A Very Bogan Christmas Part Two

I fear I may have even bored myself ,writing this, so if you are still here at the end of this sentence, let alone the  entire post, I commend you. You are not a quitter. Or you need to get out more.

The Bogan festivities continued with an early celebration at my brother's home on the 22nd, as he and his family were going away. Gifts were exchanged, then the usual eating ourselves into a coma commenced.

During which, we somehow managed to avoid the most favourite topic of conversation for my family.

Winning Lotto. More specifically, what we would do if we ever win it. Yes, we frequently discuss this.

My brother and Dad also used to have a regular debate about how the money was allocated. One insisted it was given in a lump sum, the other was firmly convinced it was paid in instalments.

These discussions can become quite intense. The fact that the chances of winning lotto are so remote as to be practically non-existent becomes completely  irrelevant. We never pause to consider the utter absurdity of spending money which we will never have.

We may have exhausted this topic, finally. This time we discussed holidays and the utter insanity that is Christmas shopping and gift giving. A great day was enjoyed by all.

Then, I out did myself, on the 24th with an extremely classy and elegant Christmas Eve dinner.

Bogan Christmas Tree. Simply..stunning,
though not in a good way..

Maccas.

Completely disgusting and ridiculously over priced Maccas too. Is there any other kind?

Then, the count down for Santa's arrival began.  The boys were beside themselves, bursting with excitement.

"How many more hours will it be now?" Mr 8 would ask, approximately every twelve minutes.

He also became uncharacteristically concerned that the house should be clean and tidy for Santa's arrival, in case he didn't receive any presents. Of course, this behaviour never occurs on any other day of the year.

I somehow escaped for a few minutes to the boys room, intending to fold the pile of laundry there. Instead, I crashed on Mr 8's bed.Thinking, rightfully, that it will be a very long night so therefore it might be a good idea if I just closed my eyes briefly for a little snooze.I may have under estimated how tired I was as I was comatose for at least an hour.

Zombie like, I emerged, blinking and bustled the boys to bed. This took some doing as they were hyped up and there was no way in hell they were going down without a fight.

 Then, and only then, could our secret mission begin. Mr 11 may have outwitted us, cunningly pretending to be asleep. Thankfully I had wrapped almost everything in advance, so it didn't take us long to place everything under the tree and bugger off to bed at around midnight. I was just drifting off to snooze land again,when I heard creaking floorboards. 

"I'm just going to check if Santa's been!" declared Mr 11, cheerfully.

"GET BACK INTO BED, NOW!!" I bellowed, scaring the bejesus out of Micky Blue Eyes.

"But, I'm just checking if-  " Mr 11 started, defiantly.

"BACK TO BED!" Mick thundered, now wide awake and murderous.

"Fine!" Mr 11 stomps back to bed.

I finally nodded off again. A short time later, I was awoken by sobbing. Mr 4. I stumbled out of bed and into his room, where he was huddled on the bed, still sobbing.

"Mummy!" he wails. I snuggle next to him. Soon, I am snoring again. After a restless night, I am awoken by an exhilerated Mr 11 and 8 shouting that Santa had come. Surprisingly, it was not Stupid O'Clock, but a respectable 7.30am. Presents were opened in record time. Then, the fun truly began.

As we had no idea in hell how to work the Ipods Mr11 and 8 had received. As well as being an astonishing Bogan, I am also an astonishing technophobe. A few tense hours later, they were up and running and the boys were clicking away taking photos.

We finally headed off to my parents house for Christmas lunch. It was pouring rain, but this was a pleasant change from the stifling heat from the day before.

Instead of turkey(bugger that),we had Lobster Mornay made by my Mum, The Best Cook In The World Ever. Yes, she deserves capitals. As we prepared to tuck in, Micky Blue Eyes commented wryly that we should be taking a snap of it to post on Facebook. We just laughed and didn't bother, so you'll have to imagine it.

It was, indeed, a most excellent day. I felt like the happiest Bogan in Boganville. What more could you ask for? Please don't answer that question.

So, that's  our very boring Bogan Christmas done and dusted for yet another year!

How was your Christmas day? How do you celebrate, if at all?

Read More

A Very Bogan Christmas Part One

Yesterday the bogan festivities began with a lunch with the out laws. They had wanted to take us out to a Leagues Club and shout us lunch.

The fun started when we were getting ready to go. I was my usual well organised self. I couldn't even find a bra to put on. I do hate the things with a passion.

You know you are becoming a tad tragic when you almost couldn't be bothered going out ever again, in your entire life, because you hate wearing bras.

Finally, I found one and shoved it on. Only problem was, it was white. I was wearing a black top with a lacy bit at the back through which you could clearly see the bra straps.

Oh well. Deciding that nobody on Earth ever even remotely notices or cares what I am wearing, I put it on. Then, I proceeded to tidy up my hair with a straightener thingy ma jig.

Meanwhile, Micky Blue Eyes started hollering that we were going to be late, in between his familiar refrain: "I'm trying to do WORK!!"

"Get your shoes on!" I screeched to the boys.

"Okaaaaaaaaay!" yelled back Mr 11

"I aaaaaam!" declared Mr 8.

I gave up on my hair and pointlessly applied lipstick. 

Some time later, we finally pile into the car, amid arguments about who should sit on the side with the dodgy seat belt. It's always Mr8, as he is smaller.

Then, my most dreaded event takes place.

Mick hands me a street directory and instructs me to look up the place where we have to go. I turn pale.

I had assumed he knew where it was and he hadn't mentioned that he didn't know.

Naturally, any 'normal' people might be expected to have a GPS device. Not these bogans. We still resort to the trusty (scary) UBD.

It is at this point that I have to let all woman kind down and openly admit I simply cannot read maps. At all.  Let alone in a moving car. The very thought makes me decidedly ill.

Frankly, I'm surprised we haven't already divorced over this. There were some rather unsettling arguments over this very thing on our honeymoon for God's sake.

After a nerve wracking trip, during which the boys refused to wind the windows up, we eventually made it there and went in to meet the outlaws. I exited the car with windblown hair, tousled and tangled,  a dishevelled wreck. So much for bothering with my appearance. Sigh.

Then came the dramas of ordering food which seemed to turn into covert operations as my out-laws had to procure whatever members only discounts they could for all our meals.

There had also been the promise of a 'Play Area' for the boys, but, disappointingly, it was shut and still under refurbishment, although my out-laws had apparently been promised it would be open.

Within five minutes all three boys were 'bored'. Luckily the food arrived quickly. Then, surprisingly the 'Little Nippers' bags they were given actually kept them entertained for quite a while and they coloured in and did the 'find-a-word' thingys.  During which, they only spilled their drinks two or three times. Not too bad.

We were considering whether we were brave enough to go and have a Santa photo taken afterwards, as we still hadn't gotten around to it. Seeing as though we were out and the boys were presentable, it seemed a good opportunity.

Leaving the club, we then drove off and drooled over all the beautiful houses we passed in this part of Sydney. I think we're not in Boganville anymore, Toto.

Passing a park, the boys exclaimed "Please! Can we go there!"

So we did.

The boys happily played away for a while. I turned my back for a split second, then I turned around, expecting to see Mr 4 still happily playing on the 'train'.

He was gone.

I called out, thinking he'd definitely crawl out from the tunnel thing on the train. He didn't.

Calling louder, I scanned the park, trying not to panic.

There he was.  Behind a tree and some bushes a few metres away.

I saw the look on his face and knew straight away.

The smell when I got closer, confirmed it.

 I was so happy to find him, I didn't mind as much as I normally would.

Naturally, there were no toilets anywhere to be seen, but the damage didn't appear to be too bad, so I decided we'd just get back into the car and go.

Although, the Santa photo option was now out of the question as I'd left Mr4's bag with a change of undies and clothes in it, at home. Handy.

However, Micky Blue Eyes decided that since we were headed that way to go home, he'd like to go to Rookwood Cemetery and look for his Grandparents graves. 

The boys groaned and grumbled, but we went anyway.

As we got out of the car, Mr 8 and 11 were slightly apprehensive about being in a grave yard.

"It's fine," I told them "dead people can't hurt you, they're dead." This is what my Mum had told me as a child and such common sense logic had seemed to work for me, as it did for the boys.

Thus, a lovely afternoon was spent roaming around the cemetery, fruitlessly searching for Mick's grandfather's grave. In the end, we gave up walking around and decided to drive up and down looking as Mick had somehow managed to find it previously with this method. No luck.

We did, however, find Mick's other Grandparents graves. His mother's parents. His grandmother had died in a motor cycle accident aged only 32 in 1945. We stood there, pondering it all.

Some people are gone from this Earth so young and others live until their 90's. Life is such a lottery, it seems.

The weather which had been visciously hot earlier, was now blowing up a strong gail. I spotted a grave of two young brothers, one had died at only 6 and the other 12. At first I assumed possibly from the same accident, until I realised their deaths were several years apart. So sad.

So many of the graves were obviously long forgotten and haven't been visited in a long time.

I hadn't really been taking any of this End Of The World stuff very seriously or I may have been even more reflective of what it's all about and what really happens when you die.

Later that night, at home, the boys saw something on TV about the supposed end of the world and completely freaked. I managed to reassure them that such predictions had happened time and again and so far have never came true.

Anyway, I hope not, because next month I am turning 42.

Apparently this is the answer to the Meaning of Life. So, hopefully, all going well, World not ending and all that, I will suddenly possess the wisdom of the ages and know what it all means on January 15th.

That, or I'll just eat cake, as always.

More about our Very Bogan Christmas, coming soon.

Read More

A Great Big Bogan Thankyou Take Two

It has come to my attention that I have been tagged yet again for another award. This time for something called the Leibster Award. To explain what that is I pinched this from one of my taggers:

"The award is given to support and recognise up and coming bloggers who have less than 200 followers (on their blog) or likers (on their Facebook page). The word “Liebster” apparently has German origins and is reported to mean sweetest, kindest, nicest, dearest, beloved, lovely, kind, pleasant, valued, cute, endearing, and welcome. By following some basic rules (answer 11 questions set by your nominee, write 11 questions of your own and pass the award onto 11other bloggers to answer) it enables readers to get to know new bloggers and connect with a wider audience."

 

Thanks are due to Tracey from Bliss Amongst Chaos who  tagged me.

 

Now I will answer Tracey's questions:

 

1. What is your favourite colour?

Green

 

2. Best book you ever read?

There are so many but The Magic Faraway Tree and Anne Of

Green Gables are still my favourites since childhood.

3. What is your 'houseworking' music of choice?

None really. If I put music on, no house work will be done, because I'll do anything to avoid it.

 

4. Do you have a habit that others would consider weird and if so, what?

Oh boy, we could be here for a while on this question. Deep breath. I have a Karen Carpenter obsession and stimming behaviours, such as hand flapping and rocking, due to having Aspergers.

 

5. Are you messy, or a neat freak?

Horrifically messy, I'm afraid.

 

6. What is one word your friends would use to describe you?

Probably 'sweet', because they are too kind to say nauseating.

 

7. When choosing a milkshake, what flavour do you always go for?

Chocolate, of course. Chocolate makes everything better.

 

8. What is your favourite quote?

Be yourself, everybody else is already taken- Oscar Wilde

 

9. What is your favourite movie of all time?

A bit stuck on this question to be honest, but I do love Barbra Streisand, so maybe Funny Girl or The Way We Were. As I mentioned, I'm nauseating.

 

10. What is your favourite Christmas tradition?

Besides eating myself into a coma? Um, no idea really.

 

11. Do you prefer wine or spirits?The only spirit I like is scotch, so possibly wine.

 I have also been tagged by the bad ass Tegan (see, I didn't call you 'lovely' or any of those nauseating adjectives) from  Musings of the Misguided

These were her questions:

How long have you been blogging?
Since March 2012.
 

What was the first Blog you read?
Karen Carpenter Avenue. Or something to do with Karen anyway. Shut up.

How did you come up with the name for your Blog?
It's basically a pun of the classic novel Tess of the D'urbervilles and since my name is Vanessa, everyone calls me Ness for short and we do, indeed, live in Boganville, it seemed to fit. Though I've since realised that anyone making the connection between bogans and classic literature might be a bit of a stretch.

Summer or Winter?
They both suck. I can't figure out which one sucks more for me.

How do you start your day?
With a cup of tea.

One thing you couldn't live without?
Oxygen. Yep, I'm a smart arse.

If you were stuck on a deserted island, who is one person you would like to be stuck with?
Barack Obama, because then there might be a rather good search party coming to rescue us.

Your favourite indulgence food?
Chocolate

Do you blog to a schedule?
Nope. I'm not organised and I never know when I can get computer time anyway, as I have to share. Wahhhhhhh.
 
If you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would it be?
In a five star motel, in any capital city, by myself, with my books, a lap-top and unlimited room service.

Are you ready for Christmas?
As ready as I'll ever be. (ie Not ready AT ALL)


Now, I think the way it works is that I am supposed to think of some questions and tag people, however it is at this stage that I will gracefully bow out of the tag game, as I suspect that all the people I was going to tag have already been tagged. I'm always a bit behind with these things. With everything, in fact. Oops.

So, anyway, so long and thanks for all the tags!

 

Read More

A Great Big Bogan Thankyou

A great big bogan thank you is overdue to all the lovely bloggers who tagged me for the Sunshine Award. I never thought of this boring as batshit bogan blog as being particularly sunshiney so it was quite an honour. And it also means that three extra people besides my Mum have actually read this blog, so that's always a bonus too.

 Apparently  it works like this:

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

Hmmm, a creative and inspiring bogan? Interesting.

So onto the questions and tagging:

1. Favourite Time of the Year?
Spring or Autumn, I whinge when it's hot or cold and can't decide which I hate more. In between is good.

2. Favourite Festive movie?
Umm...not sure, but those Santa Claus movies that were on recently seemed to keep my boys entertained so they are up there.

3. What is your Passion?
I'd have to say my family. Because it would be wrong to say Karen Carpenter and cakies.  Wouldn't it? 

4. Favourite Colour?
Green. Maybe not lime green or fluorescent green, but pretty greens.

5. Favourite time of the Day?
Definitely NOT a morning person AT ALL, so I'll say afternoon or evenings.

6. Favourite Flower?
I suppose I'd have to be totally predictable and say roses.

7.Favourite Non-Alcoholic Beverage?
Tea!  I think my Mum weened me on a tea bag, so I've been addicted from a young age.

8. Favourite Physical Activity?
I'm actually one of these strange individuals who likes exercise DVDs and I have a collection of them. The fact that I never end up looking remotely like the smug, scarily ripped women who instruct them may be due to the afore mentioned passion for cakies and not necessarily to the ineffectiveness of the dvds.

9. Favourite Holiday?
Anywhere that's not Dubbo, Darwin or Woop Woop is a bonus when you're married to someone who thinks they're Bear Gryls and forgets they're actually an Accountant.

Now, who to tag. I read so many brilliant blogs, that frankly I think I should just give up, because clearly I have no idea what I'm doing on any level.  Anyway I'll tag these blogs:

My Home Truths

Musings of the Misguided

Oculus Mundi

Bliss Amongst Chaos

Twitchy Corner

Autism In Our Words

What Sarah Did Next

babbling bandit.me

A life of peace & gratitude

The Crafty Ex-Pat

If you are in that list and have already been tagged or do not desire to play tag, then just ignore me. Oh wait, you are already. Done.

Oh and I should probably mention that those first three were the brilliant bloggers who tagged me. I'm tagging them back because I can. And I do also read and enjoy their blogs. So thankyou!

It has also come to my attention that I have been tagged for yet another award, so more thankyous and tags to come! 


 

Read More

My Christmas Wish List

 I just realised that I was tagged in the Christmas Wish List Thingy by Tegan from  Musings of the Misguided. Thanks Tegan!

Similarly, I only just realised it actually was going to be Christmas presently a week or two ago. I'm a tad slow. Anyhow, here goes:

1. I know I'm in the minority on this one, but if Mariah Carey would please stop warbling about All She Wants For Christmas everywhere I go that would be great.

2. I wish there really was a Santa, so I didn't have to brave the shops and consequently hear Mariah Carey warbling every five minutes.

3. I wish I could take the credit if my boys are blissfully happy with their gifts instead of bloody old Santa getting the credit.

On the flip side if they are less than thrilled with their loot, I'm more than happy to blame Santa. After all, what has he ever done for me?  He didn't even bring me a Barbie Dream House when I wanted one so desperately in 1980. Or a Ken doll. I had to make do with my brother's GI Joe with the dodgy leg that fell off when you tried to pretend they were having sex. (Come on, don't tell me I was the only one who ever did that. Was I?)

4. I would really love to have a time machine. What for? Well, then I could hop in and have it whisk me back to May 1972, so I could go and see the Carpenters perform at the Chevron Hotel in Sydney.  Oh, shut up.

This may or may not be the 1972 concert, either
way, I wish I was there. In the mosh pit.

It's not lame that I want that. Or even that I know that they did, indeed, perform at the Chevron Hotel in Sydney in May, 1972. And that, while here, Karen Carpenter bought a stuffed koala bear and named him Sir Bear Of Sydney and that is why I call myself that on Twitter. Again, I reiterate, shut up.


5. I wish that the afore mentioned time machine could not only whisk you back in time, but also figure out a way to make more time in the day so I could spend hours listening to Carpenters, blogging and reading and still find time for other stuff. Like those pesky kids I have. Ahem.

PS. I also wouldn't mind finally becoming Cashed Up Bogans and getting that McMansion in Boganville Heights. Oh, and world peace.

PPS. There is really nothing at all wrong with Mariah Carey. She can't help it that she's not Karen Carpenter.

Oh, and I should tag people. As I've mentioned I'm a bit slow and spacey, so if you've already done this, ignore me.

Homemaker Mummy

Mum's Take Five

A life of peace and gratitude

Mrs Sabbatical

MummyManifesto

Read More

Weird and Wonderful

I frequently wonder what it would be like to live in a ‘normal’ house.  With a ‘normal’ family. Because it tends to become a tad, um, shall we say, interesting, around here.

Take for instance some incidents that happened over the past week or so.  One day, the usual mountain of lego  was obscuring the living room floor.  I ordered the boys to clean it up.  Fights and mayhem ensued.

“You know what, Mum?” cried Mr 4, amidst all the hollering.

“What?” I replied.

“You’re Mum!” he laughed “you’re funny!”

Then he turned to his brother, segueing abruptly “I don’t love you!” he informed him vehemently. Mr 8 promptly burst into tears.

I ignore the washing up to play with the boys,
or just ignore the washing up to do anything that
isn't washing up really.

After smoothing that over, I then coaxed Mr 11 into a bath.

Trudging  back into the kitchen, I surveyed the usual truck load of washing up. Ignored it and headed back to the computer.

Some time later, I meandered back into the bathroom.

An over powering stench greeted me. Mr 4 grinned at me from the toilet. Which he had filled to the brim with toilet paper. Among other things.

Meanwhile, Mr 11 was soaking blissfully in the tub.

Fully clothed.

I booted him out and hastily bustled a slightly putrid Mr 4 in.  

When I wander back to the bedroom, I find Mr11 now flinging himself backwards and forwards with wild abandon, apparently head banging to some kind of rock music which is only in his mind.

Completely nude.

Also in the past few weeks, all three boys have started a game called making 'huts'. This involves positioning coffee tables and chairs in certain positions in the living room, then draping blankets over them. They then crawl in under their little self designed hidey hole.

Or they will congregate in our bedroom and do somersaults on the bed. Or decide to play 'tips' or hide and seek. Sometimes I am coaxed into joining in.

Mr 4 will be beside himself with glee.

"You hide here!" he cries, pointing behind his bedroom door "and I count!"

Trying to explain that it kind of defeats the purpose if he tells me where to hide is a fruitless exercise.  Ditto if he yells out "I'm in here!" and alerts me to his hiding place. Which he often does.

Meanwhile, Micky Blue Eyes will have one of three reactions to such pandemonium.

They are:

1.       He is a grumpy old man. Completely and utterly over such frivolity, insisting that it be curtailed immediately.

2.       Distracted indifference. He is too busy looking up old 80’s bands on Youtube, like Journey and Foreigner (if I’m lucky) or footage of Tsunamis or other natural disasters if I’m not.

This means he will yell at me approximately every 12 minutes or so to come quickly and look at some horrific doom and gloom thing that frankly isn’t extremely helpful to when you tend to be a bit wobbly (anxious) at times.

3.       If you can’t beat em, join em. He will join in with the boys antics, perhaps even roughing them, thusly hyping them up even more. Quite handy when it occurs at bed time, as is quite common. Something I never do.
 

Except for the other day when it was heatwave conditions and I looked up from folding laundry to see Mick spraying Mr 11 with the hose while he bounced on the trampoline. Gleefully I ditched the clothes and hurried outside where I proceeded to join in.

Next thing you know I was bouncing around being sprayed and whooping and laughing. Mr 8 joined in.

“This is the life! Wheeeee!” he shouted, arms and legs flying, soaking wet. 

It felt so good to be so utterly silly and ridiculous and just laugh. To see the boys so full of joy.

At which point I decided ‘normal’ is over rated.

When was the last time you did something completely silly? What ridiculous antics happen at your house?

 

 

Read More

Why I Started My Blog

For this post I am linking up with Musings of the Misguided on why I started my blog. Here's why:

Some time ago I started writing Christmas letters. You  know the kind. The ones where you detail everything your family has been doing all year. You make your life sound so busy, wildly exciting and interesting. Then go on to boast about your children being over achieving geniuses.

Except that I didn't do that. I told the truth. We are bogans. We are boring (mostly). When we go on a holiday it is to somewhere like Dubbo. Not that there is anything wrong with Dubbo mind you. But some strange people won't think it is as interesting as Disney Land. Weird.

Anyway, my Christmas letters met with a very  favourable response. A couple of friends actually read them. I think. Maybe. They said they did! Bloody liars.

So anyway, I started to toy with the idea of starting a blog.  But I never did. I figured we are too boring to find things to write about every week.

I forgot about if for  a while . Then started thinking about it again on and off. I tend to over think things and agonise for no reason. So one day, on a whim, in a weird mood, I just went, meh, what the hell, and started one.

It was at this point that I realised that I didn't have a single clue of what I was doing. So I kept doing it anyway.  Nobody read it except my Mum, but that didn't stop me. In fact, it's still mostly my Mum reading it. Thanks Mum.

I had no idea of what was actually involved in blogging and the whole concept of the 'blogosphere' was alien to me. In fact, for some time I thought having a blog was similar to having a Facebook account, except with a little more detail.

 Yeah, I know, I was jolly ignorant. Frightfully so. And I may have read too many Enid Blyton books as a child. Oh okay, I have read them as an adult too.  Which brings me to my other reason for starting a blog.

For some time, as a child, I was convinced  I was the next Enid Blyton waiting to happen. This was due to the fact that, ever since I was in 4th Grade, or Year 4, or whatever they call it now, in primary school, I had teachers compliment my writing ability. The compliments and encouragement continued in high school.

 However, my love of all things Enid, has meant my brain has remained firmly 'up the Faraway Tree' ever since I first read the book.

I'm a total off with the pixies space cadet. I can barely manage to stay on the same train of thought to actually finish  a sentence, let alone a full novel. Or even a blog post at times. What was I talking about?

Oh yeah. So, sadly, my Year 5 teacher's prediction that I was 'gifted' and a 'budding novelist' have not come true. Still, I figured that with a blog I can kind of. sort of, pretend I'm a 'writer'. Ahem.

So basically my reasons for starting a blog are to tell it how it is, warts and all, being bogans in Boganville, while simultaneously pretending to be a 'writer'.

Yep, that's my logic.

Why did you start your blog? Don't have a blog? Would you consider starting one?

And please, can someone finally answer the question I have been pondering for a while now. How did Enid Blyton turn out to be (according to Wikipedia) something resembling a bitch? I need to know. Why, Enid, why?   It's like finding out that Santa is just some creepy guy in a suit...oh wait..

Read More

T'is The Season To Be Jolly...Worried Part Two Plus Further Tales of Woe

I have been asked how I coped with everything at the time, when Micky Blue Eyes had Cancer. I can never really come up with an answer.

When you really have no choice but to cope, somehow you do. That's the best I can come up with. Sometimes it seems as if I cope on automatic pilot at the time then fall to pieces later. That does seem to be my tendency.

As I mentioned, Mick had to have chemo which would be ongoing for six months. 

Then we found out his brother had Cancer. Only for him, it seemed it was an even more extreme situation. The cancer was in a bad position and quite advanced.

So began a three year battle for him that ended when he passed away on May 13th, 2008. 

Previous to this we found out that the Cancer was, in fact, hereditary. It was caused by something called HNPCC which is short for Hereditary NonPolyposis Colorectal Cancer. This means the person (ie Mick) already has genes that would predispose them to certain cancers. 

We also found out that I was pregnant again. Something we hadn't really expected, but were thrilled.

Until, at the routine 19 weeks scan, they were unable to find any heart beat. The pregnancy was too advanced so I would have to deliver the baby.

Once again we were having to experience the unthinkable. I delivered our stillborn son, Daniel, on 24th August, 2007. The cord had wrapped around his neck.

I have to admit I've struggled rather a lot in the following years. Paranoia pervaded my every thought and I became fearful and anxious waiting for the next terrible thing to happen.

I was convinced we were cursed or jinxed. I tried to remember if I'd ever broken a mirror or a black cat had crossed my path. And I'm not usually superstitious. But suddenly I was.

Which wasn't extremely helpful because I was pregnant again. But of course this time all went well.

A blessing after a lot of heartache on November 2, 2008

After a shaky start (I was horribly sick for the first trimester) and a dramatic finish (emergency cesarean)  Mr 4 was born on November 2, 2008.  I'm assuming we just don't have girls for whatever reason. But that's fine, all I wanted was a healthy, living, breathing baby.

I love having boys. 

However, I am still trying to cure my paranoia after yet another family member now has Cancer. 

I'll also be holding my breath until December 14th, when Micky Blue Eyes has his colonoscopy.  Hoping to be boring.

"It's all very boring," the doctor informed us a year or two ago after the procedure.  Immediately we decided that we love nothing more than being boring. Boring is the best.

Bring on boring. 


Have you ever felt cursed or jinxed?  Are you superstitious?

Read More

T'is The Season To Be Jolly...Worried

A recent trip to the shops reminded me that Christmas is coming all to soon. The garish decorations everywhere and Mariah Carey belting out All I Want For Christmas were a bit of a give away.

All I've ever wanted for Christmas is Mariah Carey to shut up, but you get that.

Anyway,T'isThe Season to be Jolly and The Most Wonderful Time of The Year and all that. Apparently. Supposedly.

 I know I should really be happy and enjoy Christmas, especially having young children.

 Yet this time of year comes around and the normal low-level anxiety that seems to frequently linger around me is replaced by nail biting, heart gripping anxiety. No, it's not the fear of A Very Bogan Christmas. Although that will probably happen.

Every year, in December, just before Christmas, Micky Blue Eyes has his annual colonoscopy. He seems rather blase about it. I worry. Endlessly.

My reaction to hearing Mariah Carey for the
the millionth time is similar to this. Oh and thinking
about Mick's check up..

Normally, I forget every little thing on a daily basis. Where I put my glasses five minutes ago, what day it is, but the events of October 14th, 2004 are permanently etched into my brain. The day Micky Blue Eyes was diagnosed with bowel cancer.

Master 11 was Master 3 and Master 8 was only 7 months old. 

We had just returned from a holiday in Cairns.  One night Mick fainted in the bathroom. I urged him to go the doctors as it didn't seem normal to faint for no reason. So he did.

They found nothing wrong and all seemed well, until one afternoon about a week or so later he had a sudden attack of the runs with rather a lot of blood. Enough to be alarmed.

Back to the doctors. Blood tests revealed he was anaemic.  He was sent to hospital.

"It's probably an ulcer," the doctor informed him "it won't kill you."

They took him to theatre.

Then I got the news the doctor was coming around in the morning to meet with us. My stomach turned. This couldn't be good.

He got straight to the point.

"There is a growth," he said "there is absolutely no doubt that it's Cancer."

He had to have a blood transfusion immediately.

Dr Hack* called into the room to inform us how he intended to hack Mick apart and operate.

The surgery was being scheduled for Monday.

Meanwhile, he could go home for the weekend and relax.

Um, what?

I don't think I've relaxed since that day.

At home, Mick was not particularly relaxed either. Funny about that.

A family friend rang after my mother had spoken to her and told her the grim news.

Being a nurse, she was familiar with the surgeon who was planning to hack Mick apart on Monday.

She advised us to go to another specialist surgeon.

If he went through with the procedure on Monday, with Dr Hack "You'll be crooker than Rookwood**." Her words.

Frantic phone calls were made.

The doctor oozed condescension when I called to tell him of our intention of switching surgeons. I didn't care. All I cared about was Mick.

The surgery was scheduled for November 1st and went well. Then came the unwelcome news. He would have to have chemo-therapy. For six months. 

We were a month into that nightmare when the next bombshell came.

Mick's brother was also diagnosed with Cancer.

More about that next time.

Yes, all I really want for Christmas is for Micky Blue Eyes to have the all clear. And I still want Mariah Carey shut up.

What stresses you about Christmas?  Or is it only a happy time for you?

*Not his real name.
**Rookwood is a cemetery

Read More

I Need A Hobby

I must confess that the only truly obsessive interest I have is my fascination with Karen Carpenter/Carpenters which I have already confessed, and frankly, it's getting bit old (to everyone else, not to me). Therefore, I really need a new hobby or interest. So, for today's I Must Confess I thought I would share this old post exploring a few options.

I MUST CONFESS: I Need A Hobby

So I logged onto the computer the other day, like I do most days, and began chatting with an online (or imaginary) friend.

"What have you been doing?" she asked, as usual.

My answer is always embarrassingly similar.

"Not much," I typed " the usual, just hanging around here."

"You don't do much, do you?" she helpfully pointed out. "You need to get a hobby."

I reminded her that I already had this blog and my Carpenters obsession, so I don't really have time for much else, but she seem unconvinced.

Perhaps she does have a point. Maybe I do need a hobby. 

So I thought I would take the opportunity to explore some options. Here goes:

SCRAPBOOKING : I currently do have several boxes of photos waiting to be sorted, so I could benefit from this hobby. However, I fear that I would go and buy all the bits and pieces and then just end up with even more stuff, without actually ever getting around to using it. So nah.

My boxes of photos awaiting sorting and my one
pitiful attempt at scrapbooking from years ago

KNITTING: This would make me feel like I'm a hundred year old woman named Enid. Oh wait, I already do feel like that when I wake up every morning, so...maybe. On second thought. No. Just. No.

CRAFT: I only have two words for this. One of them is rude. You figure it out.

ART: As I mentioned in my previous post, I possess zero artistic talent, as my greedy brother stole all the artistic genes. Hmph.

PHOTOGRAPHY: Laughable. I can never even figure out how to charge a camera or remember to take one to occasions.

GARDENING: I really, really wish I could drum up an interest in this, but alas the green thumb genes skipped me too, much to my Mum's dismay.

COOKING/BAKING: Considering my love of cakies I could possibly get into this. I may have trouble getting into to all of my clothes though, which are already alarmingly large. Too dangerous a hobby for me.

PETS: I accidentally murdered my dog. Enough said.

TEAM SPORTS: Micky Blue Eyes finds it astonishing seeing an old family video of me as a child, on an overseas trip to Holland. Why? Because I was actually running through the tulip gardens.(Well, it was more like skipping,but you get the point) This aversion to running, combined with a pathological fear of balls, pretty much rules this option out.

POLE DANCING: Now we're talking! Definitely a possibility.  I can't think of a single reason why a middle aged, overweight woman, with recurring vertigo shouldn't at least give this a go. You only live once.

LINE DANCING: While I'm sure I'd rock the whole cowgirl, western look, my curious dislike of country music (considering my generally woeful taste in music) makes this option a no go as well.

YOGA: Or Breathing Up People's Bum's, as it sometimes referred too. I have tried this in the past, and didn't mind it, despite having zero flexibility. So I may go all hippy drippy and get into it again.

In the meantime, I'll stick to boring you with this blog.

 Linking up with Kirsty from My Home Truths for I Must Confess.

Do you have any hobbies? Are there any you would recommend?

Read More

Let's Make A Deal

Recently it became obvious that the boys were in dire need of a hair cut. They could possibly be mistaken for girls if I left it much longer. Especially Mr 4.

This was a prospect I relished with all the enthusiasm normally reserved for a root canal.  For some reason Mr 4 has an unreserved antipathy towards hair cuts.  In his short life, I had only managed to make him have one at the Barber's once. 

To do this, K, the lady barber we always go to, was only able to manage to complete the procedure by shoving the lolly pop, usually handed out upon completion, into his glowering mouth, thusly shutting him up and putting a plug in his protests.

This has meant he has sported many a dodgy at home hair cut done by Micky Blue Eyes.  I wouldn't even attempt it. This may be considered the equivalent of child abuse to some people.

Unwilling to subject him to such embarrassment any longer, I decided it was high time to use my exemplary parenting skills and take swift and immediate action. Like so.

I  gave him my sternest look and said firmly "If you get a hair cut, I'll get you McDonald's after."

"Okay," he agreed quite happily and immediately. Well, duh.

Yep. Bribery. Works every time. 

I'd always been reluctant to use bribery on my boys and resisted it greatly when Mr 11 was little.  I suffered the indignity of every other parent smugly informing me how their child was fully toilet trained while I was still struggling with it. I'd never thought of using bribery.

I bribe my boys with junk food. And the Mother of
the Year Award goes to...

Well, that's not entirely true, I did think of it, but assumed that it would be the wrong thing to do.  What a novice parent I was. Some time later, I realised that I was the only idiot and other parents went straight to the bribe tactics. 

"Oh no, I always bribe them, " a neighbour told me, unashamed. 

So the bribery began.

Now Mr8 is a seasoned deal maker.

 "What do I get?" he demands, when asked to anything. Even something as simple as picking his shoes up.

"I'll give you a massage," he'll offer " for five dollars!"

But back to the hair cut.

Arriving at the Barber's, Mr 4 warily sat himself up in the chair. Reluctantly, he allowed the hair cut to proceed, eager to keep up his end of the deal. Trying to get him to talk, however, wasn't going to work.

"It's his birthday tomorrow," I told K

"How exciting!" she enthused, while he sat sulking and she kept clipping away.

Meanwhile, in stark contrast with Mr 4's sullen silence, Mr 8 happily chatted away.

"One time Dad took us to this other Barber's," he informed us " and they accidentally cut our ears."

"Really?" K replied "I don't think I've ever done that to you."

''Yeah," he went on "they were really bad because they were Chinese."

Taken aback, I admonished him, mortified.  Apparently, I was raising a racist. Oh dear.

K just laughed. Then it was his turn for a hair cut.  While he was in the chair a lady popped her head in to purchase a packet of cigarettes.

"Why do you sell cigarettes?" Mr 8 demanded, his tone dripping disapproval. 

"Oh, because my boss wants me too," K answered.

"It's not illegal to sell them," I told him. He looked astonished.

Apparently I am raising a deal making, racist, anti-smoking fanatic. Oh dear. Admittedly,I'm actually quite proud of the latter.

Mr 11 decided to skip the hair cut.

"I'm growing my hair," he announced. For years he hadn't cared what he wore or looked like. Suddenly at age 11, all that has changed.

He has to have Nike shoes and he's growing his hair. He's too cool for me. In a few years he'll be taller than me I expect. My miracle baby. Not a baby anymore. Sigh.

Hair cuts completed, we exited to conclude the deal with some Maccas. A done deal.

Until the next one.



Do you use bribery or rewards?Or would you? Is there a difference?

Read More

Talentless Technophobe

As you may have noticed this Bogan Blog is bigger, better and more bogan than ever.

I am responsible for the 'more bogan' bit and my brother is responsible for the 'better' bit.

The bigger part, I just made up. It's still the exact same size as far as I can tell.

I have a new header. Thanks to my brother. He is talented.

"If you don't like it, let me know," he said " it only took me five minutes."

Bastard.

You see, I can't even draw stick figures.  You'd think that mother nature would have balanced it out a little and given me a few artistic genes as well. But no, my greedy brother took all of them. Hmph.

There are many more ridiculously artistically talented people in my extended family, so clearly this is genetic trait.  So why did this part of the gene pool bypass me completely?

Not that it deters Mr 4.

"Muuum! Draw Spiderman!" he demands, thrusting pen and paper at me.  My attempts are pitiful. This does not stop him from returning with further demands, each one more complicated than the next.  After Spiderman, he'll want Green Goblin. Then, characters and space ships from Star Wars that he has in lego sets. All way beyond me. 

As well as having zero artistic talent, I am also an astonishing technophobe.

Just using Blogger leaves me in a perpetual state of confusion, causing massive brain explosions. As my Mum says, if my brains were dynamite they wouldn't blow a part in my hair. (She has lots of other funny sayings too but I'll save them for another post.)

Walking home from school the other week Master 11 enquired hopefully:

"Mum, can I get an Iphone?"

" I don't even have an Iphone!" was my indignant reply.

Impervious he continued "Can I get an Ipod for Christmas? Or an Ipad?"

I don't have those either.  We are such a technologically deprived family.  It's quite tragic. 

If we ever do end up purchasing such gadgets, I may never work out how to use them. Or, by the time I do they are already out dated as the next model has usurped them.

That's the problem. Technology changes so fast, it's hard to keep up.  Especially for a technophobe.

I fear my boys will grow up and I will not have documented every second of their existence with photos, videos etc.  After all, shouldn't I have uploaded every cute thing they have ever said or done to Youtube?

Instead I miss photo opportunities on a regular basis. Despite charging up the camera, I turn it on only to have the red light blinking frantically at me.  This happened when I took Mr4 to Featherdale Wild Life Park last term with Playgroup. Consequently I missed a chance for a cute snap of Mr 4 with a koala and other animals.

This photo has no relevance to this post whatsoever,
I just don't have any current photos, of course. Oh, shut up.

Undeterred, I charged it again before our recent bogan road trip. Again, same thing. No go. This means there is no photographic evidence of our trip.

The only positive side is having no photographic evidence of my double chins. Bonus.

It strikes me as absurdly ironic.  As an introverted Aspergian I'm supposed to be a techie geek. I should have computer skills and knowledge of a genius like level rivalled only by Bill Gates, a suspected Aspergian himself.

Since my diagnosis I have been trying to work out what genius like talent or savant skill I possess, as many Aspergians are reputed to have them.   I have come up with: NOTHING.

I guess I can always  comfort myself with the knowledge that not being able to purchase or work out a computer, camera, phone or any gadget pretty much falls into the category of First World Problems.

Besides, my alarming lack of skills and talent will never stop me from banging on here in this boring as batshit bogan blog. So ner.

Do you have artistic talent? Are you a technophobe? (Somebody please say yes...)

Read More

Heavens To Betsy Part Two

Yes, I murdered  my beautiful Betsy.  I'm not evil!  But I feel like I am.

One night there was a ferocious electrical storm.  Knowing how timid Betsy was, I should have realised she'd be absolutely beside her beagle self with terror.  I really should have let her inside or locked her in the laundry.

While Jake darted around the back yard barking back at the thunder with equal force (nothing scared that dog) , Betsy barrelled her way in through the lattice works and in under the house to hide.

Jake: he lived until he was 17, yapping away..

The next day, the storm abated. Betsy lay on the ground exhausted. Or so we thought. Until it became obvious something was really wrong.

"There's something wrong with Betsy," Mick told me, his face creased with concern "just keep an eye on her." He left for work.

I went outside and stroked her. She wagged her tail feebly.  Hours later, she was dead.

Poisoned. She'd eaten some baits left under the house, which were meant for rodents.

Betsy loved her food. She was a sweet and timid creature who loved her food. I've heard that pets are sometimes like their owners.  I had better be careful I don't eat my way to my demise like poor, beautiful Betsy.

Betsy: RIP Beautiful girl..and..forgive me..*sobs*

I walked around for weeks feeling like a murderer who should be sentenced and hung for killing my defenceless pet. 

Jake yapped his way into old age and finally gave his last yap at age 17. Which, in dog years is.. really OLD.

Some time later the boys talked Mick into getting them a bunny.  They named him George.

George got out of his rabbit hutch everday. Every. Single. Day. The doorbell would ring.

"Your rabbit's out!" a neighbourhood kid would announce. Then I would be obliged to chase the rabbit around the yard and up and down the street. I could never catch him.

Oneday he was gone for good. Rabbit stew presumably. Or somebody took him. Not sure. I was (secretly relieved) saddened and dismayed. 

There have also been goldfish too numerous to mention.

We are now the proud owners of a lorrikeet named Henry. Which I was supposed to feed and look after.

I did it a few times when he was in a cage, then promptly forgot once Micky Blue Eyes put him in the aviary with his finches. Oops.

Maybe I'm not meant to have a pet. The only one that has survived is my Pet Rock. If you've never had one then you obviously were not a child of the 70's.

My Pet Rock lives on still at my parents house. See, I am a good pet owner. As long as I don't have to feed them. 

Now, my pesky children are demanding food, so I guess I should feed them.

And they'll be getting an ipod (or something that doesn't require feeding) for Christmas.

Read More

Heavens To Betsy

I'm linking up this oldie for today's I Must Confess and Laugh Link. Even though it's not particularly funny, the old photos of me as a girl are worthy of at least a snort.  It's a tale about pets and the one where I confess to being a murderer.....

Before you call the police, read on....

With Christmas fast approaching my boys already have a comprehensive list of presents they wish to receive from Santa.  Top of the list is a dog.

"Can we get a dog?" Mr 3 pleaded, eyes shining with hope "Pleeease!"

 Mr 11 looked on innocently, having coached his brother to ask the question.

I gave the usual evasive answer that you do when you really mean no: "We'll see." 

Mr 3 pouted, crestfallen. 

"But why can't we get a dog?!" Mr 11 wailed, blowing his cover.

 "We used to have dogs," he reminded me.

I know.  That may be the reason why I am reluctant to go there again.  It's not that I don't like dogs. I do. Well, some of them.

 I'm not a great fan of gigantic horse-like dogs. Or tiny little over grown rat-like yappers. But some dogs are okay. 

Growing up we always had sausage dogs.  A black and tan one called Samantha.  I named her that after Samantha from Bewitched.

 Sammy was a wise, comical old woman in the body of a dachshund.  That dog was whip smart.  A kindred spirit. I adored her.

Sadly, she fell victim to the fate of many a sausage dog. She had back problems which couldn't be fixed and eventually she had to be put down.

The whole family were devastated, as if we had lost a person.  She was such a one of a kind dog that we resisted replacing her for a few years.




Right: Sammy and I, chillaxing in the groovy 70's Left: Me, Penny and Skippa

Then, when I was teenager, we got another sausage dog, Skippa. Then
Penny. Skippa and Penny had puppies.  I loved those dogs so much.

Of course I never had to deal with the difficult side of owning a dog.  My parents (read my Mum) took care of all that. Scooping poop, washing, grooming, de-worming and treating for fleas. 

I just enjoyed the cuddles and comfort of having a canine friend to pet and coddle. 

Years after Penny and Skippa were departed my parents possessed a beautiful beagle named Maggie.  By now I was married and not living at home.  They decided to let Maggie have pups. I wanted one.

I had to convince Micky Blue Eyes.

"I'll clean up after her," I promised. I never did it once. Oops.

Now, we also had Jake.  Jake was a little overgrown rat-like yapper black terrier cross. We were never sure what the cross was. 

Jake and I had a love/hate relationship. I loved him, but hated his tendency to yap. I wanted another kindred spirit dog like Sammy.

Enter Betsy the beagle. Daughter of Maggie. She was beautiful. Gentle. Kind. Adorable. Timid.

And I murdered her.

Yes, I murdered  my beautiful Betsy.  I'm not evil!  But I feel like I am.

One night there was a ferocious electrical storm.  Knowing how timid Betsy was, I should have realised she'd be absolutely beside her beagle self with terror.  I really should have let her inside or locked her in the laundry.

While Jake darted around the back yard barking back at the thunder with equal force (nothing scared that dog) , Betsy barreled her way in through the lattice works and in under the house to hide.

Jake: he lived until he was 17, yapping away..

The next day, the storm abated. Betsy lay on the ground exhausted. Or so we thought. Until it became obvious something was really wrong.

"There's something wrong with Betsy," Mick told me, his face creased with concern "just keep an eye on her." He left for work.

I went outside and stroked her. She wagged her tail feebly.  Hours later, she was dead.

Poisoned. She'd eaten some baits left under the house, which were meant for rodents.

Betsy loved her food. She was a sweet and timid creature who loved her food. I've heard that pets are sometimes like their owners.  I had better be careful I don't eat my way to my demise like poor, beautiful Betsy.

Betsy: RIP Beautiful girl..and..forgive me..*sobs*

I walked around for weeks feeling like a murderer who should be sentenced and hung for killing my defenceless pet.

Jake yapped his way into old age and finally gave his last yap at age 17. Which, in dog years is.. really OLD.

Some time later the boys talked Mick into getting them a bunny.  They named him George.

George got out of his rabbit hutch everyday. Every. Single. Day. The doorbell would ring.

"Your rabbit's out!" a neighbourhood kid would announce. Then I would be obliged to chase the rabbit around the yard and up and down the street. I could never catch him.

One day he was gone for good. Rabbit stew presumably. Or somebody took him. Not sure. I was secretly relieved saddened and dismayed.

There have also been goldfish too numerous to mention.

We are now the proud owners of a lorrikeet named Henry. Which I was supposed to feed and look after.

I did it a few times when he was in a cage, then promptly forgot once Micky Blue Eyes put him in the aviary with his finches. Oops.

Maybe I'm not meant to have a pet. The only one that has survived is my Pet Rock. If you've never had one then you obviously were not a child of the 70's.

Not my actual pet rock, but you get the idea.

My Pet Rock lives on still at my parents house. See? I am a good pet owner. As long as I don't have to feed them. Ahem.

Fast forward to now and we finally have another dog!  I promise not to murder her! Shut up.

Her named is Cookie, as decided by Mr 10. We adopted her from an animal shelter. After only a week or so, she already seems like a part of our family. 

Do you have any pets? Please tell me I'm not the only one is old enough to have owned a Pet Rock???

Read More

Meep Meep

Today I am linking up this past confession with My Home Truths for I Must Confess. Thanks to Kirsty for hosting the link up and giving me the opportunity to take part!

Now to the stunning revelation(s):

I have a confession to make. More like two confessions to be honest. The first startling revelation is that I have actually been watching Big Brother.

Gasp! Shock! Horror!

It's purely for research of course.  After all, I have to keep up my reputation as a Bogan for the sake of this blog. That's one excuse. The other is that it's my bonding time with Master 11. Where once I used to dance around to the Wiggles with him, now we watch Big Brother together. The things we do. He totally forces me. He does! Oh, shut up.

Besides, watching a bunch of gregarious people who love the sound of their own voice and seek attention in the form of cameras on them 24/7 is oddly fascinating to me.  Perhaps because I am the polar opposite. An intensely shy, introverted Aspergian who flees in alarm at the sight of any form of camera. 

I destest drawing attention to myself.  In fact, I just realised that I haven't had a photo taken of myself since March. As for talking, well, let's just say that conversation skills are definitely not my strong point. Slight understatement. That's like saying that sensitivity is not really Alan Jones's strong point.

Anyway, I was getting to a point with my revelation, and that was to my second revelation.  The house mates on Big Brother invented the expression of a 'Meeper.' This is meant to describe a person who doesn't really fit into a group as such, so they kind of 'meep' or hover around conversations, then ineffectually try to join in.  However, somehow it doesn't quite work for them, so it's almost as they've just gone: "Meep Meep!"  Inevitably, Meepers seem to end up draining and dampening a conversation instead of keeping it flowing.

My point is, watching this, I realised that I am probably something resembling a 'Meeper'.  Worse still, I am not even particularly good at 'meeping' As I've mentioned conversation skills are not my forte.  Particularly in groups.

Whenever I take Master 3 to Playgroup, I suspect I 'meep'.  I awkwardly hover around conversations taking place, utterly clueless as to how to join in.

I'm a Meeper like Road Runner,
shame I can't run fast like him too.

Finally, not wishing to appear totally aloof, I make a fumbling attempt to say something, but never overcome the awkward feeling that I am, as they say on Big Brother, 'meeping'.

This probably has a lot to do with two things:

1. My shyness
2. My Asperger's

Since having children, though, I have to regularly be in situations that require making small talk.  Something that, as a shy, introverted Aspie I am seriously woeful at. Hence my 'meeping'.  Sometimes, however, it becomes even worse.

Take for instance, the time I took Master 8 to a McDonald's party for a school friend.  What was hours of Happy Meal filled fun for him, was excruciating for me. I was forced to sit with all the other Mum's and make chit chat.

It all started okay with banal comments on the weather and how the year was flying by. Then, the conversation took a serious turn when one Mum remarked that a friend of hers had recently suffered a late miscarraige but had still had to deliver the baby as the pregnancy was so advanced.

"Imagine having do that," she said, her eyes wide with horror "I don't think I could do it! It would be so awful!"

"Yeah, it is," I responded "that happened to me."

Her eyes widened further. She gaped in disbelief, obviously wishing the floor would open up and swallow her. But she could never have known. Trust me to drob a  bombshell and kill a conversation.

Another time, a Mum at Playgroup confided how worried she was as her father was in hospital having various tests. I helpfully shared how Micky Blue Eyes had had cancer, while her worried expression turned to one of blind panic. Realising my mistake, I hastily apologised. But it was too late.

I truly mean well, it's just that I have terminal foot in mouth disease combined with 'meeping'. I'm a 'Foot in Mouth Meeper'.

So, to avoid such social gaffes I usually stick firmly to what I do best. Shutting right up. That, or, where I once used to be extremely self-concious about eating in public, I now enthusiastically shovel food into my mouth at social occasions. After all, it's rude to speak with your mouth full, right? As long as I keep shovelling I don't have to talk.

I'm unsure if it's too late to cure my 'meeping' and general social awkwardness. All the literature I have read regarding social skills in ASD seems to be directed at children.  So, at the mature age of 41, am I stuck with my 'Foot in Mouth Meeping' tendencies? I guess so, since the only answer I have is this:

Meep Meep.

Do you 'Meep'? Say the wrong things? Or are you the king or queen of chit chat?

Read More