter - which is that EVEN if I did use incontinence products - which I don't, thanks to the divinely protective powers of the elective caesarean plus yoga, of course - and even if I were not grotesquely bent out of shape by being lumped into the 35-65 DEMON-GRAPHIC - I would NEVER IN A MILLION YEARS GO TO A FOCUS GROUP AND CHAT ABOUT MY ADULT NAPPIES FOR A LOUSY SIXTY BUCKS.
So there. I guess I do have some outrage left, after all.
My library books are always late, too
I'm so with you on the To Kill A Mockingbird, always linked with One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest in my mind, probably because of the crucial role of big, slow blokes in both. Or maybe just because they both feature birds in their titles. Also great movies for each, but not comparable to the impact of the books.
Grapes of Wrath and Cry the Beloved Country are also linked in my mind for their extraordinary structure and pathos. And unlike the above books, where the story lines are paramount, the films for Grapes and Wrath and Cry the Beloved Country could never come close to transmitting the power of Steinbeck's or Paton's prose.
For a rich childhood, I don't think you can go past C.S. Lewis' seven Narnia books, nor, at about 12 or 13, The Lord of the Rings.
The kids are waking up and my mind is starting to wander now, so I'm just thinking about books I've enjoyed and read over and over (like Mark Helprin's A Winter's Tale) and books I've been obsessed with for a while (like anything by or about Rebecca West or VirginiaWoolf or even Karen Blixen in my late teens and early 20s earlyfeminismwassomuchbetterdressedthan70swomenslibbers phase). I still love Return of the Soldier and Night and Day and of course A Room of One's Own (I wish!) - but don't think I could go back to Seven Gothic Tales - maybe when I'm a grumphy old lady with time to wade through difficult prose...
One more addition in the Books The Made Me Wish I Could Write Like That list: William Gibson's Neuromancer, Count Zero and Mona Lisa Overdrive (and probably Idoru, too). Given that these days my brain just can't deal with much more than speculative fiction, I still get a kick out of this description of Ratz the bartender, with his ex-Russian military issue metal arm, being described thus:
"His ugliness was the stuff of legend. In an age of affordable beauty, there was something heraldic about his lack of it."
Children are now demanding food, husband is providing, dirty looks are starting to come my way; the world has moved on since I started writing this and I need to move with it. Out, out of the library, and back to the kitchen...