The Acidic Observer - The Home Edition

It's been a while since the last Acidic Observer, and for that I'm sorry. I have been quietly swallowing my burning views, instead of ranting about them here, like a sanctioned looney.

Thankfully, that mistake is being rectified as of now. And my aim, this week? The Darwin Housing Market.

The Man and I have been looking at building a new home over the past few weeks - probably a more sensible use of our time would have been investigating the value of internal organs on the black market.

Darwin property is at a peak, right now. To be honest we were lucky to have been able to buy a house when we did, back in 2010. Since then, the cost of property has skyrocketed. Why? Because of the Itchy Project! Well, it's actually the ICHTHYS Project, but calling it the Itchy Project makes me feel better.

It's all about gas mining and other boring stuff. Well there's more to it, but I'm just not that interested. Darwin was expensive enough without this sudden influx of interest - and while I'm sure local business, and not forgetting local developers, are loving the boom - the rest of us aren't!

Well, not me, anyway.

I also blame the state and local Governments for being so greedy that they release land in pissy amounts, driving up the price as people compete to be the newest owner of a fucking postage stamp.

I'm sorry, but when land is costing the same amount as the home we want to build, I kinda lose my shit.

And when I say kinda, I mean I morph into a wolverine and rip the head off of any unsuspecting realtor/developer who might enquire as to whether we are interested in purchasing this block before anyone else does. Even though we'd be lucky to fit a garden shed on it!

Trust me when I say that those who are renting are being shafted left, right   and centre, too. People/investors/greedy fucking bastards know they can make money from the influx of new employees of Itchy who need a home for their families. So what do they do? Up the rent to a bonkers level, dump the current tenants who can no longer afford it, and happily give it to a mining exec and their family who can afford $800+ a week because they're not paying for it. Gina Reinhardt is!

Well, maybe not Gina - but you get the idea.

Of course, just to really rub salt into the wound, I'm dumb enough to go onto realestate.com and look at the cost of building new in our hometown, in SA. Cue complete fucking meltdown as I ask the gods to strike down every single person in the NT who is contributing to the demented costing factor of a home.

I feel like for the prices we're looking at, we should be living in Sydney or Melbourne. Next door to Hugh Jackman. With Nicole, Keith, Sunday Roast and...and...the other ones on the other side. We're not looking for sea views, we're not looking for 3 hectares and some livestock. It's Darwin, people! You know, the place where mangoes cost $4 each and are brought in from Queensland, even though there are mango farms down the road. Where diesel is 20-50 cents a litre more than anywhere else...everything takes twice as long and is twice the price because of 'shipping', and then when the Ghan derails (again) it means the shops start advising us that stock will be low and we will have to make our own deodorant and toilet paper until the train can get here again.

IT'S DARWIN! We don't have a single department store. Even Freedom Furniture abandoned us!

We only have 1 power and water supplier which is Government owned. But our power systems haven't been maintained properly so now the prices are increasing by 15% so the Government can afford to upgrade and bring Darwin out of the middle ages so the power won't drop out when a gerbil on a treadmill gets struck by lightening.

The Darwin City Council slogs you $40 parking fines for being over your time limit in street parking - for the privilege of parking under a fucking frangipani tree where the flowers glue themselves to your car when it rains and secrete this disgusting white milky stuff everywhere. And then, of course, the bats shit all over your car. And then the rain clouds part and bake it all into the paint of your car so it needs to be re-done every 2 years.

The housing situation is just one more tooth in the cog of 'what the fuck, Darwin!?'.

It's all so painfully typical, I have no idea why I even get shitty anymore.

I'd say it was hope that makes me think things will change - but really, it's denial. And it get's me through, until we want to move on with our lives.

So overall, screw you Itchy, screw you Government and, today, screw you Darwin.

You are all on my shit list until further notice, Or I win the lottery.

Then I'm gonna move in next to Hugh.

The Acidic Observer, Volume VIII

Tuesday just seems to roll around so fast, don't you think?

Maybe because the world seems to be so considerate lately, and has been pulling out the dumb-arses faster than I can register them.

Let's address the most obvious issue to begin, shall we?

If you've been living under a rock in the Himalayas, then you may have missed the fact that Kim Kardashian realised her baby was due around the same time as the royal baby, and decided that moment she needed a C-section to cash in effectively.

So last week, she had a baby girl. And probably a tummy tuck.

And last week, she named her baby 'North West'. There's no word on the name she's given to her tummy tuck.

And last week, we found out they call little North, 'Nori' for short.

Because it's not enough to give her a ridiculous legal name, but they have to give her a nickname that implies she will be wrapped around some rice and salmon, and served with chopsticks.

Why not cut out the middle man and name her 'California Roll'?

However, this week, Kimye is in fine company. I'm unsure of the amount of national coverage this story has received, but we all know Darwin can be a bit of a hub for - to put it kindly - the intelligence-challenged members of the world. Or fuckwit tourists, if you prefer.

I'm not sure why they all come here, and the ones who manage to get a drivers license are the ones who I think should be deported immediately. Except for the interstate visitors who come here with their fucking caravans and Winnebago's.

They should be banned from leaving their own driveways.

Recently one tourist from the UK, 28 year old Alex Neale, took 'dickhead tourist' to a whole new low and was busted riding around on the roof of a Coles delivery truck.

Image courtesy of the NT News website

When the driver pulled over and Alex dismounted, he had the nerve to ask the driver if he could take him home, before just strolling off.

Alex, the cost of a bus ticket in Darwin has gone up by a whole dollar. But I'm sure if you had called your Mummy, she would have sent you the extra dollar. Shit, she might even have sent you enough to cover a return trip!

We can only hope the return ticket would be from Darwin to London.

But just in case he doesn't go home, I think we should all encourage Alex to participate in the fashionable activity of standing on croc traps. I think he would be a natural.

Ah, crocodiles - culling the gene pool since the beginning of time.

And while we're looking at dickheads in the Territory - let's have a quick look at our Chief Minister, shall we?

I'm sure there are plenty of ways to eloquently tell the opposition to butt out. But why bother with such nonsense when "get out of the way, piss off" says it all!

Adam Giles is one step closer to greeting the Queen with 'would you like a shower, shit and a shave before we crack a tinny over breakfast?'

People say the NT is a bit rough - but I just don't see it.

'D' is for...?

"...I'm a lady. And, with that comes an estrogen- fueled need to page through thick glossy magazines that make me hate my body." Mayim Bialik, The Big Bang Theory.

This is pretty standard for being female - magazines, marketing, friends and family all have their own opinions on how we should look and what we should be doing to make this 'perfection' happen.

In my experience, my self-loathing didn't start until I was in highschool and suddenly the need to be skinny and blonde was bigger than the need to breathe. Cleo, Cosmo, Girlfriend Magazine and every single advertisement for clothing I saw told me that being short, chunky and not a platinum blonde meant my value as a person was negligible.

Sad, but true. And I have no doubt that my experience is similar, if not the same, as 90% of women out there...the 90% of us that don't fit the stereotype.

I hate that grown women are subjected to this kind of stupidity, and I'm always thrilled that people like Dani from Danimezza, Melissa from Suger Coat It and Nikki from Styling You are doing more and more to show the world that everyone can look and feel amazing, because they are. Full stop, no returns.

So when I was flicking channels and I came across a documentary on Austar titled 'Diet Crazy Mums', I thought it must be something about women losing the baby weight regardless of what it took. I was expecting to see women on a variety of diets and, when they didn't get the results they wanted, having their mummy-tummy's (and anything else that might have the slightest jiggle to it) liposuctioned, nipped and tucked with a few breast enhancements thrown in for good measure.

What I wasn't prepared for was a program that has the following prologue: "This documentary follows three mothers who are obsessed with counting calories and exercise and are teaching their children how to diet from a young age. The show also looks at how the mothers' lifestyle affects their children's views on body image and food. All the women featured believe they're doing the best for their children - despite facing increasingly harsh criticism from those who don't share their attitudes towards parenting."

Now, I'm all for parents taking an active role in their children's nutrition and health - hello, it's a part of being a parent in the first place. If nutrition and health were irrelevant, the breast-Vs-bottle war would never have got off the ground, much less have the polarising effect is does. But I do object to forcing your own body-issues on to your six year old.

I have never met a six year old girl who would respond to the question "Do you think there's anything wrong with the way you look?" with "I'm fat, and that's the truth." It's horrifying! I would be devastated if I thought anything I said or did made my little girl think she was anything but perfectly normal. At six years old, there is no need to be aware of 'thin' or 'fat' or to know what a bloody calorie is - for goodness sake, I'm 28 and I have no idea about calories, kilojoules or whatever they're called - they are just words written on the sides of packaging.

Miss 3 is allowed to eat whatever she would like to - within reason. I won't let her have a bag of lollies for dinner, but just because I'll let her have a few lollies over the passage of the day doesn't make me some kind of non-caring mum who's happy for her child to live on sugar. All it means is that I'm doing my best to teach her moderation and that we need to have a mixture of foods in our diet. If she tells me she wants a pear and some Jatz crackers for lunch, then fine, I'm not going to stress myself out over it.

All kids go through stages where they just won't eat anything other than a specific food, and working through this stage with your child can mean making some compromises on both sides  - they can have their coveted chicken nuggets, but they won't be allowed any dessert because they're not eating any vegetables. And if you ask me, it's a win win situation because a) you know your child has eaten and b) you're teaching them that they can't live on chicken nuggets and if they're not prepared to eat the healthy stuff, then there's no way the treats will be making an appearance.

I don't think, however, that just because a mother might have a terrible self-image that she should be subjecting her child/ren to calorie restricted diets, exercise regime's and constant weigh-in's. If a parent has genuine concerns about their child's health, there are ways to go about resolving those concerns without creating a home-based 'fat camp'.

One mum put her 2 teen-aged daughters on a strict diet that she followed herself, and would harrass them to be doing time on the treadmill everyday. The mum openly admitted that she was going to bed hungry and would constantly wake up in the night as a result. So, as much as I totally agree that physical activity of some kind on a daily basis is great, why should her daughter's want to slog it out on a treadmill when they're probably starving and have no energy as a result? Needless to say one daughter gave up quite quickly, while the other continued to try and meet her mum's expectations.

Giving your child an unhealthy relationship with their body and food from the moment you can make them understand is going to do more harm than the odd burger ever will. Kids are just that - kids. And they want to be able to experience things, do what their friends do and just have fun. Why ruin that by instilling fears in them that are unjustified?

There are enough hurdles to jump in life regarding appearance that our children will have to face - you want your child to be able to come to you for support and encouragement, not look at you as part of the problem.

As Miss 3 grows and begins to absorb these things on her own terms, I will discuss it all openly, but the message I will be passing on at every stage will be that she is wonderful just as she is and nothing on the outside is more important than what's on the inside.

"The Time Has Come", The Walrus said...

Not  "to talk of many things: Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax-- Of cabbages--and kings..."

But to discuss the fact that The Man and his brother made such strides towards the current renovation project in our home, over the weekend, I thought there must have been vodka in the drinking water.

It looks like this baby will actually have a room, and I'm no longer eyeing off the fan blades in the lounge room as a potential 'cot' because I won't have anywhere to put a real one.

I'll admit, it was a risk letting the two of them take on the demolition. The Man and his brother are terrifyingly accident prone. If something could possibly happen, it inevitably will. It's in their DNA.

I married the one in red...

In true family style, they proceeded to remove gyprock and other miscellaneous building materials from our home with a ladder that was too short, no shoes, no safety glasses, bare hands and with the electricity still running through the house while hammering and chiseling into the wall...that contains the central power board.

I suppose their main line of safety was that beer would not be consumed on the job.

Thank fuck.

Somehow, the only 'massive' injuries sustained were a chisel into the hand (brother) and near impalement with a section of wood that only amounted to massive bruising (The Man). I was informed that he truly has 'balls of steel' because that was what got in the way.

Bandaids and laughter appeared to be the remedy.

Very few nails were stepped on, and each had the courtesy of warning one another whenever they did so. Because, you know, removing them would have been sensible.

When pondering how to thank The Brother for all his hard work, it occured to me the best thank you gift would be a tetanus shot and offering to stitch up his hand. Or just get him home alive to his wife and their unborn child.

Happily, the construction of the new wall and relocation of the door frame will be done by someone else entirely. Although he is an army bud of The Brother, so safety standards could be questionable.

I'll just take Miss 3 to the park and pretend it's not happening.

But in the meantime, I have to try and appear knowledgeable while The Man talks to me about what the electrician will need to do, and data cables, and practical locations for power points and light switches and fan controls and how easy it will be to finish off the floor.

That's totally awesome, but in the meantime I'm more concerned about the gyprock being fixed in the adjoining wall, since the demolition wasn't *strictly* controlled and has now spread to Miss 3's bedroom too.

We are 15 weeks away from blast off in my uterus, and I feel like the space is 25 weeks away from completion. But I have every confidence it will be done in time.

Whether or not the brother's end up in the hospital ward next to me is something we'll have to wait and see...

Riding in Cars with Boys...

Last night, I hit a new low.

The shame is still imprinted on my brain and I'm not sure I'll ever be able to look my husband in the eye again...or, at least, not until dinner time tonight. Especially if he's cooking.

I had thought the worst of this 24/7 morning sickness was over.

I was wrong.

Terribly, mortifyingly, wrong.

The day had started out badly, with my head in the toilet. This was an omen, and I didn't pay attention...

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It began as a normal ride home from work. Rather than taking 2 cars, we decided to travel together since The Man was actually going to finish at a reasonable time. It was nice not to have to drive in the peak hour traffic.

Everything was fine - I was checking Twitter and Facebook, catching up on what I had missed throughout the day. Suddenly I paused, as the familiar feeling of queasy churning began. I took deep breaths, I put the air vent on my face for the cool air and I tried to focus on something else.

The rising panic told me I had to find something fast. There was no time for deep breathing and cool air - this was the time for frantic action!

If we had been in my car, there would have been a plastic bag available. There also would have been easily cleaned leather seats. But we were in The Man's car, and the only thing I could find was the cardigan on my lap and everywhere I looked all I could see was Subaru emblazoned, absorbent material laughing in my face.

This was going to be bad.

We were on the highway - nowhere to pull over as we were stuck in the far lane and traffic was bumper to bumper. I could have put my head out the window, but in my panic I know I would have forgotten to turn away from the wind and it would have blown back in my face.

This was going to be traumatic enough without adding that kind of scarring experience to the mix.

I should have thought about the cardigan better. Tried to fashion some sort of cloth 'bucket'. But before I knew it the muscle reflex from hell kicked in and I crammed the cardigan up against my mouth.

And from there the day unravelled at lightening speed.

For a moment I thought perhaps it was just a reflex and nothing came out - until I wondered why I couldn't see through my glasses anymore and why the mess was hovering before my eyes.

Something was dripping down both arms.

Something warm was slowly making its way down my cleavage.

Then another wave came.

Oh, shit.

The Man kept saying "don't panic, it will be okay, don't panic!" over and over. I think this mantra was actually more for his own benefit than mine.

He's not good with vomit.

With every wave it spread further - it sprayed onto the sun visor! If I hadn't been so horrified by what was happening, I probably would have been impressed with the leverage I was achieving with every heave.

I could feel the car moving faster and faster. I think at one point we were air-borne as The Man tried to get us home before it could get worse. I'm not sure how it could have been worse, but it's the thought that counts.

As we screamed into the driveway, of course the heaving finished. Even in my lowest moment the irony was not lost on me. Miserable, fucking, irony.

I stood in the yard, and The Man hosed me down like a prize winning horse that had just vomited all through it's trailer. I am all class, and this day was no different. And it got better once I stripped off to my knickers and bra so I could get into the house without dragging a trail of mess behind me to the shower.

Thank god for high fences and privacy screening.

In the shower I started to scrub. I was only removing stomach contents, but I was trying to scrub away the memories, too. A 'two birds, one stone' scenario. The milk and honey smell was soothing but it took me a moment to gather my thoughts and remember to take my glasses off. Clearly I was so traumatised I decided looking through a veil of my own vomit was perfectly normal.

See, all class.

I emerged from the shower 20 minutes later, red raw from scrubbing. The Man came back upstairs, his hands red raw from scrubbing the terror out of his car.

The car now smells like pine-o-cleen...and a bucket has been installed for future trips. If I'm ever allowed back in the car again.

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The Man has a renewed glow about him today.

His macho-ness is proven through his ability to drive his vomit encrusted wife home, hose her down, get her into the shower and then clean his vomit encrusted car - all with minimal fuss and only a few gagging episodes.

Although it did take him a long time to come to bed...

Image from Here

Block-Rage...It's Bigger than Road-Rage...

I've confessed my love for The Block previously. It's 'my show' and I require solitude and silence to appreciate it.

Thank god for Austar and the ability to record things. Otherwise I'd never to get to see anything other than the thrill that is 'Mickey Mouse Club House'.

Although the silence I crave is usually shattered by hysterical screaming and threats to throw things at the TV screen.

It has nothing to do with Miss 3 or The Man. Nope. All the shenanigans are from me.

I've been clinically diagnosed by The Man as having a severe case of 'Block-Rage'.

It's usually brought on by judges who can't seem to tell the difference between a finished room that should win and an incomplete room that shouldn't. They also don't seem to realise that a room painted entirely in navy blue with a hideous green throw on a bed does NOT deserve a score more than zero.

Image from The Age

Do you know how hard it was to find a picture of this room in all it's gory glory? If you look on The Block's official website, they're too ashamed to put a pic of the whole room up. They just choose arty-farty shots that look at certain points in the room.

Spew.

I don't care if that stupid woman did spend $3,000 on bed linen ALONE. Just because it's expensive doesn't mean it's in good taste.

Case in point: Donald Trump...

Money clearly has no place in a wig store...

He has all the money in the world and yet he chooses to wear the hair of a 'ranga' badger on his head.

Idiot.

But my 'Block-Rage' can also be inflamed by contestants who spend their time grinding tiles in front of churches at 1:30am and getting pissy when they're called on it. I also find it hard to keep my blood pressure under control when these people either crack the shits for losing a challenge, or become the most disgusting winners ever by carrying on like a pair of pork chops.

Am I slightly over-involved? Yes.

Is it really worth losing my sanity over a TV show? No...yes

Will I ever regain control of myself? Maybe. Once the show has been over for 12 months.

But for now I am happy raging along and wanting to poke forks into the eyes of the judges. For some reason, Masterchef just doesn't invoke this kind of spontaneous-combustion-inducing rage.

Maybe that's because when food is bad, everyone knows it. There aren't people hanging around saying "Although the beef tongue is like chewing an old boot, this is so 'out there' that it has to be regarded as modern, chic food".

No. When tongue is served up, they spit it out. And make no apologies for the fact that your cooking on that day was crap-tacular.

Hear that Block Judges?! When it's wrong, it's wrong. It's not cool, it's not edgy - it's just plain wrong.

Look it up and use it more often.

Sadly it will mean that Dan and Dani never again win a room...

But I can live with that.

FFS!? Friday - The Non-Pregnancy Edition...

Because nothing has changed in this pregnancy recently - still nauseated, still tired, still emotionally INSANE with the added bonus that my spotless complexion is now spotty. Yeah - I'm thrilled about that.

ANYWAY - moving on to the FFS!? Friday...

What's sent me over the edge this week?

• My cousin announced her engagement on Facebook on Wednesday night. This is engagement #4. To a guy she's been dating for 3 months. FFS
• It's all well and good to say you know someone and you love them - but when your relationship is based on text message and Facebook because he's away for weeks at a time? FFS
• My cousin already has 2 kids our of (now) 4 engagements...is there another on the way? FFS
• She then said they are signing paperwork in 2 weeks time and our aunt will be marrying them. What's the hurry? Is our aunt really that desperate for celebrant work? FFS
• In the next update she said she had quit her job and was a happy SAHM now. I guess that's doable when you've hooked up with a guy who works on the mines. FFS
• Then she announced that she had made an appointment with a plastic surgeon for breast implants. FFS
• I suppose that debunks the 3rd baby concern?
• It's Friday and I don't work Friday's anymore. It's my sleep late day. But I'm up early to take my brother in law's cat to the vet because his cats have moved here but he hasn't. Yet. FFS
• It's the cat who's on valium because it's high strung. It's probably going to try and claw my face off. FFS
• 3 people won the 70 million lotto this week. I wasn't one of them. FFS
• I was at a planning day for work on Wednesday. Because certain colleagues kept flapping their gums, I was over the parking limit and it cost me $19 in parking fees to leave for the day. FFS
• Their gum flapping also meant we didn't get to leave early. FFS
• My house looks like a bomb has hit it, but our cats decided that wasn't enough and have decided that vomiting everywhere is an awesome improvement. FFS
• If they're not careful, they'll be going to the vet today and coming home in a plastic bag. FFS

So there you have it, that's my whinge for this week.

Now, I need to finish this up so I can get my shit together, pick up a valium-based cat and hope it doesn't freak out while I take it to the vet.

FFS indeed.

The Block (Heads)...

I love The Block.

L.O.V.E. It.

When it's on, no one is allowed to speak and I record it to re-watch later.

I was devestated to discover that I had missed the first week's worth of episodes for 2012, but I got to watch last night.

I have to say - I was slightly horrified.

Not by the shite-style building, not by the lack of hot running water and not even by the scungy toilet that they all have to share.

No, my main concern was the fact that they appear to have gone for contestants who have limited brain power. And I'm not sure people like that should be handling power tools, or even allowed to sit on a dining chair without a harness and a helmet.

There are 2 contestants that specifically worry me...

SOPHIE & DALE

Source

Now - Dale, he appears to have his stuff together. And thank god for that because the Missus arrived on day 1 wearing a Zimmermann dress and wore it while cleaning up the dump site that was to be their bedroom.

And proceeded to whinge about it.

Who does that!? If you can afford a Zimmermann dress, and afford to wear it while renovating a demolition site, then I don't know what the fuck you're doing on a program like this. Why aren't you lazing around the pool while Jeeves brings you another g&t and Sven works the shopping stress out of your shoulders?

And complaining about it on national TV actually just makes you look a bit stupid. Seriously. You could have changed your clothing - or accepted the fact that you've signed up for The Block, not Australia's Next Top Model, and Zimmermann dresses are inappropriate.

Even if your dress did look like it already had paint thrown on it.

I do have to say - their elimination round kids room was awesome! Miss 3 may or may not have seen that they put a swing in the room and demanded to know why she doesn't have a swing.

We're still in negotiations.

DANI & DAN

Source

Now, Dani has a head on her shoulders. And a foul mouth - I always like the ones who swear right from the start, it makes them seem more 'normal'.

But I will say she has a very competitive, outright 'bitch streak' in her. I understand that you're in a competition, but to ignore people when they say hello, simply over choosing a floor covering strikes me as a bit childish.

You might want to think about your strategy, Dani.

Dan is the one I worry about. His entire vocabulary seems to consist of 3 words. Oh. My. God.

Yep - we get the idea, dude - the job ahead is overwhelming and you're crapping your dacks that you've signed up for it.

However, there are so many other options, in terms of something to come out of your mouth.

Some suggestions I've put together include:

• Good grief Charlie Brown!
• My goodness, isn't this charmingly derelict?
• Good golly, I believe the shock has created a hole in my pants.
• Crikey!
• I'm a flamin' galah for thinking this would be a 10 week getaway (channel your inner Mr Stewart).
• We need a break, we need a KitKat!

It also worries me how bright Dan's teeth are. I'm thinking some form of radioactivity would explain both the vocab problem and the blinding tooth issue. Honestly, Dan, it looks creepy on Tom Cruise - add a deeper shade of orange to your tan and you could be his twin.

His creepy, night-light-tooth twin.

So, there's my take on The Block so far. Do you watch obsessively like me, or are you reality TV indifferent?



P.s: Thanks to the glory that is the internet, I've caught up on all the episodes I missed and I now feel I can sleep at night, not to mention form further judgements about the contestants and be a hero in my own lunchbox.

Because that's how I roll.

Week 8 Highlights...

I've decided to document this pregnancy a little better than I did with Miss 3. Although I have done some scrapbooking to cover the first 12 months of her life, it's as far as I got before my scrapping mojo died in the arse.

I feel guilty because my friend is a die hard scrapper - I just don't have the creativity right now.

Anyway, the highlights for week 8 of The JellyBean...

• The never ending nausea. I won't bother going into detail, because there's a whole post of bitching about this awesome experience.
• I've turned into Bleeding Gums Murphy. I hate this part - blood makes me gag, even when it's my own.
• Exhaustion. I could sleep for Australia.
• Emotional Freak. One minute I'm fine and dandy, the next I've morphed into Medusa. Or I'm drowning in a puddle of my own tears. Damn you, Huggies. And Disney.
• Brain Power/Memory. I can't be sure that I ever regained the memory space from pregnancy #1, but I know I'm already losing brain cells at a rapid rate this time around and it worries me. But I can't remember why.
• Libido. Is back! Enough said, really.
• Pretending to be sad that I can't eat things like raw seafood and soft cheeses. Specifically because some idiot, who hasn't started work with our company yet, signed up to a 'mail order cheesebox of the month club' and had it sent to our building as a friendly gesture. Someone cracked open the box and the noxious odour that penetrated every corner of the building meant I spent a lot of time in the toilet. Can I just ask - who the HELL orders cheese via MAIL!?
• My perfume makes me feel sick. This really pisses me off - my Mum got me 2 bottles of Be Delicious by DKNY and I can't wear it because the smell now makes me feel sick.
• I can't use my awesome, favourite, Oral B electronic toothbrush. Because the vibrations in my mouth make me feel like throwing up. So does the toothpaste.
• Restless Legs. This shits me to tears - literally. I can pace, stretch, drink water, swim and none of it makes any difference. If I'm lucky enough to get an attack, there seems to be screw all I can do about it. I don't remember having RLS until late pregnancy with Miss 3, so this early onset is just balls.

So that's about all for now - all that I can remember anyway, since my memory is failing and my memory is failing.

I feel like I have to go do something now but I can't remember what that was so I'll just watch TV and hope someone reminds me.

When you want to post something awesome...

but you totally can't because you promised you wouldn't.

Image from here

Damn my big mouth writing cheques promises my hands can't cash. It's eating away at me. I want to blab - I really do. But I can't.

It's why I've been so quiet on here...there's only one thing I want to talk about and since I can't, there's no space for anything else in my brain.

The truth is out there...and soon it'll be here too.

The Distressing World of 'Girly Items'...

**Warning: Men may prefer to poke their eyes out with a fork than read this...**

Did you know that until 1990, sausages were still legal tender in East Germany? And that the human thigh bone is as strong as concrete?

Did you know that other pointless information, such as the pearls of wisdom above, can be found on the back of your Libra pad?

Kerri Sackville raised this subject the other night, and pointed out that it seems strange. I agree. Personally, the last thing I'm worried about when I am irrationally pissed off and hormonal is that the East Germans were flapping sausage meat around town so they could buy more sausage.

What value is this information to me? Or to anyone? Unless universities are going to start offering a degree in "Libra Science", in which case it's probably a course that's more appropriate for girls. Guys could give it a go, I suppose, with an increase in shoplifting of Libra pads by men who can't face the check-out chick. Who already has her Libra Degree.

After checking out my tampons Facebook Page (yep - our pads, tampons and liners have their own Facebook Page. I'm just glad they've avoided Twitter.), I have found that Libra's mission is "To entertain and inform Libra pad users with interesting and sometimes useless information". I'm glad they haven't over-estimated the value of the wisdom they're imparting to generation after generation.

But I think the most frightening thing I found in my research was the anonymous comments left on a blog post regarding this very topic. One person admitted to laying in bed and reading the facts out to her fiance. Ooooh, there's a sexy bed time routine - "Get comfy baby, I want to tell you that it's physically impossible for a pig to look up into the sky..."

Another said she found it made awesome conversation for the toilet cubicle. Seriously!? I'm already phobic about having to use public toilets for the germ factor - now I have to avoid "Libra Fact Discussions" with strangers, too? Fuck that - I'll hold it.

And, finally, my favourite comment...

"Hi! I personally do not see what is wrong with haveing (sic) facts on them. When i am sitting on the toilet, unwrapping my pads, i can get rather bored. When discovering pads with facts (true or not) on them, i found it less boring, and looked forward to opening the next one..."

Really? How long is it taking you to unwrap one of those suckers!? I generally find I don't have time to think "I'm bored - oh wait, my pad has some awesome new goss to keep me entertained until I can find my way out of the toilet!". 

Besides, a magazine has glossy pictures.

As for looking forward to opening the next one - well, that's a comment only appropriate for birthday and Christmas gifts. You're already spending far too long hanging out in the toilet, there's no need to be excited about it, too.

Did I mention magazines have pictures? And advertisements for other pads. Have you seen the ones that have designs on them?

Image from here.

Obviously, Libra will be releasing pads with 'join-the-dots' for those of us who get bored in the toilet.

Dear Me...on a FFS Friday...

Dear Me,

Well, today has just turned out to be a winner, hasn't it? In terms of a FFS Friday, it's right up there. But mostly you brought it on yourself. Maybe that's why it stings??

Let's review the facts for this morning, shall we?  It started to go downhill when Miss 3 went into a dramatic moment over a pair of socks that she didn't want to wear. No biggie, you said she could find the socks she wanted and you'd put them on for her.

After she got off the naughty spot for screaming in your face about not wanting to wear the socks you'd picked.

Then she couldn't find her blueberries. And so she went into full meltdown. And continued for a full 40 minutes.

Yeah - not her finest hour, and certainly not yours either, judging by the result.

Okay, so she was carrying on like a pork chop in the driveway as you put her carseat back in the car. So what? Are you worried the palm trees are going to judge your parenting skills? They're too busy dropping fronds the size of the Titanic on your lawn and sprouting berries that attract bats to shit everywhere. They have their own way of pissing you off, they don't give a shit about tantrums!

Yes, the carseat was being a prick as usual, it was hot and you were running late. Well, when you have a child, live in the NT and snooze the alarm for 2 hours, this is what happens. Take a cement pill and harden the fuck up, princess.

Okay, she didn't want to eat her breakfast. At least, not the breakfast you had for her. But let's be honest, she was crabby because she wanted left over's from dinner and you had just finished feeding said left over's to the chickens. It's most likely a parenting win that you didn't open the coop and read a book while Miss 3 had left overs with Stewie and Ice-Cream.

Okay, she kept screaming and gaining volume and pitch and didn't want to get in the car. To be honest, neither did you. And she didn't manage to blow out the windows on the car, so what's the problem?

Yes, driving along with a banshee in the backseat isn't fun. But turning around and yelling 'ENOUGH' at her isn't going to solve anything. And you knew that, otherwise you wouldn't have cried.

Remember that look on her face...yeah, the same look used to be on your face as a child. Why would you do that to your daughter? You remember how it felt...why would you repeat that?

Miss 3 is exactly that...3. And she needs you to love her and guide her. Learn from this, remember this and think about it the next time you feel close to losing the plot. She watches you and gains her understanding of how to approach situations through the actions you take and reactions you have.

When you pick her up this afternoon, apologise for yelling. Talk with her and go over the events of this morning. Find out why she felt frustrated and upset so you can help her the next time it happens. Explain to her how you felt and make sure she understands as best she can.

You can't take it back - it's out in the universe now - but you can show your daughter that when we make a mistake, being honest and open about it is the only way to move forward.

And FFS, stop snoozing the alarm - or else I'll make you put an ice pick through it. Whomever invented the snooze button obviously never met you...

Now, don't make me have to talk to you again, it's embarrassing.

Cheers & Beers,
Your Brain.



  

I've got my cranky pants on...

I was on a high this morning because, for a change, my morning ran smoothly. A quick, calm drop off to day care and no looney's on the road meant that by the time I swept into work I had a smile on my face.

Which was promptly ripped off my face at lunch time when the Finance Manager walked into my office and proceeded to "ask" me to cover reception while she takes the reception staff out to lunch.

Well, that's lovely - but choosing to take 50% of your staff out to lunch when the other 50% is unavailable due to a staff induction day is a really stupid idea.

Why is it stupid? Well, it's stupid because now you have to ask me to cover reception, just as I'm stepping out have lunch myself. This is not the way to get in my good books. In fact, it will cause me to get cranky, and I will grow crankier still, thinking about your stupidity and your craptacular timing, not to mention your rubbish organisational skills and inability to make sensible judgements.

And, no, your offer to bring me back a soy-organic-vegan-chai-latte will not make it better. It will only make it worse. Far, far worse.

So I'm hungry. And staring at someone who is asking me to be hungry a while longer so she can toddle off and not be hungry, but is happy to bring back a cup of unsatisfyingly healthy, badly flavoured warm water.

Damn right I'm pulling up my cranky pants! And I'm pulling them up Steve Urkel style just to prove the point.

But I decided that since I am off to Adelaide next week for work I should invest in a pair of 'normal' pants.

My Team Leader has these amazing pants that I would totally mug her for - but instead I decided just to buy a pair.

It's not often that I find awesome clothes locally. But funnily enough some decent shops have been schlepping their way into Darwin, and this has made me very happy.

The local Country Road store was zero help, but that's why the shopping gods created ONLINE STORES!

As a result, Country Road online shopping was sourced and I managed to grab:

Flare Pant

Seamfree Stripe Tank

There's also a really cute boyfriend blazer but they don't have my size...sigh. They've having a 60% off sale at the moment, so make the most of that, people!!

But my sadness over the blazer was short lived when I found this on the Forever New website:

Bethany Bow Jacket

Yes, I'm using shopping as a way to make myself feel better, and to an extent it has worked quite nicely, thank you very much.

But I can't escape the realisation that work has been making me wear my cranky pants more often lately. And the few people that have been driving me up the wall are going to suffer the wrath of a slightly stressed, high strung, working mummy if they don't piss off and leave me alone!

I think it's the time of year - and the fact that I'm struggling to balance the working mummy scales. Particularly in the coming weeks when I'll be away quite a lot for work, and I've not been away from the Toddler for more than a night in her whole life.

It feels uncomfortable and strange, and no amount of shopping will make that feeling go away.

Which is quite inconvenient, I must say.

I would turn to chocolate for some solace, but my doctor ruined that after our chat last week. Bitch.

Maybe days like this are a sign that I should just pull the quilt over my head and hide from life.

Running away is always much easier than trying to answer questions, such as, 'do I really want to work?'...'do I really want to stay at home'?...

Am I as think as I drunk I am? Sadly, no. But since I'm at work, it's most likely for the best. Or not.

I do think it's entirely possible that I'm completely losing my grip on reality.

Over-sharing & Innappropriate Timing: A Talent

They say sharing is caring, which sounds all fluffy and lovely, but I've been doing this wifey/parenting lark for a little while now and one thing I have discovered is that, while sharing is a vital function, it's not always about caring as much as it's about proving you're right and voicing your opinion on how it's being done wrong.

Or maybe that's just me.
As a wife it started with sharing wisdom on how everything could (read: should) be done. Because:

1. You are always right when it comes to how the washing is pegged out for maximum drying speed and airflow.
2. You are the only person in the house who knows how to correctly stack the dishwasher so that dishes are clean.
3. You know exactly when the rubbish needs to be taken out - it's a complicated equation based on the number of pooey nappies multiplied by the quantity of decomposing foodstuffs divided by the number of times you'll have to ask for it to be taken out. It usually equals at least once per day.
4. We all have our talents and skills...yours are just more correct.

As a Mum, it began with sharing personal space and internal organs...

1. It then spread to sharing your external appendages...and teaching the existing man-child and the new actual-child that, while you only have one set of breasts, they can be utilised differently. Neither one of them could claim sole ownership because, the last time you checked, they were YOURS to being with.
2. Suddenly you're sharing your half of the bed. Yes, I mean YOUR half. Because the man-child has an ability to maintain control over his 50% of the mattress whilst you now sleep balanced on the edge of the bed frame.
3. You have a greater tendancy to share a towel with your significant other because your muddled brain forgets that you have a towel too. Sharing's not so bad...as long as you don't ponder too hard the possibility that the section of towel now wiping your face could have recently been drying a pair of testicles.
4. You continue to share your personal space, even though you've given birth - never again will you shower, toilet, burp, fart, sneeze, eat or just generally function, alone. It's an adjustment but, compared to having a room full of people stare down your birth canal and listen to you make noises like a herd of recently castrated cattle, it's not as concerning as it might have been post birth.

All of this is pretty normal, and I would be happy if that's as far as it went for me. The trouble is, I have an inability to stop at just sharing.

I have a refined talent for over-sharing and inappropriate timing. Examples of this include:

1. The time I openly shared my thoughts on a questionably manufactured pram model...only to discover that pram was the main feature at the baby shower, purchased by the grandmother-to-be.
2. The time I mentioned that I wouldn't want to be in accounting because all the work people in finance seem to be a humour-less, too-serious, possibly sex-starved and therefore unapproachably cranky, bunch. While they were making coffee behind me. (And they totally didn't laugh or dish the goss on any recent sexcapades, so it simply proved my point.)
3. The time I told the South American police they were a bunch of useless fuckwits and had more talent for taking bribes than they did for doing their jobs after I got robbed by a taxi driver and they wouldn't do anything about it because I was a 'silly western female tourist'. My Dad shuffled me out of the station before I could open my mouth again and become a prison guest. 

I'm the first to admit that I'm sometimes in need of a filter between my brain and mouth...or at the very least I should look around and see who's making coffee behind me before I offer my opinions. But this ability I have for over-sharing and inappropriate timing seems to be something I've always had and it doesn't appear to be hereditary.

It wouldn't be so bad if I was from a family of innappropriate over-sharers because we all know that if someone else is doing it, it's okay to do it too. But my family's main talent - the ability to be loud enough to drown out a freight train - fails, just as I need it.

Every. Single. Time.

They're awesome like that.

But I'm sure I'm not alone - there must be many people like me, otherwise the term 'foot-in-mouth' wouldn't have an application. So pull out your best moment and share it with the world. As over-sharers, it's what we do best.

It's all a secret plot...

So, driving to work yesterday morning I hear on the radio that apparently Sesame Street has a secret.

Sesame Street is brainwashing the world!

But Sesame Street is not alone. Oh no, Friends, Oprah and even Macgyver are all in on the plot. Apparently, author Ben Shapiro believes that TV shows are being used to brainwash people, specifically American's, into a left-wing society.

To be honest, when I read this article all I saw initially was that his theory is called 'The Big Bird Manifesto' and he thinks people are being dragged into a left-wing society.

Get it?

Big Bird...left wing...

Well, I laughed.  Ahem.

But to be honest, I sort of felt like this guy has the wheel spinning but the hamster is dead. Sorry Mr Shapiro.

I mean, Sesame Street teaches civil disobedience? Really? Unless Big Bird is strutting around in an army uniform with a grenade launcher on his shoulder, I'm not quite sure I see where you're coming from.

Oprah - yeah, okay, she is a bit brainwash-y. But I'm not an Oprah fan. Anyone who can repeatedly invite Tom Cruise back to her show and not vomit, is not normal. But her reign of Tom Cruise Terror is over, so we can all move on.

As for Macgyver - holy cow dude, the show has been off the air for HOW LONG? And if anyone is sitting at home, craving a Macgyver re-run, well they've got bigger problems than Macgyver teaching them that 'gun's are bad, mmkay?'  Besides, Macgyver doesn't need a gun because he can make his own out of blu-tac, some tin foil and his own pubic hair.

Chances are I'm a bit simple, and I just don't have the brain power to really look into what Mr Shapiro is talking about. And maybe people like me are part of the problem - we're happy to laugh it off and continue to be brainwashed.

I'm okay - everyone in our street was out last night with beating sticks and banners wanting to 'take down the man' but we all rememberd that guns are bad, and so we left them at home. It wasn't just me, so obviously I'm not brainwashed.

I confess that there are some shows that make me do/buy/want things I wouldn't normally consider. But I put it down to glamourising it all - which is exactly the point of a television show, no?

For me, my top 5 brainwashing shows are:

MasterChef - Inspired: I want to go out and buy all the fresh ingredients I can find and bring it home and cook it. I want to go out and buy a new oven, a new fridge, new pots and pans. Hell, I want to renovate my kitchen right then and there! I feel like I could be the next Poh Ling Yeow... Uninspired: The reality is we don't have hoardes of helpers in the background that will clean up all the mess, make it all shiny and ready for another sudden death challenge in the kitchen. And I also don't have their skill, passion or creativity with food, so it's only going to end in tears. Mine.

Paranormal State - Inspired: Suddenly I want to move to the US and hunt ghosts. Awesome. Uninspired: I'd spend all my time wanting to cry and run away to my Mum.

Renovation/Decorating shows - Inspired: I want to become an interior designer. It's all so much fun - the shopping, the putting stuff in rooms and the stepping back and admiring your handiwork. Uninspired: I'll have to get back to you...

Sex and the City - Inspired: I have an intense and sudden desire to buy shoes. And impractical clothing. And lots of it. Uninspired: Yeah, I don't have the budget, body or confidence to be tackling the shoes or the clothes. And the bit where Carrie says that she bought a copy of Vogue rather than dinner because she felt it fed her more, well, sorry babe, I'd have bought a steak.

From Here To Maternity - Inspired: I want another baby, and I want one NOW! Uninspired: Well, conception is a very specific thing, not always in line with my sudden 'baby surges' and no matter how much those shows make my uterus ache, it'll happen when it happens. Nature sucks. But that doesn't mean we stop trying!

So tell me, what shows are brainwashing you into a completely different life? What stops you? What made it happen for you?