A Dangerous Mission

The car came to an abrupt halt outside Sydney Domestic Terminal.

"Hurry!" the driver ordered, eyes wild. I opened the car door to searing heat. Within seconds I was sweating profusely. Ten percent heat. Ninety percent nerves.

The suitcase thudded next to me. Anxiously, I gripped the handle, aware of the arduous task ahead of me.

"Come on!" I called to my young accomplice. The car sped off.  Through the doors and a sea of people. The rush of cool air did little to soothe my jangled nerves.  I headed to the agreed waiting place. Breathe, I told myself. Everything is okay. It had seemed such a good idea. So far, our plan was working.

Surveying the crowds of people, my mind raced. Where were they going? Why? Did they have such a dangerous mission ahead of them? How would I get through this?

Breathe. My heart was beating faster now. Dear God, would I survive? As I was about to do the unthinkable. Take three boys on a flight to the Queensland!!! Cue dramatic music. The Sunshine Coast, to be exact.

As per our plan, Micky Blue Eyes, had dropped myself and Mr4 off, and was heading back to his parents house, who live closer to the airport (let's face it, anywhere is closer than Boganville) to pick up Mr11 and 8 and return with his father. Because this is what bogans do. Just to save parking or taxi fairs.

An overjoyed  Mr 4 was peppering me with questions as we waited.  I answered vaguely, too busy trying to stay calm.  Suddenly, a commanding voice pierced loudly through the noise.

"Passengers travelling on flight JQ783 to Maroochydore, if you haven't already checked in, please do so immediately. This is the final call for flight JQ783 to Maroochydore. Thankyou!"

Maroochydore? Um, no problem, right? We were going to the Sunshine Coast. Pause. But where on the sunshine coast exactly?  Gingerly I unfolded the paperwork from my handbag. To my horror I read Flight JQ783 to Maroochydore! It was our flight! Mick and the boys were still not here! Shit! What should I do?

Now, obviously the best thing to do at this point would have been to just calm down and think logically. The flight wasn't until 2.50pm, which was still a way off. However, logic has never been my strong point. I immediately became alarmed.

Surveying the queues, my panic mounted.  Calling to Mr 4, I headed towards the end of a line, suitcase lumbering behind me. Mr 4 was agog with curiosity and excitement, oblivious to my frantic musings.  There I hovered, wondering what to do. An official looking woman in an orange Jetstar vest approached me briskly, perhaps noting my uncertainty.  She then began punching the flight number into one of the machines and printed out our boarding passes, urging me to join the line.

Frowning intensely, I did as instructed, willing Mick to make an appearance pronto.  The line moved along. No Mick. I scanned the crowd nervously. I let people in front of me. Still no Mick. The calls to check in for our flight came over the loudspeaker yet again. This should have been a give away that there was nothing to really panic about as they had said the previous announcement was a final call, yet here they were announcing it again!

All rational thoughts appeared to have deserted me, however and I became more and more jittery. Hurry up Mick!!  The same official woman noticed my agitation as I let more people in front of me.

"What's the problem?" she queried.  I explained the situation.

"You need to check in," she informed me, emotionless "otherwise you may miss your flight."

EEEEEK!!!

"Perhaps you should call him." she suggested.

"I don't have a phone!" I admitted, feeling foolish. The only phone we owned was with Mick.

"Oh here, you can use mine." said another lady in the line behind me, who had heard the whole exchange.  Thanking her, I punched in the number, my fear rising. Voice Mail. I left a frantic, babbling message to hurry or we might miss the flight.   The queue moved again. Still no Mick mercifully appeared.

"Call him again," the kindly lady offered me her phone again.  This time I spoke to a startled Mick, who assured me they were in the car, just minutes away.  I hung up.

"You should have told him what desk number you're at." the lady pointed out.

Shit!

"Ring him again, it's fine," she handed back her phone for a third time. All I could do was thank her exuberantly.

 I told a distraught Mick we were at desk 39. He said he was just coming in the door. Finally!  A minute or so later they all appeared, pale and panting. Thanking the lady again, we hurried to the counter.  We checked in our suitcases and headed through to departures. After putting everything through the security conveyor belt thing, we then hastened to our departure gate. 

Quickening our pace, we rounded a corner. A luggage buggy beeped at us to get out of the way. Mr 8's Ipod clattered to the ground in front of it. Mick lunged, grabbed it just in time and we continued our break neck pace through the airport. A long ago memory flashed through my mind. Of returning home from a family holiday to Holland when I was only ten years old. Somehow my parents had miscalulated our boarding time for our flight back to Australia.  We were strolling around the airport, window shopping, when we had heard our names called out over the speakers! The plane had been delayed because of us. I still recalled the humilation of dozens of disgruntled eyes boring into us, as we shame facedly boarded the flight. Hopefully we weren't about to suffer the same humilation!

Breathlessly we reached the gate. Bored people sat around, listlessly flicking through their Iphones or scrolling down lap tops. The plane hadn't boarded at all!  We sank onto a seat, exhausted already.  There we waited. For at least another forty five minutes!! After all our racing, the flight was delayed! Silently I cursed that official woman for stressing me uneccessarily.

Eventually we boarded the plane and prepared for take off. Due to the searing Sydney heat that day we circled the tarmac for at least another half hour. Apparently it was so scorching that the breaks over heat, so we had to wait until they had cooled sufficiently for take off. After what seemed like an eternity of Mr 4 endlessly asking when  we were going, the plane finally rocketed down the runway. We were airbourne, headed upwards and towards the Sunshine Coast.Yep, exactly what we needed More sun. Find out what happened next time.

 Linking up my old crap with Kim from Falling Face First for The Lounge's freestyle session, because that's what lazy bogans do.

 Do you like flying? Have you ever missed a flight?

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Hot Topic

I don't need to tell you it's hot. You're most likely aware of it from the small detail of your face melting off your skull. Unless you are not in Australia. We are, of course, in our summer months presently.

The heat is often a hot topic (pun intended) for these bogans.  Micky Blue Eyes loves summer. In fact, if he had his way we would probably be heading up to Darwin next Tuesday instead of Queensland. He frequently makes remarks like:

"Wouldn't it be great to be somewhere up in the top end now, in one of the water holes, having a dip!"

I usually look at him as if he is deranged. Clearly he is. He grew up in a family who were not familiar with air conditioning. In fact my out-laws still do not have air conditioning in their home. Therefore, another frequent comment I hear, is "We never had air conditioning, when I was a kid!"

My parents, on the other hand, live in a perpetual state of 'heat horror'. In fact they had to go away to the country for the weekend for my Uncle's 80th birthday celebration. My mother was not impressed at the weather predictions. It was as if my Uncle had an unmitigated gall to have been born in summer, so I'm surprised I was born in January.

We were lucky enough to have had air conditioning from the time I was about five or six. I was constantly reminded how of how lucky I was, by my heat fearing parents.Whenever anybody we knew was foolhardy enough to go away for a family vacation, during the summer holidays, they were immediately dismissed as being completely and totally INSANE. We rarely had summer holidays. As I have always been an indoorsy, bookish person, this never bothered me greatly.

However, since meeting Micky Blue Eyes all that has changed. Now, we will usually go away somewhere during the summer holidays. And that somewhere will always be HOT.  There is not really any escaping it in Summer time, in Australia.  I don't mind going away. In fact, I usually end up enjoying it.

My only aversion to the heat, revolves around the reality of being a 'ranga'. This, of course, means that I have the pallid, almost translucent, freckled skin that goes with it.  Five minutes in the sun and I am decidedly pinkish. Ten minutes equals serious sunburn. After fifteen minutes, I may as well say hellooo Melanoma.   All the 30 plus sunscreen will not prevent me from being burnt somewhat.

Therefore, I really prefer to remain indoors as much as possible. Meanwhile, Micky Blue Eyes will want to hit the beach and go for as many walks as possible. He never likes to actually admit that it's hot. Instead he'll attempt to think of as many inventive excuses as to why he feels hot.

"Maybe it's because I'm not playing soccer/doing enough exercise and sweating it out so that's why I'm sweating now." That is a familiar one.

Or, it's the chair he's sitting on is leather so that is making him sweat not the fact that it's 40 degrees in the shade.  Similar to how most males won't ever ask for directions when lost, Micky Blue Eyes will never admit that is, indeed hot, and the heat is effecting him.

He laments the fact that air conditioning is contributing to global warming and that people have become far too dependent on it. Which I have. Thanks Mum and Dad.

Just to be thoroughly inconsistent though, as much as I abhor the heat, I definitely do not think the cold is any better. No matter how many times people tell me that it is 'easy' to warm up, just chuck on some extra clothes, I have personally never found that theory to be true. My feet remain blocks of ice all through winter despite three pairs of socks and Ugg Boots.  I've even been known to have cold feet as late in the year as November. Now that is just plain wrong.  I must have been a frog in past life or some other cold blooded animal.

So here I will be complaining about the weather for at least half of the year. I whinge when it's hot. I whinge when it's cold.  Right, excuse me while I go back to melting.

How do you survive the heat? Do you love the heat? Prefer the cold? Don't care? Let's discuss the weather! It's fascinating. Isn't it? Oh okay, I'll shut up about it.

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The Meaning Of Life Is....42

Apparently it is now 2013. All the fireworks and doof doof here in Boganville last night, kind of gave it away.  Meaning, there were slightly more fireworks than what we usually hear every night. Anyway, I should probably wish you a Happy New Year. So I will. 

Happy New Year! May 2013 see all your dreams come true and Gangnam Style finally dying a long overdue, painful death. My neighbours very helpfully decided to blast it at around two seconds past midnight. Yeah, the 500 gazillion, trillion times I heard it in 2012 weren't quite enough, thanks very much. 

Anyway, being January, it probably means I should take the Christmas tree down. Eventually. It also means I will be turning 42 in approximately 14 days. Supposedly this is the answer to the meaning of life. 42.  According to Douglas Adams anyway.

It’s been a while since I read the Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy series (since high school in fact) , so I can’t quite remember the finer details.

All I remember is these two things coming up at some point in the series: the answer to the meaning of life is 42 and the phrase  Don’t Panic!  Both of which are relevant to me presently as I tend to be overly panicky and I will be 42 very soon.

Therefore, I expect I shall suddenly possess the wisdom of the ages. Have it all sorted. Stop panicking? That would be good.

That, or I shall suddenly stomp off to Greece on a  holiday, a la Shirley Valentine, leaving my ungrateful family behind blinking. I remember watching that movie  a very long time ago and thinking that 42 sounded really old. Yet here I am. Really old.

The thing is, I couldn’t stomp off to  Greece even if I wanted too.  My children are not grown up. I have a four year old. I am destined to be mistaken for his Granny by the time he is at school. Sigh.

There is also another reason I couldn't stomp off to Greece. Or anywhere. It would scare the bejesus out of me.

Jetsar, fasten your seatbelts, here come some scary Bogans again. But,
I have tragically never been on flight by myself.

 

The truth is, I am (almost) 42 and have never even been on a flight by myself. I know, tragic, aren’t I?

I have also never:

·         Smoked a cigarette

·         Taken illegal drugs

·         Had a bikini wax

·          Or even a leg wax

·         Been so drunk I’ve thrown up or couldn’t remember it

·         Seen a dead person (unless my not quite cooked baby counts)

·         Had a career

·         Bought a car

·         Had a broken heart (unless losing my not quite cooked baby counts)

And I still can’t:

·         Make eye contact

·         Talk/communicate

·         Have a successful job interview due to the above two things

·         Sew a button on

·         Be organised

·         Make scones (well,I can,but they don’t rise

 

*   Make anything remotely edible, according to my boys anyway

·         Make a decision about the slightest thing, even what to have on a sandwich

·         Have a needle or blood test without freaking out

·         Ditto dentist appointments

·         Programme the dvd/vcr

·         Do anything whatsoever involving technology

·         Read a map

·         Reverse park (sorry, I’m letting down the sisterhood, admitting these last two. Admitting all of them really)

Anyway, we could be here for another 42 years. You get the idea.

I have been on a plane, just never by myself. Once with my parents and lots of times with Micky Blue Eyes. And then with Micky Blue Eyes and the boys. Which is ever so fun (insert sarcasm here).

So naturally we are doing so again and flying up to Queensland on January 8th. There I will spend my birthday. I expect it will just be another day and I'll feel exactly like I did the day before.

Completely clueless. Thoroughly inept and inadequate in every facet of life.

But at least I'll get to have cake.

And I’ll just have to keep remembering: Don’t panic!

What have you never done? What IS the meaning of life? Just kidding. But if you really have it figured out I’d be interested!

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A Very Bogan Christmas Part Two

I fear I may have even bored myself ,writing this, so if you are still here at the end of this sentence, let alone the  entire post, I commend you. You are not a quitter. Or you need to get out more.

The Bogan festivities continued with an early celebration at my brother's home on the 22nd, as he and his family were going away. Gifts were exchanged, then the usual eating ourselves into a coma commenced.

During which, we somehow managed to avoid the most favourite topic of conversation for my family.

Winning Lotto. More specifically, what we would do if we ever win it. Yes, we frequently discuss this.

My brother and Dad also used to have a regular debate about how the money was allocated. One insisted it was given in a lump sum, the other was firmly convinced it was paid in instalments.

These discussions can become quite intense. The fact that the chances of winning lotto are so remote as to be practically non-existent becomes completely  irrelevant. We never pause to consider the utter absurdity of spending money which we will never have.

We may have exhausted this topic, finally. This time we discussed holidays and the utter insanity that is Christmas shopping and gift giving. A great day was enjoyed by all.

Then, I out did myself, on the 24th with an extremely classy and elegant Christmas Eve dinner.

Bogan Christmas Tree. Simply..stunning,
though not in a good way..

Maccas.

Completely disgusting and ridiculously over priced Maccas too. Is there any other kind?

Then, the count down for Santa's arrival began.  The boys were beside themselves, bursting with excitement.

"How many more hours will it be now?" Mr 8 would ask, approximately every twelve minutes.

He also became uncharacteristically concerned that the house should be clean and tidy for Santa's arrival, in case he didn't receive any presents. Of course, this behaviour never occurs on any other day of the year.

I somehow escaped for a few minutes to the boys room, intending to fold the pile of laundry there. Instead, I crashed on Mr 8's bed.Thinking, rightfully, that it will be a very long night so therefore it might be a good idea if I just closed my eyes briefly for a little snooze.I may have under estimated how tired I was as I was comatose for at least an hour.

Zombie like, I emerged, blinking and bustled the boys to bed. This took some doing as they were hyped up and there was no way in hell they were going down without a fight.

 Then, and only then, could our secret mission begin. Mr 11 may have outwitted us, cunningly pretending to be asleep. Thankfully I had wrapped almost everything in advance, so it didn't take us long to place everything under the tree and bugger off to bed at around midnight. I was just drifting off to snooze land again,when I heard creaking floorboards. 

"I'm just going to check if Santa's been!" declared Mr 11, cheerfully.

"GET BACK INTO BED, NOW!!" I bellowed, scaring the bejesus out of Micky Blue Eyes.

"But, I'm just checking if-  " Mr 11 started, defiantly.

"BACK TO BED!" Mick thundered, now wide awake and murderous.

"Fine!" Mr 11 stomps back to bed.

I finally nodded off again. A short time later, I was awoken by sobbing. Mr 4. I stumbled out of bed and into his room, where he was huddled on the bed, still sobbing.

"Mummy!" he wails. I snuggle next to him. Soon, I am snoring again. After a restless night, I am awoken by an exhilerated Mr 11 and 8 shouting that Santa had come. Surprisingly, it was not Stupid O'Clock, but a respectable 7.30am. Presents were opened in record time. Then, the fun truly began.

As we had no idea in hell how to work the Ipods Mr11 and 8 had received. As well as being an astonishing Bogan, I am also an astonishing technophobe. A few tense hours later, they were up and running and the boys were clicking away taking photos.

We finally headed off to my parents house for Christmas lunch. It was pouring rain, but this was a pleasant change from the stifling heat from the day before.

Instead of turkey(bugger that),we had Lobster Mornay made by my Mum, The Best Cook In The World Ever. Yes, she deserves capitals. As we prepared to tuck in, Micky Blue Eyes commented wryly that we should be taking a snap of it to post on Facebook. We just laughed and didn't bother, so you'll have to imagine it.

It was, indeed, a most excellent day. I felt like the happiest Bogan in Boganville. What more could you ask for? Please don't answer that question.

So, that's  our very boring Bogan Christmas done and dusted for yet another year!

How was your Christmas day? How do you celebrate, if at all?

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A Very Bogan Christmas Part One

Yesterday the bogan festivities began with a lunch with the out laws. They had wanted to take us out to a Leagues Club and shout us lunch.

The fun started when we were getting ready to go. I was my usual well organised self. I couldn't even find a bra to put on. I do hate the things with a passion.

You know you are becoming a tad tragic when you almost couldn't be bothered going out ever again, in your entire life, because you hate wearing bras.

Finally, I found one and shoved it on. Only problem was, it was white. I was wearing a black top with a lacy bit at the back through which you could clearly see the bra straps.

Oh well. Deciding that nobody on Earth ever even remotely notices or cares what I am wearing, I put it on. Then, I proceeded to tidy up my hair with a straightener thingy ma jig.

Meanwhile, Micky Blue Eyes started hollering that we were going to be late, in between his familiar refrain: "I'm trying to do WORK!!"

"Get your shoes on!" I screeched to the boys.

"Okaaaaaaaaay!" yelled back Mr 11

"I aaaaaam!" declared Mr 8.

I gave up on my hair and pointlessly applied lipstick. 

Some time later, we finally pile into the car, amid arguments about who should sit on the side with the dodgy seat belt. It's always Mr8, as he is smaller.

Then, my most dreaded event takes place.

Mick hands me a street directory and instructs me to look up the place where we have to go. I turn pale.

I had assumed he knew where it was and he hadn't mentioned that he didn't know.

Naturally, any 'normal' people might be expected to have a GPS device. Not these bogans. We still resort to the trusty (scary) UBD.

It is at this point that I have to let all woman kind down and openly admit I simply cannot read maps. At all.  Let alone in a moving car. The very thought makes me decidedly ill.

Frankly, I'm surprised we haven't already divorced over this. There were some rather unsettling arguments over this very thing on our honeymoon for God's sake.

After a nerve wracking trip, during which the boys refused to wind the windows up, we eventually made it there and went in to meet the outlaws. I exited the car with windblown hair, tousled and tangled,  a dishevelled wreck. So much for bothering with my appearance. Sigh.

Then came the dramas of ordering food which seemed to turn into covert operations as my out-laws had to procure whatever members only discounts they could for all our meals.

There had also been the promise of a 'Play Area' for the boys, but, disappointingly, it was shut and still under refurbishment, although my out-laws had apparently been promised it would be open.

Within five minutes all three boys were 'bored'. Luckily the food arrived quickly. Then, surprisingly the 'Little Nippers' bags they were given actually kept them entertained for quite a while and they coloured in and did the 'find-a-word' thingys.  During which, they only spilled their drinks two or three times. Not too bad.

We were considering whether we were brave enough to go and have a Santa photo taken afterwards, as we still hadn't gotten around to it. Seeing as though we were out and the boys were presentable, it seemed a good opportunity.

Leaving the club, we then drove off and drooled over all the beautiful houses we passed in this part of Sydney. I think we're not in Boganville anymore, Toto.

Passing a park, the boys exclaimed "Please! Can we go there!"

So we did.

The boys happily played away for a while. I turned my back for a split second, then I turned around, expecting to see Mr 4 still happily playing on the 'train'.

He was gone.

I called out, thinking he'd definitely crawl out from the tunnel thing on the train. He didn't.

Calling louder, I scanned the park, trying not to panic.

There he was.  Behind a tree and some bushes a few metres away.

I saw the look on his face and knew straight away.

The smell when I got closer, confirmed it.

 I was so happy to find him, I didn't mind as much as I normally would.

Naturally, there were no toilets anywhere to be seen, but the damage didn't appear to be too bad, so I decided we'd just get back into the car and go.

Although, the Santa photo option was now out of the question as I'd left Mr4's bag with a change of undies and clothes in it, at home. Handy.

However, Micky Blue Eyes decided that since we were headed that way to go home, he'd like to go to Rookwood Cemetery and look for his Grandparents graves. 

The boys groaned and grumbled, but we went anyway.

As we got out of the car, Mr 8 and 11 were slightly apprehensive about being in a grave yard.

"It's fine," I told them "dead people can't hurt you, they're dead." This is what my Mum had told me as a child and such common sense logic had seemed to work for me, as it did for the boys.

Thus, a lovely afternoon was spent roaming around the cemetery, fruitlessly searching for Mick's grandfather's grave. In the end, we gave up walking around and decided to drive up and down looking as Mick had somehow managed to find it previously with this method. No luck.

We did, however, find Mick's other Grandparents graves. His mother's parents. His grandmother had died in a motor cycle accident aged only 32 in 1945. We stood there, pondering it all.

Some people are gone from this Earth so young and others live until their 90's. Life is such a lottery, it seems.

The weather which had been visciously hot earlier, was now blowing up a strong gail. I spotted a grave of two young brothers, one had died at only 6 and the other 12. At first I assumed possibly from the same accident, until I realised their deaths were several years apart. So sad.

So many of the graves were obviously long forgotten and haven't been visited in a long time.

I hadn't really been taking any of this End Of The World stuff very seriously or I may have been even more reflective of what it's all about and what really happens when you die.

Later that night, at home, the boys saw something on TV about the supposed end of the world and completely freaked. I managed to reassure them that such predictions had happened time and again and so far have never came true.

Anyway, I hope not, because next month I am turning 42.

Apparently this is the answer to the Meaning of Life. So, hopefully, all going well, World not ending and all that, I will suddenly possess the wisdom of the ages and know what it all means on January 15th.

That, or I'll just eat cake, as always.

More about our Very Bogan Christmas, coming soon.

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A Great Big Bogan Thankyou Take Two

It has come to my attention that I have been tagged yet again for another award. This time for something called the Leibster Award. To explain what that is I pinched this from one of my taggers:

"The award is given to support and recognise up and coming bloggers who have less than 200 followers (on their blog) or likers (on their Facebook page). The word “Liebster” apparently has German origins and is reported to mean sweetest, kindest, nicest, dearest, beloved, lovely, kind, pleasant, valued, cute, endearing, and welcome. By following some basic rules (answer 11 questions set by your nominee, write 11 questions of your own and pass the award onto 11other bloggers to answer) it enables readers to get to know new bloggers and connect with a wider audience."

 

Thanks are due to Tracey from Bliss Amongst Chaos who  tagged me.

 

Now I will answer Tracey's questions:

 

1. What is your favourite colour?

Green

 

2. Best book you ever read?

There are so many but The Magic Faraway Tree and Anne Of

Green Gables are still my favourites since childhood.

3. What is your 'houseworking' music of choice?

None really. If I put music on, no house work will be done, because I'll do anything to avoid it.

 

4. Do you have a habit that others would consider weird and if so, what?

Oh boy, we could be here for a while on this question. Deep breath. I have a Karen Carpenter obsession and stimming behaviours, such as hand flapping and rocking, due to having Aspergers.

 

5. Are you messy, or a neat freak?

Horrifically messy, I'm afraid.

 

6. What is one word your friends would use to describe you?

Probably 'sweet', because they are too kind to say nauseating.

 

7. When choosing a milkshake, what flavour do you always go for?

Chocolate, of course. Chocolate makes everything better.

 

8. What is your favourite quote?

Be yourself, everybody else is already taken- Oscar Wilde

 

9. What is your favourite movie of all time?

A bit stuck on this question to be honest, but I do love Barbra Streisand, so maybe Funny Girl or The Way We Were. As I mentioned, I'm nauseating.

 

10. What is your favourite Christmas tradition?

Besides eating myself into a coma? Um, no idea really.

 

11. Do you prefer wine or spirits?The only spirit I like is scotch, so possibly wine.

 I have also been tagged by the bad ass Tegan (see, I didn't call you 'lovely' or any of those nauseating adjectives) from  Musings of the Misguided

These were her questions:

How long have you been blogging?
Since March 2012.
 

What was the first Blog you read?
Karen Carpenter Avenue. Or something to do with Karen anyway. Shut up.

How did you come up with the name for your Blog?
It's basically a pun of the classic novel Tess of the D'urbervilles and since my name is Vanessa, everyone calls me Ness for short and we do, indeed, live in Boganville, it seemed to fit. Though I've since realised that anyone making the connection between bogans and classic literature might be a bit of a stretch.

Summer or Winter?
They both suck. I can't figure out which one sucks more for me.

How do you start your day?
With a cup of tea.

One thing you couldn't live without?
Oxygen. Yep, I'm a smart arse.

If you were stuck on a deserted island, who is one person you would like to be stuck with?
Barack Obama, because then there might be a rather good search party coming to rescue us.

Your favourite indulgence food?
Chocolate

Do you blog to a schedule?
Nope. I'm not organised and I never know when I can get computer time anyway, as I have to share. Wahhhhhhh.
 
If you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would it be?
In a five star motel, in any capital city, by myself, with my books, a lap-top and unlimited room service.

Are you ready for Christmas?
As ready as I'll ever be. (ie Not ready AT ALL)


Now, I think the way it works is that I am supposed to think of some questions and tag people, however it is at this stage that I will gracefully bow out of the tag game, as I suspect that all the people I was going to tag have already been tagged. I'm always a bit behind with these things. With everything, in fact. Oops.

So, anyway, so long and thanks for all the tags!

 

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A Great Big Bogan Thankyou

A great big bogan thank you is overdue to all the lovely bloggers who tagged me for the Sunshine Award. I never thought of this boring as batshit bogan blog as being particularly sunshiney so it was quite an honour. And it also means that three extra people besides my Mum have actually read this blog, so that's always a bonus too.

 Apparently  it works like this:

"The Sunshine Award is an award given by bloggers to other bloggers. The recipients of the Sunshine Award are: “Bloggers who positively and creatively inspire others in the blogsphere”. The way the award works is this: Thank the person who gave you the award and link back to them. Answer questions about yourself. Select 10 of your favourite bloggers, link their blogs to your post and let them know they have been awarded the Sunshine Award!"

Hmmm, a creative and inspiring bogan? Interesting.

So onto the questions and tagging:

1. Favourite Time of the Year?
Spring or Autumn, I whinge when it's hot or cold and can't decide which I hate more. In between is good.

2. Favourite Festive movie?
Umm...not sure, but those Santa Claus movies that were on recently seemed to keep my boys entertained so they are up there.

3. What is your Passion?
I'd have to say my family. Because it would be wrong to say Karen Carpenter and cakies.  Wouldn't it? 

4. Favourite Colour?
Green. Maybe not lime green or fluorescent green, but pretty greens.

5. Favourite time of the Day?
Definitely NOT a morning person AT ALL, so I'll say afternoon or evenings.

6. Favourite Flower?
I suppose I'd have to be totally predictable and say roses.

7.Favourite Non-Alcoholic Beverage?
Tea!  I think my Mum weened me on a tea bag, so I've been addicted from a young age.

8. Favourite Physical Activity?
I'm actually one of these strange individuals who likes exercise DVDs and I have a collection of them. The fact that I never end up looking remotely like the smug, scarily ripped women who instruct them may be due to the afore mentioned passion for cakies and not necessarily to the ineffectiveness of the dvds.

9. Favourite Holiday?
Anywhere that's not Dubbo, Darwin or Woop Woop is a bonus when you're married to someone who thinks they're Bear Gryls and forgets they're actually an Accountant.

Now, who to tag. I read so many brilliant blogs, that frankly I think I should just give up, because clearly I have no idea what I'm doing on any level.  Anyway I'll tag these blogs:

My Home Truths

Musings of the Misguided

Oculus Mundi

Bliss Amongst Chaos

Twitchy Corner

Autism In Our Words

What Sarah Did Next

babbling bandit.me

A life of peace & gratitude

The Crafty Ex-Pat

If you are in that list and have already been tagged or do not desire to play tag, then just ignore me. Oh wait, you are already. Done.

Oh and I should probably mention that those first three were the brilliant bloggers who tagged me. I'm tagging them back because I can. And I do also read and enjoy their blogs. So thankyou!

It has also come to my attention that I have been tagged for yet another award, so more thankyous and tags to come! 


 

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