My Ideal Mother's Day

Apparently it is Mother's Day on the weekend. I know this because of the plethora of catalogues and commercials I have seen. In fact, if you were to believe these catalogues and commercials it would seem that all us Mums ever do is sit around in our pyjamas all day, soaking our feet in a foot spa, while eating chocolate and listening to Michael Buble. Hmph.

I must take umbrage with this preposterous notion. Admittedly, I'm not exactly sure what umbrage is, or if it is even a word, but it certainly sounds impressive, so umbrage it is. Yes, umbrage! HMPH! What a ridonkulous suggestion. As if I would ever do THAT. Meaning the foot spa, chocolate eating scenario I described above.

Of course I do sit around in my trackie daks, faffing around on the internet while eating cake and listening to the Carpenters. Which is COMPLETELY DIFFERENT. This is efficient multi-tasking, not lazy time wasting. No way. Sometimes I may even have a cling wrapped head just to complete this picture of sheer elegance. This is because I may be also home dyeing my hair as well. You see? Mutlti-tasking people!

Oddly enough though, this appears to be the only type of mult-tasking I excel at. Somehow, when I am attempting to cook dinner, fold laundry and help the boys with their homework simultaneously, it doesn't seem to work out so well. Sigh.

Anyway, I don't really want anything spectacular for Mother's Day. Just a couple of random, simple things in no particular order:

A new house
New 'everything in the above mentioned house'
A new car
A first class trip around the World
Diamonds
A new body (although I suspect this last one may involve ditching the cake, which is a damn shame)

That's not too much to ask for, is it? I mean, I already have a foot spa. And let's face it, I am fairly proficient at procuring my own chocolates. Okay, extremely proficient...

Seriously though, all flippancy aside (just briefly - sorry for the glitch in regular programming) I am keenly aware of how lucky and blessed I am to be a Mother. It's hard to believe now, but for a few years there it looked like it wasn't going to happen at all.  I know there are so many ladies finding Mother's Day and everything about it extremely difficult as they are still battling infertility or have had to accept a child free life. Therefore, I realise how fortunate I am. On Sunday morning I will receive my five dollar trinkets from the school Mother's Day stall from a beaming Mr 5 and 10. Mr almost 13 is too cool for all that but I'll be force cuddling him anyway. While I've never believed in force feeding, force cuddling is essential once they hit a certain age. I will be as thrilled and happy with my trinkets as if I had just received diamonds. To me, my boys are my diamonds. Sorry for going all mushy on you. Warning: more mush forthcoming.

My Mum and I at my 40th birthday
in 2011. I seem to have inherited
my antipathy towards having my
photo taken from her as I don't have
any current photos. Oops. 

Additionally, I am so lucky to still have my Mum and Mother-in-law, both in their seventies, still around to celebrate the day with. I am one very blessed Mum and daughter. My ideal Mother's Day is exactly this: spending the day with the people I love most in the whole World. And having a convenient excuse to get out of any cleaning, washing up and cooking for the day isn't bad either. Yes, I do need one! Shut up....

On that note, I am going to quit while I'm ahead as my computer and keyboard are doing some very strange things today, as if they are possessed. It's short and sweet from me today. As you were.

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

                                                 
                                                           What is your ideal Mother's Day?

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Quiet On The Nessville Front

Things have gone all quiet in the land of Nessville lately. However, at least this is consistent with the way I am in person. Exceedingly quiet. I must confess, I have just felt like I had nothing of any interest to say, so I didn't bother trying to say anything. Which is the same reason I'm quiet in person. I'm sure you thought it was because I am deep, mysterious and intellectual. Lost in my own little World, pondering on the Meaning Of Life. Nope. I just can't think of a damn thing to say. Or write, as the case may be.  Eventually I come back to the same stunning conclusion that I have in the past: having nothing to say hasn't stopped me before - so here I am! Sorry, you can't get rid of me. So ner!

The school holidays managed to fly by. We had discussed the possibility of going away somewhere, but in our usual brisk and efficient fashion we never bothered following through and booking something. Micky Blue Eyes schlepped out the Sydney Royal Easter show one day with Mr 12 and 5, while Mr 10 and I stayed home. As tempting as those Dagwood Dogs are, I can take or leave it. With emphasis on the 'leave' part.

The following week I managed to drag the boys out for a picnic with the promise of some Kentucky Fried Crap. Bribery works every time. Erm...I mean..rewards. Ahem..

We spent a lovely couple of hours in the sunshine discussing the boys fervent desire to have a dog. It was decided that our (so far fictional) dog might be named Scruffles or Jeff. However, if we do indeed decide to add a dog to the family, I'm pitching for a female one, just so I can finally have another female in the family even if it is only a dog. I've heard the theory that it's important to have a dog once your children become teenagers so that at least someone is happy to see you. Related: in approximately two months and five days I shall become the proud mother of a teenager when Mr 12 becomes Mr 13. Hold me.

Mr 5 is not always happy to see me as it is. I shudder to think of him being a teenager. Particularly since I shall be approximately 105 by then. In fact, he frequently informs me that I have to leave the room if I want him to get dressed, an arduous procedure which can take an eternity. He already has very firm ideas of what he will and won't wear. When I innocently open my mouth to say the most innocuous of statements, he'll cover his ears and howl "STOP TALKING! You're giving me a headache!!"

God forbid I should try to give him anything resembling a compliment. An exchange from just last night went something like this:

"You're my beautiful boy," I crooned, as I hugged him close.

"NO!" he insisted "that's for when you get merried! I'm NOT beautiful. That's girls when they get merried!"

That's not a typo by the way. That was exactly how he pronounced 'married'.

I smiled and said "Well, you're handsome then."

This incensed him further. "No, I'm not!" he exclaimed "That's for getting merried!"

I was now receiving the Death Stare which then turned into a beaming grin as he announced:

"Just call me awesome and the Best in the World!"

My mistake. I must get my compliments right.

Last week he was the proud recipient of an award at school for Excellent Behaviour and Attitude, as was Mr 10. Presumably his teacher's talking doesn't give him a headache. Hmph. Meanwhile, we will have to see if the great saga of Conan the Librarian continues tomorrow. This is referring to the shool's library teacher whom he is TERRIFIED of. Interestingly, Mr 10 was also terrified of her a few years ago when he started attending the school. Bloody librarians. Why do they have to be such terrifying creatures? I should know since I used to pretend to be one some years decades ago and clearly I'm frightfully scary. BOO!

Tuesday is Mr 5's library day. Typically he starts announcing that he might be sick in the morning on Monday nights. We shall see. I'm trying to decide whether I need to talk to someone at the school if his terror of Tuesdays continues unabated.

In other exciting news, I managed to venture out of the house, blinking confusedly in the sunshine, to meet a real person who is my real life friend, Kim ( I have at least one, surprisingly), for brunch last Tuesday. Following this,we did a bit of shopping and oohing and ahing at over priced clothes I can't afford and that wouldn't fit me worth a damn anyway. I did manage to score two five dollar skirts which were originally priced at $89.95 each, according to the tags. BARGAIN. Then again, I never really wear skirts, especially when it's cold, so maybe I just wasted ten bucks. Oh dear. Wearing skirts generally requires having to shave your legs and wear uncomfortable shoes so that it looks right. However, they are fairly long skirts, so I may be able to manage it. You see how exciting and meaningful my life is?

The next joyful development to occur was when Micky Blue Eyes decided to schlep all the way to Brisvegas aka Brisbane, with Mr 12 and 10 to see the Western Sydney Wanderers lose the Grand Final. Which is a damn shame. They are heading home today. I am hoping that their moods are bearable, otherwise I will be the next one packing my bags and leaving until they get over it. Boys and their balls. Seriously, it's only a game, dudes.

That is all from the Wonderful World Of Nessville for now. Stay tuned for the next thrilling installment. Or not. Totally up to you. Your loss really, if you don't. Where else would you find such entertainment and edge of your seat antics? What was that? Watching paint dry? How rude. Go and watch your paint dry, then. See if I care. Hmph.

Later dudes.

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

                                                   
                                                           Have you got anything to say?

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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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Goodbye Bogan Blog

The time has come to retire my bogan hat. Or mullet. Or rats tail. Or something....

It has become increasingly clear that I am, in fact, a pretend bogan. An impostor of sorts. I don't listen to heavy metal, drink VB or wear flannies. I don't mind a good Ugg boot, however. Maybe there is a little teensy bit of bogan in me, just like all of us. But not enough. It's been fun, but it's time to move on.

Before you start hysterically sobbing, as I'm sure you all are by now, let me assure you that I will be blogging again. Eventually. Maybe. One of these days. As soon as I can think of a new title.

Unfortunately I've discovered that I'm not very good at thinking of titles so I still haven't come up with anything.

I thought of combining Ness with Aspie and calling it Nesspie until a slightly more intelligent person than me pointed out that people will read that as Ness Pie. Which is kind of fitting in a way, as I like pie and cakies. Mmmmmnnn...pieeee.

Then I thought of re-naming the blog Ness Is More! Then the tag line: More Cake and Carpenters than you've ever read about before! But no. Just - no.

Ultimately I became so desperate that I started randomly dipping into the Thesaurus hoping some jaunty word or turn of phrase would serve as inspiration.

I closed my eyes and flipped the pages hopefully. Then I gazed at the page where my finger had landed. There it was. This word.

Buffoon:

fool
entertainer
bungler
humourist
laughing stock

Buffoonery:

foolery
wit
ridiculousness

Completely sums up me and my blog up but still leaves me clueless as to a new title. I could go with Ness The Buffoon. Just for something completely different than calling myself a bogan.

Still hopeful, I Thesaurus dipped again. Shut up. Some people Bible dip, I Therausus dip. It's a thing, I tell you!

This time look where I landed:

Vb. be inactive; do nothing, rust, stagnate, take it easy, slack, skiv, shirk, loaf, idle, mooch about, twiddle one's thumbs, trifle, dabble, fribble, fiddle-faddle, fritter away the time, piddle, potter, putter.

Good lord. I NEVER do that. Nope. No way.

What on Earth is the Universe suggesting? That I retitle my blog Ness: The Lazy Buffoon?

Outrageous! I mean, Cake Eating Lazy Buffoon maybe. 

Okay, so maybe Thesaurus dipping isn't such a great tactic. I will just have to continue pondering on this extremely important issue like the wise philosopher I am. Deep, spiritual and soulful. I'm sure to come up with something very soon. Until then, parting is such sweet sorrow....

I'll say Goodbye bogan blog
No one ever cared if I should link or write
Time and time again the chance for comment love
Has passed me by
And all I know of Google Plus is 
How to live without it
I just can't seem to understand it...

So I've made my mind up I must blog as a bogan no more
And though it's not the easy way I guess I've always known
I'd say Goodbye Bogan Blog
There are no tomorrows for these posts of mine
Surely time will lose these bitter bogans and I'll find
That there is someone to believe in and to blog for
Something I could blog for

Oh all the years (only two actually) of pointless posts 
Have finally reached an end
Pinterest and Instagram will never be my friend
From this day Bogan blog's forgotten
Sorry to my one adoring FAAAAAAAN! (Sorry Mum!)

At this point you will have to imagine the fuzz guitar solo.

What blogs lie in the future is a mystery to us all
It's been fun as a bogan, I've really had a ball
There may come a time when I'll be back and going strong 
But for now this is (not really) my song (but I'm butchering it anyway)

And it's Goodbye Bogan Blog
I'll say Goodbye Bogan Blog.

Now imagine the dramatic choral and fuzz guitar fade out.

For those of you who have no idea what the fuck I'm talking about. This.

You sad, pathetic people who don't like The Carpenters. What? I'm the pathetic one? Look - we can't all be groovy. You're just jealous!

Right then, I'm off to Dictionary dip in search of a new title. Wish me luck. I really need it. Or perhaps - give me suggestions?? *bats lashes coquettishly*

Linking up with Kirsty from My Home Truths for I Must Confess and with Michaela at Five Frogs Blog for Laugh Link. Shut up. I'm hilarious! I laugh at my own ridonkulous jokes, anyway...

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Party Like It's 1999!

Far back in the mists of ancient time, in the great and glorious days of the former galactic empire, life was wild, rich and on the whole, child free...

Okay, I may have stolen that line from Douglas Adams' Hitch Hikers Guide To The Galaxy (except for the child free bit). I only did it to reassure myself that I least I learnt and retained something from 13 years of school. I can't remember anything remotely useful from my years at school. For example, correct grammar. That might have come in handy for the purposes of this blog thereby preventing you from wishing to poke your own eyes out or open a vein as you read this. I do apologise.  My brain has only retained those lines from one book that I read more than 25 years ago. Nothing else. Not a thing I can do it about it. Except maybe return to school again. As I've mentioned before I'm sure I could still rock the whole uniform and pig tails thing. It wouldn't be weird AT ALL if I tried to just blend in with Mr 5's class, right?

Anyway, I think I have a point that I'm getting to. Actually no, not really. This whole blog is kind of pointless, really. Sigh. Oh well. It could be worse. My whole life could be pointless. Instead it is filled with meaning and purpose.  And cake. A lot of cake.  Way too much cake.

But getting back to the 'child free' bit. In those days before I had my boys I had such an exciting, thriving and interesting social life. Endless travelling (Dubbo counts as travelling. Shut up. Attending red carpet film premieres (totally imaginary but DETAILS) and parties, parties, parties!

Every other weekend it seemed like there was another one! The invitations just kept on coming! I was SO popular! It was awesome! I flitted from one party to another like the fun-loving social butterfly I always am!  Okay, I think I'm done with the exclamation points.

I most certainly was partying like it was 1999. Because it was 1999.  Or 1995 or 1990 something. That was the period of my life when I was a party animal. I couldn't get enough.

It all started with Nutrimetics. Shut up. They ARE parties. Okay, party plans, then. Hmph. Bloody details. I was searching for somebody to do my professional wedding make up. An acquaintance (I can't remember who) recommended a Nutrimetics consultant. Before you know it the round of 'parties' started. You know the kind. Where you sit around with a bunch of friends, family and your next door neighbour eating too much finger food and cakies,  while the consultant attempts to convince you that you couldn't possibly LIVE for a second longer without their amazing products. Inevitably you order some over priced item that you may or may not end up using. We've all been there.

I have to say that this Nutrimetics lady did end up doing a pretty good job of the wedding make up. Thankfully I do have photographic evidence that I looked okay a hundred million  years ago. Sigh. It was also through the Nutrimetics consultant type lady that I learnt about corrective green concealer to reduce redness I was prone to. Information that would have been helpful ten years earlier when I walked around looking like I had just been slapped hard on both cheeks or had a really bad sunburn. It was just my natural 'glow' or Rosacea which I believe is the medical term. I have to admit that when the Nutrimetics lady originally suggested that I had I thought she was making it up just to sell me another product. Turns out it is a real thing and I did have it. On the plus side I've saved a lot of money on rouge. I've never worn it ever in my life.

When it was time to have my bridal shower/kitchen tea thingy I ended up having an Undercover Wear party, which is lingerie and clothes for the uninitiated.  Some years later another round of Undercover Wear parties surfaced and proliferated through my circle of friends. After a while, if a social occasion came up, usually a wedding, since this was also the decade of weddings amongst my friends, frantic phone calls were necessary to ensure that we weren't going to turn up in the same frock or outfit.

In addition to Nutrimetics and  Undercover Wear there was also the obligatory round of Tupperware parties. Tupperware seems to be one of those things that you either love or you don't. I've known people who obsessively collect it, including the retro stuff, and others, like my mother, who are scathingly dismissive of it as over priced and unnecessary. I'm somewhere in between. I do have a bit of Tupperware in my cupboards, but never became obsessed. Although, I've got to admit, those Shape O things are great for the little ones. I still have one floating around here somewhere that I bought when Mr 12 was little, as well as his first sippy cup and plate, which were Winnie The Pooh themed Tupperware.

Somehow, over the years, the round of 'parties' dissipated as our priorities changed and we all had children and/or mortgages and consequently not as much money to burn. Let's face it, you're always going to buy something at these things even if the host insists you don't have to. Last year I was invited to my first Lorraine Lea linen party for the first time by a neighbour. I spent 70 bucks on two pillows thinking that maybe they are one of those things where you get what pay for, having spent ages searching for that elusive perfect pillow. They turned out to be as pathetic as the 10 dollar ones from Big W. Clearly this is not a sponsored post. I don't think I'd be very good at them somehow. Ahem.

I'm pretty sure my 'partying' days are over. No wait. I STILL like to party like it's 1999. When I wasn't at Tupperware/Nutrimetics/Undercover Wear parties I'd do something really wild and CRAZY called staying home and reading books. I've always been cutting edge.

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

                                                       How do you like to 'party'?

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Hospital Tales

Time for another round of tedious titillating tales from the bogan extraordinaire! This week we are telling our hospital tales.

I must admit I am extremely fortunate in that I have never been in hospital for any serious life threatening reason. Unless you count the time 15 years ago when I was admitted into hospital for suspected appendicitis which actually turned out to be the wrong diagnosis. In fact, what I had was ovarian hyer-stimulation or some such thing (I forget what the technical term is) - a nasty and potentially dangerous side effect from the fertility drugs I was taking at the time.

There is nothing quite like being wheeled into surgery looking and feeling like utter crap only to have your High School nemesis suddenly appear as one of the theatre staff beaming at you in the same utterly patronising way you remember from years gone by.

"You've lost all your hair!" she exclaimed as if I was bald instead of just having short hair. Luckily they knocked me out with the anaesthetic shortly after that and ended the pain of that reunion as well as the ovarian pain.

Other than that incident I've only been in hospital for day procedures to have wisdom teeth extracted and to investigate my fertility issues during my 20's. Can you believe I ever had fertility issues? Yeah, I can't either! I've also had a tubal ligation a few years ago so I don't have to think about contraception anymore. In spite of this, I STILL worry that I may fall pregnant. Everything about pregnancy has been completely bizarre for me so I worry that I would be that one in a billion bizzarro person who couldn't fall pregnant for love nor money while I was still young and in my 20's even with fertility drugs but might fall pregnant now in my 40's despite having had a tubal ligation. I'm not paranoid AT ALL.

My only other trips to hospital were when I had my babies. The worst of them was when I had a still-birth experience in 2007. I've never really written about it because it's hard to find the words to describe something like that.  The birth had to be induced and I was awake for it and felt all the pain of a normal birth. When I changed my mind after declining the pethidene shot for several hours, the midwife, who was obviously due to finish her shift, got all huffy and slammed the door when she went out to get it. I know nurses and midwives are over worked and underpaid but I imagine that if it was a contest as to who was having the worst day that day I would have won. A bit of empathy, please. The only consolation was seeing the baby and being able to say goodbye to him.

Another memorable hospital experience was when Micky Blue Eyes was diagnosed with Cancer. He had to have a blood transfusion immediately as he was severely anaemic and losing blood. He was joking around and saying that maybe he should become a vampire and drink it because it would be quicker! Meanwhile, I had to leave my squeamishness at the door and get over myself very quickly. Then the surgeon came in to describe what he was going to do and it all sounded rather gruesome  It seemed that he was going to slice the bejesus out of him. Long story but we ended up changing surgeons and he had a specialist colo-rectal surgeon and I'm SO GLAD we did. Nine years later he's still here to tell the tale.

Me and Mr 5 when he was brand new.

Fortunately, after the still birth in 2007 I was pregnant again the following year. I had decided to change obstetricians because I was slightly uncomfortable with my former female obstetrician's rather blunt and straight forward beside manner. She was no Nina Proudman. Although that's possibly a good thing when you think about it. Isn't Nina just a little too neurotic to be a obstetrician? And doesn't she have rather too many complicated daydreams about her love life when she's supposed to be delivering babies? But this post isn't supposed to be about Offspring. Oops. Back to my point...

When the day rolled around and it was decided that I had to have an emergency c-section due to my alarmingly high blood pressure my obstetrician was away and the back up one was also away that day - so who did I end up with? You guessed it. Ms Blunt who expertly cut me open and delivered my baby (now Mr 5), tiny but breathing. That was all I was concerned with. Then, with her usual bluntness she cornered me, which wasn't very difficult considering I was completely numb from the waist down from the epidural thingy. I certainly wasn't going anywhere.

"How many more babies are you going to have? she barked.

"None," I replied "this is it."

"GOOD!" was her emphatic response "You were just lucky this time."

Thanks for the information, love.

I have to admit I did feel lucky. And I still do every day when I look at my boys.

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

                                                    What are your hospital tales?

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Winging It

 Another Monday has rolled inconveniently around. They have a tendency to do that, the rude things. I must confess that my brain feels like cotton wool this morning even post coffee, so this post will most likely sound like meandering gibberish. Which is quite similar to most of my posts really. Consistency is important. 

Over the weekend Mr 9 became Mr 10. He had a bowling party which he enjoyed. I must confess that that I find the wall of noise in those places quite challenging. I've only just got my hearing back. However, I'd find organising a party at home even more challenging. Couldn't organise a piss up in brewery. Or a meat raffle in a butcher's. Or an orgy at a nymphomaniac convention.  You get the picture. 

With this in mind, I decided to finally get with the 21st century and purchase a new phone so that I could start using the calendars and reminders and things to help me become more organised. Shut up. It could happen. I could possibly even take a selfie for the first time EVER. I know - I haven't even LIVED. Apparently people can't possibly live these days unless they take selfies every 17 seconds and photograph their food before they eat it, so that's how I've come to the conclusion that I haven't lived. 

However, I must confess that I STILL haven't worked out how to use the contraption. I did point the  thing at my face thinking I'd take a selfie and recoiled in utter horror. Do I REALLY look like that? I think there is a reason I've never taken one. Nobody needs to see that. 

In other scintillating news I had my first tit crushing experience last week which was quite painful bracing. I have to admit to being a big scardey cat and feeling quite anxious about it. But it was over with in a jiffy. As they say, Mammogramming your boobs is more important than Instagramming them. Not that there is any danger of me doing that. I can't even Instagram my face let alone my National Geographics. But yes - PETRIFIED before hand. You'd think nothing would scare you anymore after experiencing childbirth, right? WRONG.

Especially since experiencing childbirth usually means you now have children. Which is scary. Because you worry about them all the time. I must confess that after watching this report about a paedophile ring and all the media coverage about the Daniel Morcombe case recently that I've felt sickened and horrified. It makes me question all humanity and the wisdom of blogging at all. Sigh. 

Now I need to mention cake again quickly just to lighten the mood. CAKE. There, that's better. Yes, I did have a lovely cake filled weekend because of Mr 10's birthday and Micky Blue Eyes loading up with a few cakes from an old favourite cake shop we hadn't been to in years. He isn't helping my addiction. He is furthering it. I knew I married him for a reason. 

Anyway, it appears that there is a mountain of washing awaiting me to be put away so I had better end this gibberish here and get on with it. 

Later dudes. 

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

                                      What is on your mind on this fine Monday morning?

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