I Won't Last A Day Without...

There are certain things that I would I find terribly difficult to give up. Such as:

My Family

Okay, there are certain days when I do wish I could be all by myself. Except I'd be belting out Carpenters songs instead of Celine Dion. But in reality, I couldn't live without my family. They are my suit of armour against the World. Whenever I'm feeling awkward and alien like (which is often) I can remind myself that:

a) As Dr Phil says: You wouldn't worry about what others thought of you if you knew how seldom they did, and
b) I have Micky Blue eyes and my boys who love and accept me.

The Internet

Some days I am scrolling down my Facebook feed (or typing another pointless blog post- ahem) and wondering why I bother. Still, I can't seem to hit the deactivate button. It's a sickness really. Sigh.

Sugar/Cakies/Chocolate

I tried quit sugar last year. It was the longest five minutes of my life. BOOM TISH. Seriously though, I did only last about five minutes. More recently I started the Get Healthy Programme, except I seemed to think it was the Get Diabetes programme. I have ended up delaying this for a while and am starting again soon. Hopefully I'll last for at least ten minutes this time. Shut up.

Karen Carpenter/Carpenters addiction/obsession

This fascination, which began at the tender age of 11, has only intensified with the arrival of the internet, making it even more impossible to hit that Facebook Deactivate Button, thereby quitting all of the fan groups and pages I belong to. Don't ask. I've lost count. But at least the fact that there are so many groups proves that I'm not alone in my weirdness.

Quiet Time

As much as I love my family, I do need time alone as well.  This is particularly precious due to it's rarity. I have been forced to give this up to a degree. But I'll still grab the smallest opportunity whenever I can. In fact, on our current holiday, when faced with the choice of joining my family for a stroll on the beach or staying in the apartment alone with the lap-top, I chose the latter. I justified this by reasoning that I spent plenty of time doing stuff with them every other day. And the sand. All that sand, everywhere, six months later. *Shudders*.

Cups Of Tea

I only drink one coffee a day. And about a billion or so cups of tea. I think I was weaned with a tea bag. Okay, not quite, but I did start drinking it at a young age and am absolutely addicted. The tea bag must be left in, thank you very much. I know, it's disgusting. Especially since tea bags were EVIL when I was growing up. We always had proper leaf tea in a pot. But I'm lazy, so tea bags it is now.

Books/Reading

 For me, the highlight of our family road trips involves stopping off at any available Op Shops and loading up on bargain books. This is approached with the same fervency and desperation that a heroin addict would reserve for getting their next fix. I. MUST. HAVE. BOOKS. I probably should purchase a Kindle at some point and bring myself into the 21^st Century, however I’m sure I still wouldn’t be able to resist those road trip Op Shop crawls. They're much better than Pub crawls in my opinion.

Exercise

This is one I struggle with. I can easily be lazy and give it up, but my physical and mental health suffers if I let it slide. So I force myself to do sweaty aerobics on most days. I do this for the endorphins, not to become svelte and super fit with a rippling six-pack and buns of steel. I prefer buns with cream, actually. Ahem. Which is why I'll never have the former.

Blogging/Writing

I've only recently come to the conclusion that writing is kind of similar to exercise for me.  I may not be the best, most eloquent writer, just as I am not the most agile, fit athlete, but I usually feel better when I do it. Even if it's just scribbling nonsense purely for my own amusement or boring you all with this blog, I need to do it. As I've mentioned I can be lazy, so sometimes I have to force myself, just like the exercise. When I do, I feel better. The end. So, I guess you're all stuck with me. You're welcome.

And there you have it. The stuff I would find hard to give up. Now I'm off to read books and drink tea.  Oh alright, I'll exercise instead. Hmph.

Linking up (late, as usual)  for Laugh Link and also for I Must Confess.

What would you find hard to give up?

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Seven Signs That You Seriously Suck At Packing

I'm in the middle of packing for our trip to Port Macquarie. I'm not very good at it. There are certain things that would confirm this.  Here they are, the seven signs that you suck at packing:

1. You leave it until the very last minute, taking the term 'flying by the seat of your pants' to a whole new level.  You may try to rationalise this by reasoning that you work you better under pressure and just ignore the constant twitching of your eye and rising panic.
2. A situation may* have happened on a long ago vacation, where your partner nearly suffered a coronary trying to haul an over-stuffed heavy suitcase through the airport. He eye-balled you intensely and bellowed: "Don't ever pack a bag like this AGAIN!! EVER!!" Bemused passers by may have witnessed this interlude as you longed for the floor to open and swallow you.
3. In spite of the above lead-like suitcase, you've forgotten essential items, yet packed non-essential items.
4. Your definition of essential items varies wildly from your partners. After all, you couldn't exist without your dozen or so meticulously co-ordinated outfits, so necessary for what you'll be doing - schlepping to theme parks or local attractions with kids. The rest of the time will be spent doing as little as possible in an attempt to recover from the former horror.
5. You pack approximately 17 books for a 7 day getaway. You're either weirdly convinced that this is the week that you are somehow going to miraculously become a speed reader or just deluded. If you have 3 kids in tow, as I do, the deluded thing is the more likely option. Either option is delusional, really.
6. You pack joggers and active wear. Naturally, a holiday is the perfect time to take up jogging. You conveniently ignore the fact that the only exercise you participated in on past holidays involved walking to the cake shop then lifting the purchased cakies into your gob. Ditto walking  to the booze shop and lifting booze to your gob. If you have 3 kids in tow, the booze is a likely option.
7. You glance around at your accommodation on day 2 or 3 of your stay and are appalled to discover that the glistening, pristine conditions you sighed over when you arrived now resemble a war zone. You appear to have transported the entire contents of your home there, including the 3 kids and all their accompanying paraphernalia. This now necessitates a hurried clean before the actual cleaners arrive; you wouldn't want them to think you live like this. You now may as well be at home.

*Definitely happened. Excruciating.

                                 What other signs are there that you suck at packing?
                                    Are you going away these holidays?

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Ten Things I Don't Get Or Like About Sport and Exercise

I could probably sum up this whole post in one word: EVERYTHING.  However, I'm the Queen of crapping on about nothing, so without further ado here are ten random, hodge podge things I don't get or like about sport.

1.Balls.

They are scary. I hate them and fear them. This aversion dates to back to childhood when I was perpetually in fear of a ball hitting me in the face during sport or in the play ground. There is probably a word for this particular phobia. Ballsophobia?  Who knows. Anyway, I have it. Therefore, it's ironic that I've ended up surrounded by males with their balls. I meant soccer balls. For goodness sake, don't be so juvenile. Just because I was juvenile enough to go with such a bad pun...ahem...

2.Sports Commentary

The kind where they (the commentators) make the most stunning announcements that seem like Captain Obvious by pointing out that the runners are at the starting line or a player has passed the ball during a footy match. I would never have noticed. Plus, there is the endless chatter and droning on before a match. It's boring enough, dudes. Just get on with it!

3. Garrulous/Annoying/Obsessive Spectators or Supporters

You know the kind. They are loud and proud supporters of their team, going to such extremes as dyeing their hair the same colours as their team. They will spend the entire match bellowing out helpful instructions, as if the players are wandering around the field bewildered; not knowing what to do until that moron in the grandstand yells at them to tackle for the umpteenth time. These supporters can also sometimes be one-eyed and don't accept losing very graciously. Alternatively, they may sob in utter despair if this happens. I'm never sure whether to feel sympathetic or just downright alarmed at the sight of a grown adult weeping like a baby over a sporting event. It's just a game, isn't it? Suffice to say, I don't get it.

4.The Same As The Above But Parents Of Children

My boys play soccer because it's better for them to be running around in the sunshine on a Saturday morning rather than sitting in front of a PlayStation. Apparently, some parents have other ideas about their children playing sport. They take it all a bit too seriously. They yell. A lot. Their faces become contorted as they break out in a cold sweat and then yell some more.

Sometimes they look like the are about to burst a blood vessel or take a fit as they implore young Jack/Stella/Lachlan to "RUN!"

"KICK IT!"

"WAKE UP!"

"WATCH WHAT YOU'RE DOING!"

They repeat this tirade incessantly for the duration of the match. I always end up feeling sorry for young Jack/Stella/Lachlan.

They are children for Christ's sake, not playing in the World Cup. Okay, I suppose budding sporting stars have to start somewhere, but I doubt that embarrassing the crap of your kid is the ideal way to fire them up. I wish these parents would just have a sausage sandwich and CHILL.

5. The Actual Rules

My knowledge of soccer pretty much goes like this: There is a ball, there are two teams and they try to kick the ball into a net to score a goal. The end. There is probably a bit more to it, right? Don't ask me what that is, though.

6. The Amount Of Money Sporting Stars Are Paid

I can't deny that sport is lucrative. It seems that at the top end, athletes are paid extremely well. Take Golf for example. Seriously - take it. Most. Boring. Sport. Ever. But Golf heroes like Tiger Woods are zillionaires. Why? On second thought, the money could be the only incentive to take up something so mind-numbing as hitting a ball into a little hole. There could be more to Golf than that but I wouldn't know. I've already tuned it out after 2 excruciating seconds.

7. Ridiculous Sporting Gear/Attire.

Luckily, leg warmers and thong leotards have been out of style for a decade or two now. At least I hope they are ( I can't be entirely sure since I never set foot in a Gym) because they are crimes against fashion. And what about the tendency to wear gym gear as regular clothes? I may be guilty of this, but only around the house. I change when I have to go to school pick-up. Unlike some parents, who turn up in head to toe Lycra. I guess they want everyone to know they've been working out. Fair enough. I hadn't thought of that tactic. Maybe I should wear my yoga pants to school pick-up. That way there is remote chance that it looks like I've been working out instead of surfing the net for half the day. I mean, I'd never do THAT. Nope. No way. Shut up.

Then there is the humble old track suit. Isn't this kind of redundant in the land of Oz? I mean in terms of actually doing any physical activity while wearing it? Nobody wears them for that, right? They're just for lounging around the house in. Or is that just me? Ahem...

8. Irritatingly Upbeat Instructors

These are usually seen on exercise DVD's. I have quite the collection of these because I'm that one in a billion bizarre person who likes working out at home, alone. It's hard to find one with an instructor who isn't as grating as nails on a chalk board.

"Don't you stop! If you rest you rust!" they holler while pumping away with determination.

"You're doing great!" they then announce while beaming in between spirited "Woo's!" and "Yeah baby's!"

"Yes! Yes! YES!" moans one instructor on a DVD I own. It sounds like she's trying to channel Meg Ryan's infamous fake orgasm scene in When Harry Met Sally. I'm reasonably certain that exercising or doing aerobics doesn't cause multiple orgasms because a) if it did, it would be SO much easier to motivate ourselves to do it; and b) if it does, then I must be doing it wrong.

9. Over The Top/Complex Workout/Aerobics Routines

This usually goes hand in hand with the above annoying instructors. They will be gazing out triumphantly on the cover looking ripped, while on the back cover the blurb assures you: This energising, fun workout can be done by anyone at home, with any fitness level, from beginners to advanced. Bullshit.

You unwittingly begin the workout feeling optimistic. All goes well for the first five to ten minutes as you warm up. You're able to follow the moves without any problems. You're actually getting into it! Exercise is FUN! Wrong.

"Okay, we're moving on now," beaming annoying Instructor announces. Suddenly she is telling you do things you thought were only applicable in Cirque Du Soleil. 

"Okay! Lets do 50 jacks, then drop and give me 50 push-ups!" she performs this feat effortlessly while you huff and puff away, ineffectually. She bounces back up "WOO!" she declares "Now stand on your head, do 10 back flips, pirouhette six times, balance on one finger, then the other finger, then mambo, then cha, cha, cha and give me ANOTHER 50  PUSH UPS! YOU CAN DO IT!!" 

Um no, I can't. Okay, I may be exaggerating slightly. But this is what it feels like.  A good old grape vine is as complex a move as I can muster. If you don't what they are then you obviously never did aerobics in the 1980's. Consider yourself lucky.

10. Trophies

My boys and Micky Blue Eyes have an assortment of soccer trophies. Don't get me wrong, I am proud of their sporting  achievements. But why oh why do all trophies have to be so hideously ugly? Naturally, they want to display these monstrosities proudly around the house.  Not only are they are an interior design nightmare in terms of aesthetics, but they are also horrific dust collectors. Then again, dusty and hideous seems to be the look we were aiming for around here so I guess I should quit complaining.

Thus ends my illustrious list. I just wanted to add that while I really dislike all sport, I particularly abhor cricket. Or, as I refer to it, The Three B's; which stand for: Bats, Balls, BOOOORRRRRRING!! 

And with that, I'm out of here before all you cricket tragics take after me with a bat...*ducks for cover.*

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

Also linking with  Emily from Have A Laugh On Me for Laugh Link.

What don't  you 'get' about sport?

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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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