On hobbies and why I don't vlog

For many years I have wished that I had different hobbies and interests. My top four desirable interests would be:

• Sport
• Gardening
• Cooking
• Sewing

I feel that if you spend time doing the above activities then at least you have something to show for it. Meanwhile the type of passive things I do make it seem like I'm just a lazy-arsed time-wasting biatch.

These are:

• Reading
• Writing
• Blogging
• Listening to music
• Obsessing over Karen Carpenter
• Mindless web surfing and Facebook scrolling
• Aerobics

The only one that is actually helpful in life is doing aerobics. Yet somehow I never seem to look or act like those annoyingly perky and ripped aerobics instructors. Weird.

Out of all of those desired hobbies I potentially could become interested in cooking. After all, I do love food and eating. It's just that there is a certain level of organisational skill and multi-tasking that is necessary. I do not possess these attributes. Hello, self-diagnosed ADD. The internet doesn't lie, does it?

I have made some tasty chicken soup recently and some other Weight Witchy stuff. But what I really like is: CAKIES. 

However, I won't take up baking. Because if I did bake cakes then I would eat them. ALL of them. I couldn't stop at one. The only way I can avoid temptation is to never have the temptation there in the first place.


What else was I going to say?

Did I mention that I think I have ADD?

Anyway, what I was going to say before I lost my train of thought was, I basically still like all the same things I liked when I was 12.  It's comforting to know I haven't matured beyond a tween. On the other hand, I liked Nanna music (Carpenters), so maybe I was just a really mature 12 year old? Yeah, it must be that. Ahead of my time. Wisdom beyond my years and all that. Yep, totally that. 

Today I was actually supposed to be talking about vlogs. (A vlog is a video blog for the uninitiated). Specifically if I've ever made one. I haven't. Which is interesting, since I call blogging my  hobby. I didn't say I was actually any good at any of these hobbies, did I?

The reasons I've never vlogged are simple:

• I don't know how.
• I'm shy.
• I don't speak much above a whisper.
• I wouldn't know what to talk about.
• I'm strikingly beautiful and it would just make everyone jealous. 

It's possible that I made the last one up. Using possible in the sense of totally clear. Just so we're...um, clear.

However, I will put vlogging on my list of things to do in an attempt to push myself out of my comfort zone and blogging rut.

Not that these posts of me rambling on about nothing aren't totally fascinating and entertaining. Pffffft. Of course they are! It's just that I could mix it up a bit. I could verbally ramble on a video for a change. As soon as I have a personality transplant. To say I'm not particularly chatty in person is a slight understatement. Using slight in the sense of... Um, whatever the opposite of slight is. Huge? 

But getting back to hobbies. I've never been good at any of those desirable hobbies or skills because I'm a daydreamer.  It's not very handy when you're off with the pixies and a ball darts by your vacant face. For some reason, team mates become incensed. Can't think why. It's only a game. Sniff. 

Which leads me to another point. I don't really like any sort of games. Sport games, card games, board games, PS4, XBox, and just games, really. And although I'm a Facebook fan, I don't do Candy Crush or Farmville or any sort of Ville. (Yes, I'm still in Boganville, but shhhhhh, don't tell anyone). No games for this girl. 

Maybe I really am just totally anti-social? Who knows? I'm definitely not the competitive type. So I don't really have any intense urge to win or see the point of it all. Shrugs. 

When it comes to gardening, I think I'm more of an indoors person.  In fact I went outside into the sun yesterday, blinking and confused by the brightness.  I should probably get out more. 

As far as sewing goes, I guess I'm just too impatient and again, inclined to daydream. There was also the infamous Sewing Of The Finger Incident Of 1983 when I was in Year 7. I think it hurt, from my vague memory. Plus, I've always been totally spoiled and pampered by my Mum who rocks the whole cooking and sewing thing. There was no need to do it myself. Ahem. 

But it's all good because I can read, write and blog like a boss. Am I right? Rhetorical question. Please don't answer. I'm also very good at being delusional daydreaming. Winning!

I also know the lyrics to every Carpenters song ever recorded and every intricate detail of Karen Carpenter's life right down to her autopsy report. Yes, I'm deranged. This is baffling because when it comes to celebrities and celebrity gossip I have zero interest. In fact, I have no idea who half of the modern day celebrities and recording artists even are. Did I mention I'm weird? 

Okay, this weirdo is done here for now. 

Linking up for I Must Confess, Open Slather and Mummy Mondays.


Have you ever vlogged? Which hobbies do you wish you enjoyed?

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Me Again

I'm just checking in here again. It's been a while. However, after reading my last post I definitely sounded a tad unhinged, so it was probably a good thing that I stepped away from the internet/keyboard for a while. Awkward. 

Besides, I have absolutely nothing at all to say. Not a thing. Much like in real life. At least I'm consistent with some things.

Um, what can I say? Oh yeah. Comfort zones. I've actually been busy doing stuff away from the internet lately. Plus, I don't really have a laptop anymore and it's impossible for me to blog with a phone. That's why I've been missing in action from here. Anyway, nobody really noticed. Sniff.

Yes, I've been well and truly out of my comfort zone of late. First of all, I started going to a writing group. In this group I have to read what I write out loud. That is well and truly out of my comfort zone. Fortunately, everybody is very supportive in the group.

Second of all, I'm also doing a Tafe course two days a week. This means actually leaving the house and being around those scary things called people. I don't know what it is going to eventuate from this. I think about the possibly of getting a job and feel physically ill. Not because I'm not keen to work. I am. It's just because of the dreaded old job interview thing.

I've probably mentioned this before (about three paragraphs ago and in every other post), but I'm not really very good at talking. It seems that they actually expect you to say something during interviews. So weird. Also, I can't make eye contact. I expect this is in part because of shyness, but also because I have Asparagus Syndrome.  If you don't make eye contact during interviews people think you're hiding something or are a serial killer waiting to happen. Or something. So, we'll see. Watch this space.

Meanwhile, Mickey Blue Eyes has taken the boys to the movies so I'm enjoying some quiet time and lap top time. The school holidays whizzed by despite having nothing planned. We did visit with relatives and caught up with friends, which is good enough for me. I'm one of those bizarre individuals who likes to stay home. The feeling of waking up in the morning and having NOTHING planned is pure bliss for me. Yep, I'm boring.

It occurred to me yesterday that being such a homebody while simultaneously being a such spectacularly shite housekeeper is another one of those strange but fascinating contradictions about me.

The weather around here has been batshit crazy lately.  Is it batshit or bat shit? One word or two? Not sure. I must admit I do love a rainy day occasionally but this is ridiculous. Yesterday Mickey Blue Eyes left with the boys to go to a Wanderers game. Not long after he left it started pelting down. I dashed outside to bring the washing in. As soon as I opened the back door Cookie (our dog) bolted inside, beside herself. I only just made it back inside with the washing before it began hailing.

I sat in my rocking chair near the front window with Cookie in my lap watching the hail. This is not very interesting, but I can't make stuff up. I'm not Belle Gibson. Thankfully. Silly woman.

After the hail storm abated, I booted Cookie back outside (yep, I'm mean) and decided to do aerobics. By this stage I'd chugged down a rather large scotch and coke. To my surprise I discovered that tipsy aerobics is fun! And yes, I can get tipsy on only one drink.

I'm as fit and agile as Denise freaking Austin when I'm tipsy! Bring on those grapevines!

I had just gotten to the cool down when Mick and the boys burst back in the front door sodden and sullen. They'd abandoned the game after it was delayed in the wet weather. Mercifully, they had managed to miss the worst of the hail, so there was no damage on our car.

Yesterday morning I woke up with a headache and sore throat. The boys have been rather thoughtfully sharing their Man Colds. In other riveting news, I was supposed to go to the dentist this morning but I still have a sore throat and a Little Man who deserves an Oscar. He's home from school after complaining of a stomach ache, but seems perfectly fine now. You'd think that almost 14 years into this parenting thing I wouldn't fall for these shenanigans. Sigh.

On a final note, this turned up in my Facebook and I thought I would leave you with it because we could all do with some motivation on a Monday. Especially those of us who are massive introverts and would rather stay in bed under the covers.

Have a great week!

Linking up for I Must Confess.

When was the last time you were out of your comfort zone?

Batshit or bat shit?

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Let It Go

I'm not sure if I can pin point one specific moment in my life that stands out above others. There was no moment when I could have chosen two different paths. I never really had any path. I just drifted along in my own little World. This has worked out well since I now have this space specifically for being in my own little World. See? I knew being a drifting daydreamer was a great Life Plan. Ahem.

It sounds a bit naff to say it, but probably the day that I first found out I was pregnant does stand out for me. It's a long story.  Suffice to say, I was already 26 weeks pregnant and had NO IDEA. But I was thrilled. For years I had believed that it could never happen. That day was better than winning the lottery. I wish I could bottle that kind of euphoria and sell it because I'd be a freaking millionaire.

While becoming a Mother was genuinely thrilling to me and I wouldn't trade it for anything, little did I know the sacrifices that were coming.

 In short, I have completely and utterly let myself go.

There was a time when I used to love dressing up. Donning a lovely frock was one of my favourite past times. Usually they were sewn by my Mum. I loved myself sick in these frocks. These days I hardly ever wear dresses.

Similarly, I enjoyed going to the hairdressers and whittling away several hours and a fair amount of cash to have my hair done. Although why I thought the mullet-perm was ever going to be a good idea back in 1987 remains a mystery.

I liked to wear make-up and would paint my face up with gusto.  I never realised that I was over-doing the eye shadow. Tragically, I believed that green or purple eye shadow were a good look, but at least I was making an effort.

Despite these efforts I've always had an aversion to high heels and pantyhose. I would occasionally wear them, though. Now they are like my once tiny waist - non-existent in my World. Sigh.

Yes, I certainly have let myself completely 'go'.

I know this because:

• I haven't seen the inside of a Hairdressers since....never mind....
• I'm looking forward to embracing my inner Prue or True and having a silver bob or pixie cut because I CAN'T BE BOTHERED ANYMORE.
• I have clothes in at least three different sizes. I convince myself that the larger ones clearly have the wrong label on them. Ahem.
• The real reason I have three different sizes is because most of my clothes are stretchy, floaty, elastic waisted or tunics etc.
• The rare times I do actually slap a bit of war paint on for a night out my son enquires in perplexed tones: Why have you got make-up on?
• I took a selfie or two for the first time ever, but only after carefully checking for poses that don't emphasise my double chin. Okay, chins.
• I often seethe inside at the injustice of how much easier it is to be a man. So much so, that I've seriously considered just shaving my hair off and wearing Micky Blue Eyes' clothes out to the shops. After all, these days I can manage to sport quite an impressive moustache, so I may get away with it. Until I speak. But it could be quite amusing to see the check out chick's reaction. No?
• The only clothes I buy are from 'Nanna' stores like Millers or the fat plus section at Best & Less. Classy.
• My skin care routine consists of slathering on a bit of sunscreen if ever I should log off the computer and emerge blinking and bewildered into the sunshine.  I may whack on a bit of the old Oil Of Olay once a week or so when I notice my sand-paper like skin.
• I wear make-up so infrequently that I appear to have developed an allergic reaction to it. As soon I apply the slightest amount, my eyes sting and water like crazy. Or I could just be weeping that there is no miracle cream to disguise double chins.
• I am clueless about the meaning of words like 'threading' and 'shellac' and have to Google them.
• I am baffled by the apparent burning urge of every woman in Australia to want to dress like Nina Proudman despite being a fan of Offspring.
• I look back at old photographs of myself and am astounded that I wasted so much energy thinking I was fat when I wasn't. Immediately a foreboding feeling washes over me that I may be looking back at current photos ten years from now and thinking the same thing. *shudders*

• If I posted an Outfit Of The Day, as some bloggers do, it would mostly be an alluring mix and match of joggers, track suit or yoga pants, jumper or polar fleece jacket.
• I never actually do yoga in the afore mentioned yoga pants. Shut up. I do aerobics in them. So ner.
• I still need to wear these items despite jumping around like a lunatic doing aerobics on a virtually daily basis. *sobs*
• I have never worn skinny jeans. See above.
• I believe all jeans are over-rated.

After writing this list I feel like a cup of tea and a good lie down. What I really need is a good long look in the mirror and to get a grip. On something other than cake. That might be handy.

Linking up for Laugh Link and I Must Confess.

Have you let yourself 'go'?

What moment in time would you go back to?

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Bumps To Baby Part Two

This week's Lounge topic is adult temper tantrums, so I am linking this old post about the time I slapped my own mother. I know. Shameful. I blame hormones. Ahem.

It seems like the years of trying to have a baby are now the Wilderness Years or the Forgotten Years. I'm trying hard to remember them and I seem to have blocked quite a bit of it out. Weird.

After receiving the devastating news that IVF was our only chance of a baby, we put off making a decision for a while.  I wasn't sure if I could face another Linda Blair/Exorcist experience.

I remember having some rather irrational thoughts.  I thought Micky Blue Eyes should leave me and find someone else.  After all, the problem was with my plumbing, not his. 

Then, a friend of Mick's suggested we visit a naturopath.  This had worked out well for them and they were currently expecting after having seen her for a few months.  I was horrified and indignant. How dare these people come along with their hippy drippy new age theories that were not going to work for me. The professor dude had said IVF was my only chance. However, Mick was keen on the idea, so, I reluctantly agreed.

Next thing you know we were both swallowing some hideous herbal concotions, taking vitamins and eating healthy.  I was charting my temperatures to predict ovulation.  All to no avail.  We trotted backwards and forwards to the naturopath and persisted for a good year. Nothing. 

At this point, she informed us.  "I'm sorry, it should have worked by now. You might have to do IVF."  Gee, thanks.

Proving how desperate we were by this stage, however, we decided to try another hippy drippy  alternative treatment. We went to a Reflexologist. And no, I can't explain what they are, or do, even though I've been to one. There seemed to be a lot of tapping involved. The woman tapped away while Mick I gave each other pointed looks. We never went back.

Around this time, I started to read as much info on this pesky PCOS thing as I could find.  The thing that seemed to come up a lot in all the literature was that exercising was of extreme importance in managing the condition.

So I gritted my teeth and started to exercise.  I kept on exercising, even though I thought I might explode and die from the effort.  I did aerobics like a possessed woman. I sweated buckets. It sucked. Still, I woke up the next day and did it again.  Then a funny thing happened.  I started to like it. I hardly ever missed a day. 

I had a body like Denise Austin. Well not really, but I
did used to have hair like that...

Then, an even funnier thing happened.  The girl who'd been absolutely hopeless at anything sporty or physical, and was a total unco-ordinated klutz suddenly found herself becoming *gasp* an Exercise Addict. I LOVED it.  I knew all the annoying things Denise Austin would say on the tapes before she said them, I was so familiar with them.

"If you rest you rust!"

"If you don't move it, you lose it!"

Oh, and apparently I was always 'doing great!' and a 'champion' though I'm not sure how she knew that.

Not surprisingly, with all this exercising and eating healthy stuff, I dropped a few kilos.  Funny about that. Eat less. Move more. Lose weight. Hmm, not exactly rocket science. I'll never understand  why mother nature or whomever couldn't work it out so lazing about eating cakies could have the same effect. Hmph.

I also went back to doing some casual library work and secured a 12 month position with a law firm in the city. If I was never going to have a baby, I may as well work, I reasoned.

My 30th birthday rolled around. I went out and celebrated with friends, where I whined about not being able to have a baby with other friends in a similar circumstance. Not a particularly classy thing to do, when you are already, in fact, well and truly, up the duff. But, I swear to God. I seriously had NO IDEA. 

A month or two later, still firmly in the grip of Exercise Addiction, I attended a friend's hen's night. I wondered why my clothes were becoming too tight. And why I felt extremely ill after only a few drinks.

Additionally, all the energy I was now used to having from my Exercise Addiction seemed to have deserted me and I found it a herculean task to simply put one foot in front of the other. My boobs were permanently sore and my periods had disappeared.

All common symptoms of PCOS according to all the info on it I'd been reading.  It couldn't be anything else.  I'd tried for years to become pregnant. Even fertility drugs didn't work and the professor dude said IVF was my only chance.

So, when my poor mother had the audicity to gently suggest that perhaps I might be pregnant, I turned into a shrieking, shouty, insane woman, who slapped her own mother in the face (sorry Mum)  and sunk onto the floor in a sobbing heap.

Upon hearing this, Micky Blue Eyes had had quite enough of my moodiness. I suspect I was rather unpleasant to live with really. (Sorry, Micky) He made me go with Mum to the doctor's the very next day.

At the doctors surgery, he had me lie on the bed and examined me. My belly suddenly looked ridiculously huge compared to the rest of me, when I lay down.

 "It looks like you're pregnant," he told me. It was like he was saying: "It looks like an alien has invaded your body and presently will burst out of your torso, like Sigourney Weaver in ALIEN" for all the sense it made to me. No way, I wasn't pregnant. "But  you better have an ultra sound to make sure."

A few hours later I went in for an ultra-sound. The examiner squirted the gel on my suddenly ridiculously huge belly and started prodding me and saying nonsensical things in her Asian accent. I thought it sounded something like 'oh yes, there's the head, and the arms..." What?! It really was an alien?!

  "I'm pregnant??!!" I finally managed to gasp. The woman looked completely startled. "Yes, yes! Pregnant, 26 weeks! You didn't know?"

All I could do was laugh and cry hysterically at the same time, while the Asian lady kept repeating "26 week! And didn't know! Ha ha ha ha!" I'd like to think she was laughing with me, but I suspect she wasn't. She also mentioned the baby was a boy without asking if I wanted to know, which was slightly inconsiderate.

Still laughing and crying, hysterically, I finally went out and told my ecstatic Mum she was becoming a Granny again in only a few months! Then, I rang Mick.

"Hello Dad," I said, when he answered.
"No, no it's Mick, " he said "you haven't rang  your father."
"I know!" I replied.

We all went out for dinner that night to celebrate. It felt better than winning lotto.  Well, I've never actually won lotto, so if that could be arranged so I can tell for sure, I probably wouldn't mind.

Lotus flower: pretty, but not helpful during Child birth

3 months or so later our son (now Master 11) was born, but I won't describe the birth. If I did, I would end up sounding like one of those awful hippy drippy new agers who just use the power of positive thinking while imagining their uterus opening up like a lotus flower. Ugh. Hate them. After all, epidurals were invented for a reason, right?

But I never had one. Or any pain relief, for that matter. Yep, that's right. I was TERRIFIED of child birth and I aced it. After a 3 month pregnancy. You can hate me if you want. Okay, I'm shutting up now.

Hang on. One more thing. Obviously I have 3 boys now. All conceived naturally. So, the Professor dude was wrong. That, or I just finally figured out what caused it...

Right, I'm off to dig out those Denise Austin tapes to see if I can become addicted to exercise again, instead of cakies.  After all, if  you rest you rust.

Linking up with The Lounge which is being hosted this week by Robomum.

What was your worst adult temper tantrum?

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A Day In The Life Of A Mad Boganville Housewife Part Two

As promised here is Part Two of the gripping saga that is my life.  Read on for drama, suspense and intruige.

PART TWO

Micky Blue Eyes has now returned and I am booted from the computer.  What to do now?   There are several truck loads of washing to be put away.  This strikes me as tedious, so I flick the tv on for entertainment while folding. 

First channel.  Infomercial about funeral plans. Too depressing, as I realise I don't really wish to plan for my death.

 Flick to the next channel.  Infomercial about miracle weight loss programme and exercise gadget.  Too depressing, as I realise I desperately need to lose weight. 

Flick to the next channel.  Infomercial about some wonder mop that will make mopping effortless, leaving all floors gleaming.  Too depressing, as I realise that the highlight of my day may involve mopping my filthy floors.  And there will nothing remotely wonderous about it.

Sighing, I switch off the tv.  Haphazardly, I start folding clothes.  On closer scrutiny it appears that most of them require a hideous process known as ironing.  This strikes me as tedious, so I convince myself the crumpled look is in and put them away as they are.

Then, I survey the living room.  There are toys everywhere.  In order to vacuum/mop I will need to clear approximately 20 tonnes of clutter.  Bugger that.   I procrastinate by making another cup of tea. 

Mick is still working away on the computer.  He starts talking to me about something Accountant-like as the kettle boils.  I try to not to look bored.  I retreat into the bedroom with my tea.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I flip through my biography on Karen Carpenter for the millionth time and zone out.  Seems like only ten minutes go by but possibly an hour later, I glance up and catch sight of myself in the mirrored wardrobe.  I have a disgusting roll of belly flab, thunder thighs and a humongous double chin.  I am horrified.

Grimly, I pull on my holy joggers (as in they have holes in them, not as in they are sacred) and put on an exercise dvd. Within minutes, several pert, patronising aerobics instructors are beaming at me from the tv screen, looking scarily fit and promising me I too will have rock hard abs, buns of steel and melt away pounds if I work out with them.  So I do.

I begin the warm up, marching valiantly.  This is okay, I think, happily.  The pace picks up.  I start sweating.  The scary women bounce along effortlessly.  "You're doing great!" she shouts.  Why don't I feel so great?

"Time for some push ups!"  she announces as cheerfully as I would announce "Time to sit down with a cup of tea and a cakie!"
"Drop and give me twenty!"   Bugger that.  I jog on the spot instead.  I puff and pant.  Bugger that.  I march on the spot instead. 

Scary Woman bounces back up again.  "Now, go and get your Fanny Lifter. " she says.

My what??

"Position yourself over the Fanny Lifter."  Ummmm...okaay.  It appears to be some kind of bench/step thingy.  I improvise and do the squats without one.  Then we are huffing and puffing again.

There are several more references to the Fanny Lifter, which strikes me as a completely ludicrous name for an exercise gadget, so I am too busy laughing to exercise properly.  I improvise as best I can for several more minutes, before giving up and skipping to the cool down section.  At least I have managed to break a sweat, I tell myself, as well as make my head pound in earnest.

I swallow some painkillers and head for the shower.  Once there, I recoil in revulsion at the state and smell of the bathroom.  Might have to pull out the tub of Gumption first.  I half-heartedly give it a once over, then take a shower.  That done, my stomach growls.  Lunch time.

I then proceed to sabotage all my exercise effort by making Mick and I ham and cheese toasties. Then guiltily gobble a biscuit or other sweet treat with a cup of tea after the sandwich. 

There are several truck loads of washing up to be done.  This strikes me as tedious, so I dart back to the computer as Mick has disappeared outside for a few minutes.  I check my Facebook again. Yep, I am still a crashing, heaving bore compared to everyone else.

Mick comes back inside armed with yet another giant basket of washing from the line that I eye wearily.  He comments on the glorious weather and how it just makes him want to jump in the car and drive to Darwin. I try not to look alarmed.

Dismally, I do the dishes, wondering what to have for dinner.  I get the chops out.  Seemingly only 15 minutes have gone by but it is already time to get the boys. I set of to get Master 3 while Mick goes to get the other two.  This is the true highlight of the day, for when Master 3 sees me he his little face lights up, he runs to me joyfully, and I scoop him up in a big bear hug.  We head home.

Mick and the boys are back.  "Hi Mum," says Master 8, looking around dubiously "what did you do today?"

"Muuuum!" Master 10 shouts, already in his recliner/throne. "Can you make me a cup of tea?"

Stay tuned for Part Three, the stunning conclusion.  Coming soon.

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