Passions

Those lovely ladies known as the Lounge Lizards apparently want to know what I’m passionate about. Well, duh, as if it isn’t obvious.

CAKIES!

From a young age I was always known for two traits. My unrelenting drive and passion. For cake. Or chocolate. This has propelled me to the dizzying heights (who wouldn’t be dizzy, with all that sugar in your system) I’ve reached today,  as a professional Fatty Boombah Bogan.

This was emphasised to me by an anecdote related to me by my mother of the time when I was around the tender age of three, or perhaps four, who knows. You expect me to remember back that far? I can’t remember five minutes ago!

Anyway, evidently Mum had taken me out shopping and paused to have a coffee. However, I had other ideas.  I kept repeatedly asking for “Something nice,” emphasising the word ‘nice’ with a posh little plum in my mouth.  This refrain went on for several minutes, while Mum attempted to enjoy her coffee.

She tried to ignore my demands. Undaunted, I continued my efforts.

“Mummy, can I please have something nice?”

Finally, after another five minutes or so of my constant nagging heartfelt pleas, Mum eventually threw me a sachet of sugar.

“Here,” she said, exasperated “have this!”

My little three year old eyes fell on it. With a tone dripping in condescension and derision I  scathingly declared:

“BIG DEAL!”

I was cute once. And I wanted something 'nice', not
a sugar sachet! HMPH.

How dare anyone thwart me from having my desired and much sought after slice of cake! CAKE, I say, not a silly old sugar sachet!

In between my frequent cakie consumption, I could be found curled up with a book, my other passion. Sometimes I traded the book for our dachshund dog, Samantha. I tried to smuggle Samantha into bed with me once. When Sammy went to doggy heaven, along came Penny and Skippa.  I was devoted to those dogs. The fact that I never had to actually clean up their crap probably added to their appeal. Penny and Skippa went on to have pups. In an essay written for school about my life, I remarked that I’d never seen anything cuter than those puppies ‘not even a human baby’.  Clearly I needed to get out more. Or all that sugar was affecting my brain. Or both. Regardless, I was besotted with books, dogs and cakies.  Not to mention chocolate.

Me with my mullet perm and Skippa, circa 1985. Classy.

My passion for baked goods and all things chocolatey, continued on in my teens when I proceeded to take the old ‘Mars a day’ slogan quite literally. I devoured a Mars Bar every single day after school, while remaining annoyingly slim. Annoying to others, I’m sure. Annoying to me now, knowing that this phenomenon will remain firmly back in 1985, along with mullet perms and bubble skirts.  The latter two can stay there. However, I want my fourteen year old metabolism back, thank you very much. Hmph.

Perhaps continuing with the syrupy sweet theme, I also developed a deep and abiding love for Carpenters music at around age 11 which has continued onto this day. This is yet another lifelong passion.  Ironically, Karen Carpenter died from an eating disorder shortly after I fell passionately in love with her voice and music. This meant I was now passionate about cakies – and the World’s most famous anorexic, something only I could achieve. So ner. After all, while others worried about trying to save the whales or the ozone layer, SOMEBODY had to focus on the important issues. What could be more important than cake and Carpenters? Don't answer that...

Then, one day, years later, there came an epoch in my life.  A ‘bend in the road’ as ‘Anne’ would say.  I was unable to become pregnant and it appeared that a little bit of weight loss might help the situation. Surprisingly, I was able to develop a new passion, a very unexpected one. Exercise.

It worked, and one by one, babies came along. With each subsequent baby my passion for exercise waxed and waned. Meanwhile, my devotion to cakies and chocolate continued unabated.  After all, I could have given them up, too, but I’m no quitter, as they say. Whoever ‘they’ are.

My singular determination and unremitting pursuit of all things sugary is what has shaped me into the person I am today. An overweight bogan with high cholesterol who knows the words to every Carpenters song. Not many people can boast about that.  Shut up.

Not to be beaten, I am now determined to reclaim my long lost passion for exercise. After all these years it appears that my love affair with cakies and chocolate must now tragically come to an end. It’s not me, it’s them. While I have passionately loved them, it appears that they do not love me. Cue hysterical sobbing.

It turns out that there is one thing that I am truly passionate about.  Yes, even above and beyond cakies and Carpenters. Three things, actually.  Three of the most important people in my life.  My gorgeous boys. I love them passionately. For them, I will give up (or cut back, anyway- ahem) on cakies. I will even move my rather large arse and break a sweat everyday, until it becomes slightly less large.  I will do it because I passionately desire to be around for a hell of a long time, to see them grow up and possibly even be a Grandma one day. 

And if I do live to be 80, then I'm eating cake EVERY SINGLE DAY until I die from a diabetic coma. You can't stop me.  

Linking up with Slapdash Mama Sarah for The Lounge.

 
Also linking with Cathy from The Camera Chronicles for Flashback Friday.

                                                           What are YOU passionate about? 

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Creepy Crush

As usual this slack arsed, bogan bitch did not get her shit together and have a post ready to link up for I Must  Confess yesterday. So naturally I'm doing the lazy bogan thing again and coming to the party late. But that's alright because the party doesn't start until I arrive, right? We all know I'm such a party animal.

Let's get straight to the point because I'm sure you've all been waiting anxiously for me to disclose the celebrities that I think are sizzling HAWT.  Well, here's the thing. I must confess that I've always been the one who usually just doesn't get it when other women are drooling over a celebrity.

This dates all the way back to when I was a teenager and all the other girls had major crushes on Simon Le Bon or Jon Bon Jovi. Yep, it was the 80's. Meanwhile, I wasn't remotely interested. I've never really been into 'pretty boys'. I don't want a guy who is prettier than me. Let's face it, that wouldn't be hard. Ahem.

My bewilderment over pretty boys has lived on the present day and I simply DO NOT understand all this fuss over Ryan Gosling. Oh, okay, he is hot. However,  that character he played in The Notebook is fictional ladies. It's just plain silly to have crushes on fictional characters, right? Oh wait..

After having a brief crush on Balmain Tigers player Wayne Pearce at around age 12, a few years later at the tender age of 14, the mini series (remember mini series? You're showing your age, if you do) of Anne Of Green Gables aired and I was smitten with Jonathan Crombie, the Canadian actor who played Gilbert Blythe. Of course, I had already been smitten with the character out of the book for years so it wasn't much of a stretch. Yes I know I just mentioned that it's silly to have crushes on fictional characters. It really is. But that didn't stop me.

Please call me Carrots, Gilbert..erm I mean Jonathan...

In the series, and the book, he called Anne 'Carrots' because he wanted to meet her so much and Anne cracked her slate over his head.  I wouldn't have minded if he'd called me Carrots. I've been called worse things. Such as a 'red headed rat rooter'. Classy.

This wouldn't be the first time I would fall in love with a fictional character. Who could forget Colin Firth as the enigmatic Mr Darcy in Pride & Prejudice?  It's not weird to have crushes on fictional characters, right? Nope. No way. Not weird at all.

At least not as weird as my most enduring and intense celebrity crush. A fascination and devotion that borders on the intensely creepy side.

Karen Carpenter.

Yes, I've had a massive 'girl crush' on a dead celebrity for 30 or so years. Shut up. I mean it, shut right up. And I'm not the only one. So ner. You know who you are, fellow Karen worshippers.

It seems weird, right? But if you take away the anorexia and the hideous 70's fashions and hair styles wasn't she just as cute as button? No? Hmph. Who asked you anyway? Oh, I did. Right. Well, I stand by my fascination. You can't stop me.

 

Besides, who could rock double denim like KC? 

Is it wrong to wish you
could have been that dog?

 

Groovy. Far out, even.

That little girl is such a bitch. Hmph. Should have been me.
The fact that I would have been a baby then and wouldn't
remember it now is completely irrelevant.
 

 

More recently, I happened to watch some of the documentaries by British television presenter and writer, Dawn Porter, and because she is a brunette who had this cute retro style and vibe going on she kind of reminded of Karen, therefore I developed a milder 'girl crush' on her. Ahem. Anyway. this is interesting because it turns out that she is married to Bridesmaids actor Chris O'Dowd, and despite deciding that that movie was a bit ordinary I decided he was a bit of alright. So, I'm just it putting it out there that if this particular couple is ever interested in a threesome, I'm totally up for that.* Because I'm certain that an overweight, middle aged bogan would be their first choice for that scenario. Can't think why not.

What a cute couple. I mean hawt...

And that is quite enough of my creepiness for one day. Or an eternity, really.

 

*Not really, we all know I'm too much of a Pollyanna. But I just wanted to leave you with that disturbing image. You're welcome.

 

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

 

 

 

Which celebrities do think are smokin' hawt? Or, you know, you just have a disturbing fascination

with them for no reason? Or is that just me....

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A Bogan Reads A Book (A Billion Times)

Today I have the tedious task of bringing to you my favourite books, movies and songs. I say tedious because this list will most likely be extremely short, boring and predictable.

Once again, I will totally lose some bogan cred when I confess that I have never even read the 50 Shades Of Grey trilogy. Is it even a trilogy? No idea. I know. Shocking, right? How can I call myself a bogan?

Likewise, I've never touched any of the Twilight series or The Hunger Games either.

My love of books began predictably enough with good old smashing Enid Blyton. It was quite a shock to discover that the woman who created The Magic Faraway Tree, The Famous Five series and many other books, all of which I devoured as a child, was, in fact, rather horrid in real life and not the sweet, whimsical person one would have imagined. Sigh. I guess that is why we love escaping into fiction. Reality SUCKS.

Following my escapades up The Faraway Tree, where I seem to have permanently left my brain, I read Anne Of Green Gables and the whole 'Anne' series. A new obsession began. She made me proud to be a ranga. And proud to wear puffed sleeves. Shut up. It was the 80's.

But surely my most overwhelming book obsession came in the early 90's with the publication of an authorised biography about The Carpenters called The Carpenters: The Untold Story by Ray Coleman.  I read it a few billion times. This was riding on the coat tails of a similar obsession with a God awful made for TV movie  about Karen Carpenter, imaginatively titled The Karen Carpenter Story.

One of the most curious things about that TV movie, apart from the absurd amount of times I was able to watch it, was the fact that they had apparently gone to extraordinary lengths to ensure that certain details in the film were supposedly accurate, so they had used The Carpenters real clothes, instruments, cars and filmed certain scenes in their real home. Then, after doing all that, the actress who played Karen, Cynthia Gibb, wore the most ridiculous, fake looking wigs throughout. Weird. Yet I watched. Then I watched it again. And again. Just as I had read that Coleman bio again and again. Maybe I was hoping it would end differently if I read it just one more time. Nope. She still died in the end. Every. Single.Time. *sobs*

Bad wig alert. As well as bad acting, bad script..and a truly
bad ending. Sigh.

Then, in 2010 yet another bio about Karen came along which emphasised how much the previous Ray Coleman one, (and The Karen Carpenter Story) had been sugar coated and white washed. I realised that I had readthe previous book so many times looking for something that wasn't there. What Karen was really like. I felt like I got that from this book, so it's now my new favourite.

Which brings me to my favourite songs. You'll never guess in a million years what they are. No way. Okay, I'll tell you.

Carpenters ones. What a shock.

 I love this live performance of Rainy Days And Mondays. And weren't the 70's groovy?

Oh okay, their songs were a bit cheesy. But, THE VOICE. Except this one. Cutting edge stuff.

The song. The accompanying film clip, with all the planets and spaceships that make Star Wars look like Pigs In Space. The green satin jump suit. Classic. Shut up.

I also love Barbra Streisand songs and movies. Which is odd, because I don't really like people particularly, or think that people who need people are the luckiest people in the world. Not really. People are the WORST. I'll still listen to Le Babs sing it, though.  Nothing but the best for this bogan.

Linking up with The Lounge which is being hosted this week by Tegan from Musings Of The Misguided.

Do you have any book or movie obsessions? Or favourite songs?

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30 Years: A Fan Remembers

I have never kept my love of the Carpenters a secret. Never been a closet fan. Everyone who knows me will know of my frankly rather disturbing obsession. And they won't get it. So this post isn't for you. Instead of banging on about bogans I am attempting to quietly honour Karen, today, the 30th anniversary of her passing.

This may seem self indulgent, and it is but to me Karen touched me the same way others were by Princess Diana or John Lennon or whomever, so I would like really like to pause to remember her. I don't expect anyone else to care or read (except my Carpenters cronies), let alone understand. I'm also not particularly good at being profound, especially after reading a few other articles recently which left me with the feeling of, damn wish I could have written that. But, I'll give it a go.
 

Why Karen, you ask? There are many singers before Karen and since who can belt rings around her and pile on the vocal acrobatics, certainly. But, I ask you, can they play the drums?

 

Or rock a pair of Raggedy Ann flares like this?

 I don't think so.

Anyway, it all began at age 11. My parents bought a cassette called The Very Best Of The Carpenters and played it a lot in our newish sigma station wagon. I was immediately taken with Karen Carpenter's voice, some of the songs were hauntingly beautiful and melodic and had things like oboes meandering around at a time when most pop music was mainly a synthesiser and a drum machine. Of course I was destined to be extremely popular in high school among all the Duran Duran devotees. I didn't really get into them at the time. Naturally I hear them now and like it. I prefer to wait until an artist is 30 years behind the times or conveniently dead before I admire them. Always handy I think.

Somehow, when it came to the Carpenters I was able to see past the cheese factor and hear that sadness underneath the saccharine that is often mentioned. Many of the songs were introspective and echoed the way I was feeling at the time, which is possibly why they resonated so much with me. I was only a few months into a love affair with the duo, my old ABBA albums now forgotten,(I have clearly always been cutting edge in my taste in music) when the startling news came that Karen Carpenter had passed away from a heart attack at only age 32 caused by some bizarre affliction called anorexia nervosa. I had no idea what that meant.

Now, this is not a post about anorexia, an extremely complex subject which I am in no way whatsoever qualified to talk about. I do know this. It is a mental illness. A very serious mental illness, not just a silly diet gone wrong. That's about all I'll say on that subject. And that if you were going to present me with the old nugget about how if Mama Cass gave her the sandwich, they'd both be alive today, don't bother. I've already heard it approximately 987 millionty billionty times.

I continued my quest to collect every album, starting with Voice Of The Heart, pictured, right. Eventually I joined the official fan club after sending an embarrassing, gushing letter pouring out my heart and soul in telling how wonderful I thought both Karen and Richard were and how the sun shone out of their arses. In return I received the standard 'thankyou for your enquiry' type letter typed by the fan club secretary.  I still have it somewhere. As well as my most cherished possession: my Carpenters key ring. However I have lost serious fan cred in the online community for actually using it as they are supposed to be framed and coveted from afar apparently. One day I was mugged when someone shoved me from behind and grabbed my purse. I was mortified. It had my Carpenters fan club membership card signed by Harold Carpenter (their father) in it! And a glossy wallet photo!! I was devastated. I'm sure the mugger was rather impressed when he found those, together with the measly ten dollars, if that, I had in there. The joke was on him.

My worship continued unabated, as I blasted cassettes of their music, night and day, in my bedroom, pausing only to replace them with Barbra Streisand ones.Yes, I have exquisite taste. Shut up.

Proving I was capable of sometimes being a typical 1980's teenager, however, I did also go Madonna crazy for a while, wearing crucafix earrings while listening, transfixed, to my Like A Virgin album. Incidentally it turns out that the Material Girl is, in fact, a Karen Carpenter fan herself, having been quoted as saying: "Karen Carpenter had the clearest, purest voice I'm the completely influenced by her harmonic sensibility."

Plus she totally stole the whole cone bra thing from Karen, who perfected it decades earlier doing a Grease spoof  on stage, a few years before her good friend Olivia Newton John starred in the film.



Cone Bra Karen

Over the years countless other singers have also come out of the closet to admit their admiration, including Gwen Stefani, kd lang and Shania Twain, the latter even saying Karen was her biggest influence. (Weirdly, most Shania songs annoy me, but I'll take whatever praise of Karen I can find.) Meanwhile, kd lang describes Karen as having "a voice like chocolate, thick and rich and flawless" Ah. That explains a lot. Two of my favourite things in the world are Karen Carpenter's voice and chocolate.

After years of feeling like a freak for my affection, along came the internet and with it the realisation that there are millions of people out there, like me. Some are, disturbingly, EVEN MORE obsessive. Yes, it is possible. After years of hearing and loving 'the voice' I finally had glimpses of what she was really like as a person, through hearing and seeing vintage footage on Youtube.  I had the impression she was a sweet, genuine person, with a very cute sense of humour. In contrast with many celebrities she wasn't diva like at all, she really seemed like the type of person who could be your sister, daughter or best friend. In fact she kind of was my best friend in high school (in a way). Obviously nobody else is going to be when you're a loud, proud Carpenters fan. Ahem. Listening to her music gave me a lot of comfort at time when I was very lonely.

Another thing I really have to say is I will never understand how or why somebody like Karen, who was for the most part, a total sweetheart, should have this horrible mental illness for 7 or 8 years and be gone, while complete wankers like Charlie Sheen or Ozzy Osbourne for example, trash themselves and are still alive. Not that I wish anybody dead, but seriously, that has to be more good luck than good management, right?

Although I'd read an authorised biography published in the early 90's called The Carpenters: The Untold Story, (a few thousand times, but who's counting) a biography just about Karen herself hadn't been written. This changed in 2010 with Randy Schmidt's Little Girl Blue: The Life of Karen Carpenter. As a People magazine review noted: Schmidt succeeds in bringing a gifted, troubled musician to vivid life. I devoured the book (of course) and fell in love with Karen even more and cried at the end, even though, of course, I knew what was going to happen. I wish Karen's story had a different ending. But it didn't. She is gone, but her legacy isn't and I will always remember her today and always.

And for those of you who still don't get it and never will, here's what Karen and I say:

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

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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

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Being Different & The Diagnonsense Part Two

It was convoluted path to diagnonsense.  Perhaps it was the fact that I turned 40 last year so therefore I decided to quietly have a mid-life crisis and ponder over my life like the deep and intellectual thinker I am. ie. A total off with the pixies space cadet.  But I was giving this Asparagus thing a bit of thought and then coincidentally picked up a book about it in Target  called Being Different by John Elder Robison.

I took it home, read it. Upon reading the diagnostic criteria I was fairly convinced I was Aspie.  I Googled a bit more which seemed to confirm my suspicions.  Funnily enough I'd seen counsellors and shrinks on and off for many years, yet when it came to this I basically had to figure it out for myself! It's amazing how people go undiagnosed for years, especially females. 

I trotted back to yet another shrink to receive the official 'diagnonsense'.  This involved answering a gazillion questions.  She then saw my mum also and asked her a gazillion questions. 

I suppose I could waste a lot of energy wondering if it would have made any difference knowing 30 years ago. It doesn't really matter.  That time is over. What matters is I know now. So I have to stop being so hard on myself and accept the way I am. Not make comparisons with outgoing NT people. NT means Neuro Typical, in other words those people without Aspergers.  I'll nick the term Nypical and use that, I think. Still working on that to be perfectly honest.  It's something I have to keep on reminding myself on a day to day basis.

It also turns out that I am in very good company.  Famous people in history who are believed to possibly be Aspie include Albert Einstein, Vincent Van Gogh and Wolfgang Amedeus Mozzart.  So clearly I too am a genius.  I have absolutely no idea what my genius like talent is, but any day now I'm sure it will become obvious. I hope. Maybe. Soon. Hmmm..oh well. Sigh.

As well as savant like talents or gifts Aspie people are known to have restricted and repetive interests that are often abnormal in intensity and focus.  This has worked out to be very useful in life for me.  My abnormal interest is of course...drum roll please...ta daaa! :  Carpenters/Karen Carpenter.

 Very useful indeed. I can helpfully remember the words to every single Carpenters song, yet I can't remember where I put my keys or glasses five minutes ago. Handy.

This obsession has also enabled me to participate in some intense forum discussions on karencarpenter.com on truly important issues such as the shape of Karen Carpenter's eyebrows and the relative benefits of Goofus vs Beechwood 45789.

For  the record, Beechwood is pure GOLD, I'm telling you, and that critic who said that if the Carpenters were going to record drek like that they should have gotten unlisted numbers, is a very nasty man indeed. Hmph.

After all they are the duo responsible for voicing THE most important question of the 20th Century : Why do birds suddenly appear, everytime you are near?

I'm also completely useless at anything involving organisational skills due to impaired executive function. This is a psychological term which refers to organisational and planning abilites, working memory and other complicated stuff  that frankly I can't remember. See?

At least that's now my excuse, so I'm sticking to it.  I'd always felt that part of my brain was somehow missing, (the part that should be logical and organised) yet to try to describe this to anyone would just sound like I was making an elaborate excuse for being lazy.  Imagine my relief to find it was not a figment of my imagination after all but a real part of my Ass Burgers.

In finishing,I would  like to list these affirmations for Aspie's written by author Lianne Holliday Willey that I like to remind myself:

• I am not defective, I am different
• I will not sacrifice my self worth for peer acceptance
• I am a good and interesting person
• I will take pride in myself
• I am capable of getting along with society
• I will ask for help when I need it
• I am a person who is worthy of others' respect and acceptance
• I will find a career interest that is well suited to my abilities and interests (I'm not sure how this one works for me, don't expect there are many job vacancies for a Carpenters obsessed nut)
• I will be patient with those who need time to understand me.
• I am never going to give up on myself.
• I will accept myself for who I am.

Yep, so I will accept myself for who I am.  A socially awkward, anxiety prone, Carpenters obsessed Aspergirl. Brilliant.

Linking up with The Lounge over at Musings Of The Misguided.

*Tries to think of a leading, thought provoking question to ask at the end of the post...and comes up with...NOTHING.* Oops. Um, why DO birds suddenly appear every time you are near?

What? Not a great question? Look, if it was good enough for Karen, it's good for me, okay? HMPH.

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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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Wallowing

"Darkness surrounds my loneliness.  Pervading my soul, it stirs my silent anguish."  I wrote those melodramatic words feverishly on a scrap of paper at around age 14 (there abouts) as I sobbed in my bedroom.  My favourite past time.  Nothing has changed at age 41. 

It seems at times there's nothing I like better than a good old sooky la la sobbing session.  Not to be confused with  Weepy, Mopey, Why Me?, Melodramatic Melt Down Mode, which I quite enjoy at times too.  Instead of silent tears of despair, this version involves racking, heaving sobs and sometimes howling like a banshee.  Occasionally items are thrown.

Especially when my husband has the audacity to inform me, in the midst of it all, that I should be jumping for joy.  In my defense I'd had a raging headache for 3 weeks straight ( I kid you not) and could not be held accountable for my actions.

Of course I would like to believe that I am just an extremely sensitive individual with deeper emotions than others.   Somebody who feels things intensely.  Instead of just the miserable, pitiful, wallowing, self-indulgent sook I really am.  After all I have a real reason to sook.

All my life I have never fit in with others.  Painfully shy, quiet and introverted, I would rather the ground open up and swallow me into a vortex than to have to answer a direct question or be the centre of attention for even a nano-second.

This probably explains somewhat why, when I heard Carpenters music for the first time at age 11, I was immediately drawn to Karen Carpenter's voice.  Rich, soothing, intimate.  Singing such unspeakably mournful lines like:

"I'll say Goodbye To Love, no one ever cared if I should live or die..."  OR

"Day after day, I must face a world of strangers, where I don't belong, I'm not that strong.."

This was EXACTLY how I felt.  As well as this, naturally:

"What I've got they used to call the blues, nothing is really wrong, feeling like I don't belong..."

In fact, I've never belonged.  In addition to crippling shyness, I am also an Aspie, an affectionate term for a person with Asperger's Syndrome.  I was not aware of this fact until age 40, just last year.  However, I've always been acutely aware that I am different from others.   Others love socialising for hours.   Others don't  love blissfully rocking backwards and forwards to Carpenters music for hours.  Instead they would possibly be more tempted to open a vein if they had to listen for even a second!

Sometimes it's hard and very disconcerting to realise that I am 41 and basically haven't matured beyond age 14.  And that I will always be different to others.  The quietest person in the room, no matter where I go.  In fact, if I had a dollar for everytime I've been informed of how quiet I am, I would be a very rich woman indeed.   It's funny how people think it is their duty to inform you of this, but somehow they never tell overly loud people to just shut the hell up.  But I digress.

Then, on top of all my wallowing, I end up feeling agonisingly guilty for feeling sorry for myself at all.  After all there are many people battling life threatening illnesses ( which I've experienced directly with family members) and I just can't seem to get it together, get over it, get on with it, get a job, or even socialise without feeling like I've been run over by a truck.  But, as Rudy Simone says in her book Aspergirls: Empowering Females With Asperger Syndrome "telling a person with Asperger's to just get on with it is like telling a person in a wheel chair to just take the stairs to get to the second floor" And I'm sure this applies to anyone suffering from depression, Aspie or not.

So I will allow myself to wallow.  A little bit anyway.  To have my frequent 'sook' sessions. I'll put on Karen, allow her to soothe me.  Then I will quietly get on with life the best I can.  As a quiet, shy, Aspergirl who needs a good sook as much as a good book.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rNGanUj8HHI

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