Do You Eat Your Feelings?

Hello there, strangers! Yes, it's little 'ole me, back to entertain you after a bit of a break that went on longer than the school holidays. But you get that. Things to do. Places to go. People to see. That sort of thing. Except there wasn't. Unless my family, grocery shopping and scrolling mindlessly through Facebook count. See? I told you. All such important things. Yes, indeed. Such a fascinating and action-packed life I lead.

Anyway, I lied. I'm not so little. Oops. This is likely due to the fact that, in addition to all of the above, I have also been busily eating all of my  feelings. Every single one of them. They all taste suspiciously like cakies. Sadness = cakies.  Happiness = cakies. Boredom = cakies. Joy = cakies. Stressed? Eat a cakie. Relaxing? Best way to do so is with enough sugary carbs to induce a diabetic coma... You get the picture. 

Which segues neatly to this week's Life This Week prompt:

My favourite junk food. 

I bet you can't guess. Drum roll, please...

Chocolate!

Haha! Tricked you! 

Chocolate AND cake. What a surprise. With an honourable mention of hot chips. Because who doesn 't love hot chips with chicken salt and/or gravy? Shut up, all you low carb/no carb fanatics. No one wants to hear about it. Just go and eat your salad and be sad. Or smug and energetic and glowing. I'm not jealous AT ALL.

Image credit:https://www.facebook.com/ithinkmymomsgonecrazy/?pnref=story

Yep, basically I am addicted to sugar and all carbs. 

Needless to say, my trysts with the dietition are going splendidly well. Using 'splendidly well' in the sense of  are a complete and utter charade.

At my last visit I had managed to lose a whopping one kilo, but heavens knows how many more I have since put on. Sigh.

Don't you just hate people who whinge about being fat while they shovel anything that isn't nailed down into their gobs? Just quietly, people who whinge about being fat while being nothing of the kind are worse. This was also me some years ago. DOH.

It occurs to me that I never had significant issues with food when I when I was younger. Especially when I was still living with my parents. However, these days I am the person who is primarily responsible for everything food related. I have to do the grocery shopping, cook the meals and feed a family. 

This means that it often feels like all I ever think about is food. I don't find this very helpful. It appears that I have no impulse control when it comes to my eating habits. Additionally, I am now the mother of teenage boys. They constantly eat. They also never put on weight. I seem to have some sort of delusion that I'm also a gangly teenage boy, instead of an overweight middle aged woman. 

Yeah, I know. I need a gigantic kick up the you know what. It's quite obvious from what I have told you that I am the one who buys or bakes the cakies (except when my mum does...),  and I don't want to confront my addiction. I'd rather act like a petulant three year old, sulking in the corner because she can't have cake for breakfast. And lunch. And dinner. And snacks...

Plus, most of the stuff that I like to do, such as reading or writing, is quite sedentary. Why couldn't I have been one of these sporty types? 

Oh, well. Enough of my whinging. I'll plod back to the dietitian and see what happens. She also suggested counselling and I was a bit meh about it. I've been backwards and forwards to shrinks and counselors for years and then basically had to figure out I'm autistic myself! But maybe it's not such a bad idea.

It's either that or wiring my jaw shut. Too extreme? 

Of course I could decide to hell with it, who cares what size I am. I certainly could not care less about anyone else's weight or size, so why torture myself? The thing is, though, I've had breast cancer, am on medication for high cholesterol and have a family history of type 2 diabetes. Therefore, keeping my weight within a reasonable range is actually rather important. DAMMIT. 

So I guess my food/weight issues are not going anywhere... Well, except for my waist, thighs etc... Eventually I may have the maturity and emotional intelligence to realise that I can just FEEL my feelings and leave the cakies the hell out of it. Hopefully before I'm around 75 years old and morbidly obese.  More sighs.

But I suspect cakies will always remain my favourite junk food.

What's yours? 

Are you an emotional eater? 

Linking up for Life This Week. 

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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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Chocolatenessville

Why, hello there! I’m back - minus the bogan element.  Naturally this means that I am now classy, elegant and sophisticated.  It’s quite disarming. I’ve instantly been transformed with the ejection of a word. I’m now as refined, poised and dignified as Kate in a yellow frock. Or a Diane Von Furstenburg print frock. Or a white lacy frock. I don’t know what else she wore. I lost interest at that point. If I ever had any. I think I just like saying the word frock. FROCK. Yes, indeed. I really do. Nobody says frock anymore and I think we need to bring it back. That is all.

Anyhow, where was I? Oh yes, the refinement of this blog. No more pointless posts about nothing.   From now on this is an entirely different space.  You will be kept on the edge of your seat with my cutting edge satire, biting wit and envious flair for comedy.

Additionally, there will be eloquent and informed discourse on important topics.  This will include insightful and thought provoking posts on current issues and intellectual debates on all manner of relevant and pressing questions.

Right then. Let’s get to it. First things first.

The most pressing and important question on my mind in the past few weeks: the new blog title.  Of course it’s important! Why, you ask? Because if I didn’t think of a new title then I wouldn’t be here to write all the other intense and brilliant posts that will be forthcoming!

Therefore, I pondered over this dilemma for over a week, taking it very seriously indeed and suffering from a severe bout of FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) while all the other cool bloggers blogged merrily away. Eventually I came to the conclusion that if I wanted to take the bogan out of the blog, then I should do exactly that.  So I did. Thusly, Ness Of Boganville became Nessville. Considering that I can be frequently found ‘off in my own little World’ this seemed quite fitting.

Look- I can’t help it if my own little World is better than the real one. It’s a happy little place where there is always cake and Carpenters music. In my real World there are also three boys demanding that I switch off the Carpenters music and share the cake. Which I do. Sometimes. Especially my new favourite recipe.

 

Just kidding. My boys are frightfully noisy and demanding but luckily they are also gorgeous and amazing and I love them to bits. Enough to share cake with them. Seriously. I really do. Sometimes. If I haven’t eaten it all before they get home from school. Or, if they accidentally find it where I’ve hidden it. Ahem….

But back to all of those pressing issues. Although cake really is the most pressing issue in life. I can’t think of many things that are more important. Just me?

So, as I was saying, here I am in my own little World which I’m sharing with you because you’re all special and privileged. You’re welcome.

I also became the proud owner of a new domain name. It turned out that nessville.com wasn't available so I considered all the other possibilities that GoDaddy suggested to me:

Awesomenessville

Cakenessville

Chocolatenessville

Just to name a few. All of which would have worked. In the end I was able to obtain nessville.me - let's face it, this space is all about me. I'm fascinating, right? I like to pretend that I'm fascinating, anyway. I don't have a problem at all...

While I'm on this subject of my new domain, I simply must say a great big thank you to my imaginary (online)  friend Randarooney (or Miranda, but I call her Randarooney or just Randa), without whom I would never have figured out how to apply the domain to my blogger account. She did the hard work for me and now I'll take all the glory. It's a fair deal, I reckon. I think she might even be real now, so I'll have to do something about actually meeting her face to face one of these days. Scary. For her. Be afraid, Randa. Be very afraid....

Turns out that it was Easter this past weekend. Who knew? Everyone, apparently.  I went to the grocery store to buy some Easter eggs as well as other sundries and there wasn’t much left to choose from. Not surprisingly, Easter is all about the chocolate for me.  I don’t do anything special or attend church. I just hang around and eat my body weight in chocolate. So it’s the same as every other weekend, really. It really is Chocolatenessville around here.

Micky Blue Eyes was quite keen to attend the Sydney Royal Easter Show, but as tempting as those Dagwood dogs look, I wasn't. Neither was Mr 10, so the two of us stayed home yesterday while Mick took Mr 12 and 5.  They returned late last night laden with show bags. Mr 12 had helpfully decided to buy a 'loom band' show bag. I promptly decided that a more apt name for them would be 'loon' bands because I'm certain they will send me LOONY. Or even more loony. Shut up.

Meanwhile, Mr 5's bags involved Ninjas and Cowboys, which means oodles of plastic guns and swords which I usually avoid. Awesome.

During the last week of term I attended Mr 5’s Easter Hat Parade . He insisted on decorating his hat himself which was fair enough because he did a much better job than I would. In my usual bumbling fashion I failed to get a good shot of him wearing it but he was so cute.  I can never inform him of this fact or that he’s handsome or any give him any sort of compliment

A few weeks ago I made the mistake of telling him he was beautiful.

“No, I’m not!” he insisted, scowling.

“You are to me,” I assured him.

“Muuum,” he said slowly, as if mustering all his patience to explain something so obvious “flowers are beautiful! I’m not a flower!”

He is certainly no shrinking violet, that’s for sure. My little Ninja man.

I know it's blurry but it wasn't me who took
it, okay? It would be FAR WORSE if it had been...

In other scintillating news, we were contemplating going out for dinner tonight to our favourite pub. A quick Google search to check if was open revealed that they have completely changed the menu and made it outrageously expensive to boot. How rude.  We may have to consider our take away options.

At this point it may have become obvious that nothing has changed about me or my blog except the title.  Oops.  Nevertheless, I hope you'll keep visiting Nessville. See you around...


Linking up with Kirsty from My Home Truths for I Must Confess and with Alison from Talking Frankly for Laugh Link.

                                                            What's been happening in your World?

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Hormones From Hell

I fear I am alarmingly fat. Side on I could definitely pass for being six months pregnant.  With quads. As for my notorious double chin.  It's becoming triple. I seem to remember life on a parallel universe where I could devour hot chips and lasagne while size 8 hot pants still fit. And as many chocolates as a chocoholic likes. Which is quite a lot, actually.  After all we all know the old line: The answer is chocolate. And I don't give a damn what the question is. Boom Boom.

Of course I am presently living in the wonderful world of PMS. Nothing is guaranteed to turn me into a sobbing wreck more than these feral hormones from hell. I will sob at the sight of a Huggies commercial. I will sob when pants that fit me yesterday, suddenly decide not to zip up today.

I will be found weeping tears of utter desolation, unable to contain my heartfelt and utterly sincere despair over - absolutely nothing. To only minutes later, feeling palpable rage, rancid and real, coursing through my veins.

Slamming doors and glaring at anyone who has the misfortune to glance in your direction.  Micky Blue Eyes innocently looks at me and enquires "New top, is it?"  I am certain that what he really meant was "Looking a bit pudgy aren't we?"  He becomes the unfortunate recipient of the 'death stare' and wisely retreats behind a newspaper without waiting for a reply. I will snap at my boys for the slightest thing then begin wailing seconds later convinced I'm The Worst Mother In The World Ever for behaving like such a monumental bitch.

You will find me walking around feeling like a bi-polar, bloated balloon, with breasts swollen to Dolly Parton like proportions, so tender to the touch that a mammogram would seem like fun in comparison to your partner even attempting to come near them in a futile attempt to have sex. SEX?!!!  You, must be joking, I hear all you ladies shriek along with me, just give me a jumbo size block of chocolate and GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY!!!

Of course, it's comforting to know that all of this will eventually subside only to be replaced by unbearable cramps, the equivalent of 500 knives being stabbed into your lower pelvic area and twisted around torturously for several days, after which you have the luxury of being allowed to be normal again for a couple of weeks (assuming you are one of the lucky ones who has clock work cycles, most of us don't) before - YOU START IT ALL OVER AGAIN!!!

Then, if all of that isn't bad enough, the only way out of this cycle of hellish hormones is to get older and then experience the wonderful world of even more hellish hormones called - menopause.  This is a prospect that sounds about as thrilling as being forced to attend a One Direction concert with a bunch of those idiotic, screaming teenage girls, with their hormones raging. GAH! You see what hormones are responsible for??!!

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

What causes you to have a good old sooky la la sobbing session?

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I Vant To Be Alone

It is Easter Sunday and I now have alone time.  Mick has taken the boys to a soccer match. The house is echoing with blissful silence.  I can even hear a bird cooing along with the wind chimes outside the door. No deafening roar of a PlayStation, combined with the television blasing. No cries of "Muum, can you get me a cup of tea?" vying with "He started it!" to be heard.

 Consequently, I cannot think of single interesting thing to write about.  So I expect this blog entry will be boring as batshit.  Just like all the others then, I guess. Oh well.

Whenever I have absolutely no hope in hell of getting near the computer, then, no doubt I would be bursting forth with all sorts of brilliantly witty insights and revelations (ie. full of shit). Today, I've got nothing.  But since nobobdy is reading this anyway I guess it doesn't matter.

So, now that I have alone time, here is a list of things I could do:

• Exercise (I do need the endorphins.  No point worrying about burning calories.  I could jog to Melbourne and back and I still wouldn't have burned off the calories I've eaten in chocolate.)
• Blast Carpenters REALLY LOUD.
• Write
• Eat more chocolate
• Do 20 truck loads of washing up (hmm might actually be forced to, if I fancy a cup of tea later)
• Read a book
• Put away 20 truck loads of laundry
• Eat more chocolate
• Clear away/tidy
• Clean the bathroom
• Stare into space vacantly
• Eat more chocolate
• Have a bubble bath
• Call a friend
• Text a friend
• Ironing ( yeah right)
• Watch tv
• Watch a girly movie
• Eat more chocolate

Right. So far, have managed to read a book, eat more chocolate, stare into space vacantly, eat more chocolate, blast Carpenters, eat more chocolate ,write this boring as batshit blog and eat more chocolate.  Comforting when you can tick stuff off your to-do list isn't it?

On a day when most people would unite with their extended families for a big get together or bbq, I am quite content being alone. I have chocolate. Books. Carpenters. Computer.  Ahhh, heaven.

I guess it seems like I don't really love my kids when I crave alone time so much.  But I really do love them.  I just really love them to go out with Mick and leave me alone sometimes too.  This gives me time to ponder on things like the deep and intellectual thinker I am.  Like my reflections on being so quiet and introverted.  Coming soon.

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The Great Chocolate Box Dilemma

Presently, there is huge box full of chocolates residing in our house.  We are meant to sell them.  All parents will be familiar with this phenomenon.  Fund Raising.  Ugh.  As this particular box is from our youngest son's kindy where we already pay an alarming sum of  money for him to attend, the fact that we are also expected to fund raise for them is particularly galling.

The box was handed to me as I left from picking Master 3 up on Tuesday, with the words "Do your best."   What they don't realise is that this is the equivalent of handing Amy Winehouse a giant box of heroin with the same parting words.  A not especially brilliant idea, considering what happened to that poor woman.  Death by chocolate, however, is a distinct  possibility for me.

It's true.  My name is Vanessa.  And I am a chocoholic.  With a huge box of chocolates in the house.  Which I have to resist.  Or sell.  Fast.   Especially before they cost me a fortune.

You see, in addition to being a raging chocoholic myself, I have also succeeded in causing my children to become chocoholics too.  Classy.

Some mothers manage to keep their addiction to themselves, furtively sneaking the Kit Kat from their handbag when the little ones aren't looking.  How on Earth do they manage this?  My addiction is so all-consuming that this is entirely impossible for me.

Plus, my boys seem to have an internal radar for sensing any chocolate or junk food for miles.  Particularly since we only live in a small house.  There are only so many hiding places.  They have figured them all out, being way smarter than I ever will be. 

With their combined intellect, stubbornness and intense drive for junk food in triplicate, they are a force to be reckoned with.  Delightedly aware of the fact that I am so incredibly weak willed that whenever we pass the corner shop on the way back from school, all they have to do is say, "Mum, can we get something at the shop? Pleeeeease?"  and I will give in, secretly coveting a chocolate treat for myself.   So I am in deep trouble with a whole box in the house.

But, how do I sell them?  I don't go to paid work.  Micky Blue Eyes works from home.  I do not wish to go door knocking.  I just don't. 

The only time I ever did, massive, menacing dogs bounded out to front fences barking furiously, scaring the bejesus out of me and permanently terrorising Master 10, who now has an intense fear of dogs.  Or, small, fluffy dogs pattered out to front fences yapping, irritating me beyond belief.

People took an aeon to answer their doors, clearly irritated.  Then, demanded to know what we were selling the chocolates for, and looked dubious when I told them.    All the good chocolates were sold in the first street, leaving only the less desirable ones, which people tutted over disapprovingly before reluctantly choosing one or rejecting them altogether.   So we only sold half the box after all that effort! (ie.  30 minutes tops, in the 3 shortest streets near us)

I definitely do not know what to do about The Great Chocolate Box Dilemma.  I guess what I am really saying is, would you like to buy some chocolate?  Please?

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