Cakie Queen

Well, today's confession is perfect for me. The self-confessed Queen Of Cakies. Actually it's not much of a confession. It's old news. Anybody who has ever read this space knows I'm the Cakie Queen.

I love cake but it doesn't seem to like me. It appears to want to make me fat. How frightfully RUDE. The same phenomenon applies to my other weakness: chocolate. It really is quite unfair that this love affair is unrequited. Sniff. 

It has also become a clandestine affair. Forbidden fruit and all that. Over a year ago the not very surprising shocking news came that my cholesterol levels were a concern. Additionally, my blood sugar was somewhat borderline. This would have indicated that I should have dutifully started the I Quit Sugar programme, pronto.

Instead, I embarked on the I Don't Really Want To Quit Sugar So  I'll Pretend That Didn't Happen Programme. This involves inserting ones head in ones posterior. Then compromising your health by continuing in much the same vein, but with an extra dollop of guilt. As if the guilt I already had wasn't quite enough, thanks very much. Yes, I'm very mature.

After all, the days of being able to take the 'Mars a day' advertising slogan quite literally(which I did as a teen), were well and truly behind me decades ago.

Feeling foolish, and thinking I needed a massive kick up my afore- mentioned rather large posterior, I signed up for the Get Healthy Programme. You know the one. They advertise it on the telly in between all the ads for Maccas and Magnums. You have a telephone coach call every week to guide you on a path to healthy eating.

Apparently, I seem to have confused it with the Get Unhealthy Programme. I have made some improvements. I'm cooking a lot more healthy meals for the family. But my sugar addiction remains intact. Sigh.

I appear to be one of those folk whose only arsenal against avoiding temptation (especially of the cake shaped variety) is simply never having the temptation in front of me. Ever.

Easy peasy.

All I need to do is avoid all shops and restaurants and social occasions FOREVER. Meanwhile, I can live on the rations that Micky Blue Eyes pokes through the bars of the cage I'll have to stay in. I'll be so feral without my sugar fix I won't be fit for any human contact. Done.

The other day I had a conversation with my Mum that went something like this:

"Have you been back for your blood test again?"

"Um, no..." I replied.

"You better make sure you do it!" she admonished me. It was just like I the time when I was three years old and scribbled all over the living room walls. I was a very naughty girl.

"Okay." I agreed meekly, already feeling faint. I hate the thought of blood, let alone the sight of it.

The same day, I arrived home to find a reminder from my GP complete with a pathology slip. I think the universe is trying to tell me something. Well, my Mum and my GP are, anyway.

This shit is getting real. I really am a middle aged woman.  Who knew? It may actually be well past the time to relinquish my crown and officially step down as the Cakie Queen. Sigh. Double Sigh. Triple Sigh. Hysterical sobbing even.

I know. I'm frightfully immature. I can't accept eating cakies and sugar in moderation. Meanwhile, there are children dealing with the reality of living with Diabetes every day. I know I'm being ridonkulous. I also know ridonkulous is not word. But I DON'T CARE. So ner! 

Anyway, I'm going to go and have my blood test this week and accept the reality of whatever I'm told.

On the plus side, I bought a set of scales the other day. I tested the display model and it told me I've lost about 1.5 kilos!! Okay, that's not much. But I'll take anything, considering the amount of cake I shovel in. Ahem.

And I promise I won't bore you with anymore posts about my weight or failed attempts to give up my beloved cakies. Deal.

Linking up for I Must Confess.

What is your favourite sweet treat? 

Have you ever been successful in giving it up?

Is the I Quit Sugar programme really as awful as it sounds? 

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Not So Guilty Pleasures

Good morning Groovers and Shakers (or afternoon as the case may be). Welcome to another fabulous Thursday, which is only one day away from Friday! This thought is comforting until the moment you realise you're a parent and Fridays mean nothing anymore. In fact, I have to be up on Saturday morning to take two out of three boys to trial soccer matches at 9am. YAY.

Today the illustrious Lounge Lizards want to know what my guilty pleasures are. I'm not sure I'm sufficiently guilty enough about any of my vices. I haven't been persuaded to abandon any of them that is for certain. Sadly it would seem that most of my 'not guilty enough' pleasures revolve around food.  Of the cakie kind. What a shock. You were expecting me to admit to having a Friday night bong every week. weren't you?

I'm afraid I agree with the wonderful Dolly Parton who famously said in her biography My Life And Other Unfinished Business: "Food is my weakness. I'll take a sandwich and a shake over a jug and a joint any time." You'll have to imagine Dolly's unmistakable twang.  Okay, so I read biographies by Dolly and other stars. Guilty. I may also own at least one Dolly CD titled Both Sides Of Dolly Parton. I'm not sure whether she was trying to be funny with that title.

Anyway, I think we've already established that I have the worst taste in music EVER, but since I'm shameless in my Carpenters addiction I'm not sure if it qualifies as a 'guilty' pleasure. I don't have one iota of ironic distance in my passionate love of their music. In fact, apparently this adoration makes me old school Emo. I knew I was sensitive and emotional.

When it comes to TV, I don't really watch much of it. I'd rather poke my eyeballs out than watch My Kitchen Rules or The Biggest Loser, but I have been known to take in a bit of Big Brother. This is purely for research purposes. Meaning, I have to keep up my bogan cred somehow for the sake of this blog. That's my excuse anyway. I mean, the whole Carpenters loving, goody two shoes Pollyanna image is totally ruining my bogan status. I need to shake things up a bit and watch some puerile Reality TV. It's either that or taking up a pack a day and slab of VB a week habit. Or giving my boys rats tails. Tantamount to child abuse some would say.

I'm also partial to bit of Dr Phil at lunch time. How's that working for you? It's working out okay, thanks Dr Phil. Until that stoopid The Doctors show comes on after it, then I have to switch it off because SQUEAMISH. Plus I don't want to be worrying about all the possible illnesses I may have. At least hypochondria is the one illness I'll never have. BOOM TISH.

The only other guilty pleasure I can think of is actually blogging itself. Then there is all the reading and commenting on other blogs which can all be time consuming. Meanwhile, there are a million other things I could be doing. At the very least I did my exercise first and broke a sweat before I paid any attention to this blog again this morning. All the other stuff can wait. Of course, I'm also addicted to Facebook. There's a very good reason for that.

I do feel somewhat guilty about the pitiful example I am setting for my boys by being online constantly. On the positive side I don't have an Iphone or Smart Phone so at least I'm not always online when I'm out as well.

But surely my most embarrassing guilty pleasure is when I come across an old Enid Blyton book and start reading them again as an adult. Frightfully shameful. Especially when I read a passage from Six Cousins Again the sequel to Six Cousins At Mistletoe Farm where the character says:

"Surely our ducks quack more loudly than any others?" groaned Mrs Longfield, early in the morning. "And need we keep that cock, he wakes me regularly at dawn?"

Upon reading this I chuckle as if I'm an immature eight year old reading it for the first time again. But you have to admit those Enid Blyton books were rather smashing. For children. Ahem.

Now, you'll have to excuse me. Dr Phil is starting. Shut up.

Linking up with Tegan from Musings Of The Misguided for The Lounge.

                                               
                                                        What are your guilty pleasures?

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Ten Fascinating Things About Me

 Here goes. Ten utterly fascinating things about me. Using 'fascinating' in the sense of 'mind-numbing'....

1. I've never had a sister (I have one older brother) though I do have two excellent sister-in-laws, Mick's sister Janette and my brother's wife, Nicole. Likewise, I will never have a daughter. One day I may have a daughter-in-law or three. I'm hoping they'll be excellent too. 
2. My middle name is Faye with an 'e'. Clearly, or I would have spelt it Fay. 
3. I lived with my parents until I was 23 when I moved in with Micky Blue Eyes so it's distinctly possible that I've lived a sheltered life. In Boganville. I find this ironic.
4. I went to Holland with my parents when I was 10 years old in 1981. This seems destined to be my first and last overseas trip. Sigh. 
5. I'm starting to wonder if I'm in peri-menopause as my moods are somewhat erratic: I'm joyous then weeping then feeling like I could punch the next person who glances sideways at me then having a panic attack then joyous again and around it goes..... Totally normal, right?
6. I was 26 weeks pregnant with Mr 12 in 2001 before I noticed this minor detail. Oops.
7. I lost a little man when I had a still birth 19 weeks into the pregnancy in 2007. 
8. I was diagnosed with Asperger's in 2011 at age 40. 
9. I have 150 plus Facebook 'friends' but my closest real life friend is my friend Kim, who was born five days before me and is the smartest person in the whole World - because she's my friend obviously - and because she doesn't use Facebook or any social media at all. 
10. I am shamefully hopeless when it comes to taking and organising photos. I have boxes of them stashed in cupboards instead of sorted into albums. I tried to find some photos of Kimmy and my sister-in-laws to post here and I could only find ones that are really old. So guess what? No photos. You are saved the embarrassment. You can thank me later. 

Two Ten things I love....

1. Karen Carpenter
2. Cakies
3. Karen Carpenter
4. Cakies
5. Karen Carpenter
6. Cakies
7. Karen Carpenter
8. Cakies
9. Karen Carpenter
10. Oh yeah, I have kids. They're alright, too. 

Ten things I would like to ban from the World forever...

1. Lego 
2. Lego
3. Lego
4. Lego
5. Lego
6. Lego
7. Lego
8. Lego
9. Lego - and, finally..
10. Lego

Okay, that's only one thing as such but it's one thing that means A MILLION pieces so it counts as ten! Shut up. 

Ten Reasons To End This Pointless Post...

1. I have house work to do.
2. I have nothing remotely interesting to say about myself. 
3. I have exercise to do. 
4. I've wasted the whole morning coming up with absolutely nothing of any note to say about myself.
5. There are such entertaining day time television programmes on that I'm missing. 
6. It's lunch time and I might turn into one of those strange people who forget to eat.
7. I have important places to be and important people to see. 
8. There must be a million other things I could be doing.
9. I think I may be procrastinating just a teensy, tiny bit. 
10. All of the above.

Ten Counter Points To The Above List...

1. House work sucks.
2. That's never stopped you before.
3. You can do it later - why do today what you can put off until tomorrow?
4. At least you didn't waste it doing house work.
5. Since when have infomercials about funeral insurance been entertaining? (Although, you have to admit a bit of Dr Phil is sometimes entertaining).
6. Rahahahahaha!
7. Well, I can imagine I do. Shut up.
8. Meh, it's only a million. Do them later. See counter point number 3. 
9. You think?
10. Details. Hmph! 

Okay, I think I'm done now. I'm off to find ten more ways to procrastinate. I'll spare you the list this time. You're welcome.

Linking up with Musings of The Misguided for The Lounge.

                                               What are ten ways to procrastinate?

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Are You Being Served (By A Freakazoid)?

Customer service is certainly not my 'thing'. In fact people are not even my thing, period. Which is odd considering that I'm supposed to be one. Debatable. I may look like something resembling a person, albeit a rather unattractive one but I'm quite positive that I'm not one. Unsure what weird kind of alien species I am, really but my friend Randa came up with the word Freakazoid and I like it so I'll pinch that.

How does this Freakazoid know that Customer Service isn't her thing? Because she is a Freakazoid, that's how. The fact that she talks about herself in the third person just adds to the whole Freakazoid phenomenon.  Additionally, she also worked in a Customer Service type job for 3 years back in the 1990's. It wasn't much fun. I guess that might be why it's called work. Ahem. More specifically it was a call centre for N R No Way, a rather well known insurance and motor side assistance concern.

The point of this post is that I am not going to complain about any poor Customer Service that I've received. Instead I am going to take the opportunity to say this:

If you ever called N R No Way between the years 1994 to 1997 and dealt with a whispery voiced, ineffectual eejit who didn't know the answers to any of your questions then put you on hold a rather annoying amount of times in order to go and find out before eventually cutting you off, it was probably me and I am deeply and sincerely sorry. Terribly, terribly, frightfully sorry. And no, I can't get through a post without channelling Enid Blyton. You'll just have to deal with it. Smashing.

Furthermore, if you received a quotation from said ineffectual eejit ie. me and then barked into the phone "What was your name? Melissa, was it?" intending to ring back later, only to ring back and have difficulty locating the 'Melissa' you spoke to, that was because my name is actually Vanessa but I didn't correct you because obviously I wanted to dodge your return call.

Again, ever so sorry. Sort of. Kind of. Okay, not really. Bloody people!  Just because I was getting paid to provide service to you didn't mean I liked it! Seriously. What exactly do want from me? I was trying to be nice here and apologise but I can feel the judgement. How DARE you judge me?!

I do not deserve such judgement. I'm a nice person! All those cranky people wanting cheap insurance and ringing me were mean and nasty and annoying! Honestly, how RUDE is it to expect the sales assistant on the other end of the phone to know what they were talking about and pitch their voice above a whisper? Hmph.

I couldn't seriously be expected to deal with such trivial matters as Customer Service when I was clearly a writerly genius waiting to happen. Shut up. I could write the great Australian novel if I wanted to instead of a boring as batshit bogan blog. I just can't be arsed don't think the World is ready for that much of my sheer brilliance yet. Ahem.

While we are on the subject of my abysmal Customer Service ability I will also say that if you were an insufferably arrogant car dealer salesman type person who rang me and bellowed some sort of nonsensical code like thing at me such as "ALPHA, FOXTROT, ROMEO, BRAVO, 8900767198!!" and expected me to know what the actual fuck you were talking about and to be able to type all this information quicker than the speed of light and then became all belligerent and shouty when I couldn't keep up and demanded to speak to my supervisor, then I have two words for you:

FUCK YOU.

On second thought, no. Not those two words. I do not wish to fuck you. I wouldn't touch you with a barge pole. Partly because I have no idea what a barge pole is exactly but it sounds heavy. So yeah, no barge poles for me. Also, you are probably a hideous, balding gargoyle in an ill fitting suit with gold chains. Ew. Instead try this:

I think I feel better now. You will be happy to know that I resigned from the job and never tortured anyone with my dubious Customer Service skills ever again. And I never will. I've found an easier way to torture people. This blog. So ner.

A final thought on Customer Service. Well, not really a thought, more like an anecdote. I don't really remember any stories of horrifying Customer Service (besides my own woeful attempts) but rather an establishment not actually providing the product they were renowned for.

This happened once when we drove through  the drive through of a popular fast food chain. As you do, because this is why they are called drive throughs because you drive through them, you don't walk. That would be silly. Plus it would totally defeat the purpose, which is to be as bone lazy as possible while purchasing junk food. It just makes the path to obesity that much smoother, which I think we'll all find is quite handy. Or is that just me?

Anyway, I'll get to the point. Eventually. Soon. Alright, now.

This particular fast food concern is known for serving chicken as their main type of food. Let's just call them Red Rooter. Again, I must thank my esteemed friend Randa for this excellent turn of phrase. The following happened.

We cruised to a halt at the ordery thingy ( I have no idea what you call them) to hear the usual monotone "What would you like?"

To which Micky Blue Eyes replied "One whole chicken please."

Pause.

Then the monotone voice came again. "Sorry, we have no chicken."

Excuse me?

No chicken? At a chicken shop. Red Rooter no less.

 I just wanted to say Red Rooter again. I'm really mature. Shut up.

Becoming rather annoyed at this news, Micky Blue Eyes exclaimed "Is this a fucking chicken shop, or what?"

They ignored this, instead asking "Is there anything else you'd like?"

We really just wanted the chicken and figured Red Rooter was a sure thing for it. Apparently not.

"No thanks. " Mick growled and we sped off feeling rather annoyed and still hungry for chicken.

How rude of them not to have any chicken when they were a chicken establishment who at the time were known for proudly proclaiming:

 Australia, your chicken is ready! Hmph.

Imagine going to the bank to withdraw money and they say "I'm sorry. We have no money."

Imagine going to a florist for flowers and being told "I'm sorry. We have no flowers."

Imagine going to a bakery for bread and being told "I'm sorry. We have no bread."

Actually that last one would be okay because they would usually have cakies so who cares about boring old bread when there are CAKIES.

No, I can't get through a whole post without mentioning cakies either. Shut up.

Right, that's it from me then. As you were.

Linking up with The Queen Of Awesome for The Lounge.

Do you love providing Customer Service or are you more of a Freakazoid like me?

                      Any customer service horror stories you can tell me so I can comfort myself
                       that there are worse Freakazoids than me? There is, isn't there??

 

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Not Another Bogan Holiday

We finally touched down at Sunshine Coast Airport after our dangerous mission, exhausted but relieved.  I braced myself for the next dilemma. Finding our accommodation. I may have mentioned that I cannot read maps. 

First of all we had to pick up our car, which wasn't located at the airport. We called and they arranged to pick us up. Since there were five of us I had to wait while Micky Blue Eyes took the boys back to their office to organise the paperwork. 

Pacing backwards and forwards in the intense sun, I briefly toyed with the absurd notion of heading back into the airport to jump on the next flight to Melbourne to surprise an online friend.  I could deal with the resulting divorce later. Didn't do it, dammit.  For I was about to become more stressed. I do not fear flying. I do fear maps. With good reason.

We circled around various areas in search of our accommodation, bewildered. It  was supposed to be on the Esplanade. Should be simple, right? Wrong. There appeared to be more than one Esplanade. We were on the wrong one. Which was fortunate because it was  looking a bit dodgy.  Eventually we found the place only to be directed to an even more dodgy car park underneath the apartments with an extremely tight narrow space. We all waited with bated breath as Mick backed in.  Being a hire car, we were very cautious about procuring even the slightest scratch.

The next morning I staggered out of bed feeling like a zombie and saw all of these demented fit, energetic people jogging up and down the esplanade. Bugger that. These bogans were headed for the beach however.  At which point, I discovered I'd forgotten to pack my bikini. Possibly due to the fact that I've never owned one in my life ever. Fortunately, as I'd forgotten to have the lipo-suction, boob lift, tummy tuck, spay tan, waxing extravaganza which would be required for me to be seen dead in one. So I settled for the daily routine of dousing myself in approximately 675 layers of 30 plus sunblock, putting on boardies and a t-shirt and being done with it.

Day two meant a trip to Australia Zoo. A most entertaining day out if you enjoy becoming bankrupt (crikey, it's expensive) while melting in excruciating heat that would make the 7th circle of hell seem like the arctic. You know, with a few animals thrown in for good measure. Leaving there, we travelled further afield to a dairy farm. There were quite a ridiculous number of cows. We just missed the actual tour which would have included being able to milk the bovine beasts. This meant we could just skip to the best part. Tasting. Ice cream. Yum!

Another outing involved a cruise on the canal gawking at the multi-million dollar mansions that most likely feature walk in closets the size of our entire bogan box.  One was the three million dollar home purchased by Steve and Terri Irwin, which Terri now apparently just uses as a holiday home. Reportedly Russell Crowe had recently been staying there. This may explain why, when, a few days later we dropped into a bakery for a cakie fix, we discovered Russell Crowe had been there just the week before.

As we drifted past we also saw the boat which Steve Irwin supposedly died on, The Croc One, parked outside the mansion. Frankly, at this point I couldn't be bothered moving to take a photo and neither could Mr11 apparently. He managed to get this half arsed shot as we sailed past.  Seriously I do not know where that child gets his lazy tendencies from. Ahem.

Our next destination was Hervey Bay where we were staying at a place called The Coconut Palms. A more appropriate name would have been The Inconvenient Poles. There were poles a plenty. You were meant to park in between them. Just when you thought you'd spotted every pole there was yet another pole seemingly appearing out of nowhere. Yep, you guessed it. The inevitable happened. Mick hit a pole when reversing into our spot. Luckily he'd taken insurance so we were covered but it was still a proverbial pain the posterior.

We spent most of the time in Hervey Bay visiting Mick's sister. I celebrated my birthday there.  42 was just another number and not the enlightening experience I had hoped. Sigh. My sister-in-law was kind enough to give me a gift of various goodies, including chocolates, mascara, sun block and an intensive anti-wrinkle moisturiser. But I choose not to take offence at the latter. She just gave them to me because she works in a pharmacy, so she gets her hands on this stuff easily, right?

Leaving Hervey Bay, we headed back to Coolum. The most exciting thing that happened there was that Micky Blue Eyes took the boys to Brisbane to see a soccer game at Suncorp Stadium, so consequently I had some quiet time. Yes, that is exciting. Shut up. On the last day there we went for a drive to Eumundi. Spotting a bakery/cafe, we decided coffee and cakies would be most welcome and pulled up in front of the establishment. At which point, a woman promptly appeared and shut the doors to close up, glaring at us she did so, as if appalled at the idea of any bogan customers. Hmph. I should have stomped up to her huffily a la Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman exclaiming "You just shut your door on us! Big mistake, HUGE mistake, you just missed out on business from the Cakie Queen! You would have at least trippled your daily profits! And we went to the same bakery as RUSSELL CROWE, so yours isn't even good enough for us!! So ner!"

Driving on we ended up at Noosa Heads, where obviously we were not about to attempt to enter any of the posh restaurants lining the street, and being glared at yet again like the pathetic (but hungry) bogans we were (or are). Instead we ended up in a deserted food court where the only shop open was a kebab place so we feasted on kebabs and hot chips. Classy. Hunger pangs satisfied, we headed to the beach. We sat down while the boys frolicked on the sand. It was a most beautiful scene, with the sun beginning to set lazily over the ocean, but I am not very good at descriptions (or photography) so you'll just have to imagine it.

There were many people and sand castles dotting the beach, including a most impressive one, resembling an Indian Temple. Obviously it had been painstakingly created by some nearby Indian men.  As we sat admiring it, Mr4 barrelled towards it. Cringing, I tensed as the inevitable happened before I could move to stop him and he pounced on it, destroying it immediately. The Indian men looked on, but luckily did not comment. It was a good time to leave.

Twenty four hours later, we were back in Boganville where we belong. Until another bogan holiday.

Linking up with The Lounge which is being hosted this week by Rachel from The Very Inappropriate Blog.

Do you think that woman in the bakery/cafe was a snooty bitch, or do you run for cover when you see bogans coming too?

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