Meep Meep

Today I am linking up this past confession with My Home Truths for I Must Confess. Thanks to Kirsty for hosting the link up and giving me the opportunity to take part!

Now to the stunning revelation(s):

I have a confession to make. More like two confessions to be honest. The first startling revelation is that I have actually been watching Big Brother.

Gasp! Shock! Horror!

It's purely for research of course.  After all, I have to keep up my reputation as a Bogan for the sake of this blog. That's one excuse. The other is that it's my bonding time with Master 11. Where once I used to dance around to the Wiggles with him, now we watch Big Brother together. The things we do. He totally forces me. He does! Oh, shut up.

Besides, watching a bunch of gregarious people who love the sound of their own voice and seek attention in the form of cameras on them 24/7 is oddly fascinating to me.  Perhaps because I am the polar opposite. An intensely shy, introverted Aspergian who flees in alarm at the sight of any form of camera. 

I destest drawing attention to myself.  In fact, I just realised that I haven't had a photo taken of myself since March. As for talking, well, let's just say that conversation skills are definitely not my strong point. Slight understatement. That's like saying that sensitivity is not really Alan Jones's strong point.

Anyway, I was getting to a point with my revelation, and that was to my second revelation.  The house mates on Big Brother invented the expression of a 'Meeper.' This is meant to describe a person who doesn't really fit into a group as such, so they kind of 'meep' or hover around conversations, then ineffectually try to join in.  However, somehow it doesn't quite work for them, so it's almost as they've just gone: "Meep Meep!"  Inevitably, Meepers seem to end up draining and dampening a conversation instead of keeping it flowing.

My point is, watching this, I realised that I am probably something resembling a 'Meeper'.  Worse still, I am not even particularly good at 'meeping' As I've mentioned conversation skills are not my forte.  Particularly in groups.

Whenever I take Master 3 to Playgroup, I suspect I 'meep'.  I awkwardly hover around conversations taking place, utterly clueless as to how to join in.

I'm a Meeper like Road Runner,
shame I can't run fast like him too.

Finally, not wishing to appear totally aloof, I make a fumbling attempt to say something, but never overcome the awkward feeling that I am, as they say on Big Brother, 'meeping'.

This probably has a lot to do with two things:

1. My shyness
2. My Asperger's

Since having children, though, I have to regularly be in situations that require making small talk.  Something that, as a shy, introverted Aspie I am seriously woeful at. Hence my 'meeping'.  Sometimes, however, it becomes even worse.

Take for instance, the time I took Master 8 to a McDonald's party for a school friend.  What was hours of Happy Meal filled fun for him, was excruciating for me. I was forced to sit with all the other Mum's and make chit chat.

It all started okay with banal comments on the weather and how the year was flying by. Then, the conversation took a serious turn when one Mum remarked that a friend of hers had recently suffered a late miscarraige but had still had to deliver the baby as the pregnancy was so advanced.

"Imagine having do that," she said, her eyes wide with horror "I don't think I could do it! It would be so awful!"

"Yeah, it is," I responded "that happened to me."

Her eyes widened further. She gaped in disbelief, obviously wishing the floor would open up and swallow her. But she could never have known. Trust me to drob a  bombshell and kill a conversation.

Another time, a Mum at Playgroup confided how worried she was as her father was in hospital having various tests. I helpfully shared how Micky Blue Eyes had had cancer, while her worried expression turned to one of blind panic. Realising my mistake, I hastily apologised. But it was too late.

I truly mean well, it's just that I have terminal foot in mouth disease combined with 'meeping'. I'm a 'Foot in Mouth Meeper'.

So, to avoid such social gaffes I usually stick firmly to what I do best. Shutting right up. That, or, where I once used to be extremely self-concious about eating in public, I now enthusiastically shovel food into my mouth at social occasions. After all, it's rude to speak with your mouth full, right? As long as I keep shovelling I don't have to talk.

I'm unsure if it's too late to cure my 'meeping' and general social awkwardness. All the literature I have read regarding social skills in ASD seems to be directed at children.  So, at the mature age of 41, am I stuck with my 'Foot in Mouth Meeping' tendencies? I guess so, since the only answer I have is this:

Meep Meep.

Do you 'Meep'? Say the wrong things? Or are you the king or queen of chit chat?

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Holiday Happenings

Since our recent holiday was such a (tedious bore) resounding success, I thought I would take a break from the sweeping sagas of our past and bring you up to date with recent happenings.

Micky Blue Eyes had booked a motel in Denman in the Upper Hunter Valley for a few days.
"What are you coming here for," the man taking the booking had asked "for work, is it?" This wasn't exactly selling it as a tourist destination, but we made the booking anyway and then another at Maitland.

The drive there was actually quite pleasant. No puking! Hurrah!  The boys were delighted because they actually scored Macca's drive through. I decided to try the lamb burger only to discover the thing is as big as my head.

Driving on, we stopped at a park for a break and had a spirited game of 'tips.' I had to at least pretend that I was still getting some exercise.

Upon arriving, we checked in.
"What's on?" the woman at reception asked, quizzically "what did you come here for?"
"No reason," I mumbled.
"Just to get away from the rat race," Mick chuckled.
"Oh," she said, shortly, obviously deciding we were nuts.  Apparently even the locals can't imagine why anyone would want to go there. Interesting.

After a day or two the boys were (bored shitless) having a blast.
"Can we go in the pool? Pleeeeeease!!!" they begged.  Reluctantly, we agreed.  Trudging out to the deserted pool, we gingerly  dipped our toes in.  Holy shit! It was beyond freezing.  Master 8 and 11 were not to be deterred, however and defiantly splashed in out of the water for 20 mins, with their teeth chattering, before we all finally bailed.

The following day, we visited Muswellbrook. The boys were keen to see some serious shops. We pulled up outside a Vinnies Store. Yay! Cheap books! I weighed the pro's and cons of going in.

Pro: I could score cheap books.

Con: Micky would inevitably buy some woeful old shirts.

In the end, the lure of cheap books was too much to resist.

Half an hour later, I heaved my bag full of books back into the car, now heavily weighted down and we headed down the street. We drove past a shopping centre sporting signs for Big W and Woolworths.
"Yes!" the boys chorused "Let's go in there!"
They were hoping for a food court with a KFC.

Sailing up the travelator, we then traipsed in. It was eerily deserted.  There was the food court. Resplendent with a total of three shops, not one of them Macca's or KFC. The boys sulked and glowered.

Eventually Master 11 agreed to have a beef kebab, while the other two had hot chips. Happily stuffed with kebabs and hot chips, we then meandered around the shops. Inevitably, we ended up in the toy section in Big W, where I proceeded to repeat the word NO approximately every 2 seconds. I'm pretty sure I would have been able to experience such holiday (hell) bliss at home.

After about 16 million No's, we ventured to the front exit, where I agreed they could have a lolly/treat.  Fifteen minutes of whinging about the crap selection of treats ensued, while the cashier looked on with a pained expression.  Finally I paid for some Tic Tacs and a Mars Bar and left, forgetting to pay for a small packet of pins I'd stuffed in the pocket of the pram. Oops. I had unwittingly become a shop lifter.  Little did I know, this is apparently a common occurrence in Muswellbrook.

Next, we went for a walk down the main street, noting how deserted the place was. We came to club and decided to go in and have a drink.  This time there wasn't even the obligatory local drunk to turn around and stare at us like we had two heads. It was completely empty.  The boys had a jug of lemonade to add to their sugar high, while I mellowed out with two scotch and cokes, and Mick with a beer, before he headed back to get the car.

The Best Movie Ever

Back in the car, the portable DVD player started up with the familiar strains of Shrek 4 Ever After. Henceforth to be known as The Best Movie Ever. Not only does it have a Carpenters song in it, but the boys were so transfixed by it in the car, that we managed to drive past Macca's and KFC, then turn around and drive past them again, and they didn't even notice.

Next stop was Maitland. This time the room was exactly right for (paralysing claustrophobia) cosy, comforting togetherness.  Bunk bed battles began. As well as balcony paranoia, as they had put us upstairs. With no other rooms available we had no choice but to panic over Master 3's whereabouts at all times.

The highlight of Maitland was, once again, a massive Lifeline shop. More books! Yes, we are such classy people.

The Griswald's. We are classy, like them...

The final evening we settled in to watch  National Lampoon's Vaction starring Chevy Chase. Ah, those crazy Griswald's. And we're just like them! See, I told you we are classy people. Just like movie stars. Yep. 

The movie ended and we all settled in for the night. Except the boys decided to get an attack of the giggles.  Finally, in a frantic effort to make them go to sleep Mick helpfully made the fatal mistake of saying: "Quick! You better get to sleep, I thought I saw someone near the window!"  Good one. Great way to get kids to sleep. Scare the bejesus out of them!

The next day we arrived home (exhausted and drained) rested and relaxed, ready for them to go to back to school. Yippee!

Except...Master 8 was sick, then Master 3..and me.. boo hoo...

But, on the positive side, plans are already under way for another bogan trip in January. So move over Griswald's, it's now our song: Holidaaay Roooooaad....

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Bumps To Baby Part Two

This week's Lounge topic is adult temper tantrums, so I am linking this old post about the time I slapped my own mother. I know. Shameful. I blame hormones. Ahem.

It seems like the years of trying to have a baby are now the Wilderness Years or the Forgotten Years. I'm trying hard to remember them and I seem to have blocked quite a bit of it out. Weird.

After receiving the devastating news that IVF was our only chance of a baby, we put off making a decision for a while.  I wasn't sure if I could face another Linda Blair/Exorcist experience.

I remember having some rather irrational thoughts.  I thought Micky Blue Eyes should leave me and find someone else.  After all, the problem was with my plumbing, not his. 

Then, a friend of Mick's suggested we visit a naturopath.  This had worked out well for them and they were currently expecting after having seen her for a few months.  I was horrified and indignant. How dare these people come along with their hippy drippy new age theories that were not going to work for me. The professor dude had said IVF was my only chance. However, Mick was keen on the idea, so, I reluctantly agreed.

Next thing you know we were both swallowing some hideous herbal concotions, taking vitamins and eating healthy.  I was charting my temperatures to predict ovulation.  All to no avail.  We trotted backwards and forwards to the naturopath and persisted for a good year. Nothing. 

At this point, she informed us.  "I'm sorry, it should have worked by now. You might have to do IVF."  Gee, thanks.

Proving how desperate we were by this stage, however, we decided to try another hippy drippy  alternative treatment. We went to a Reflexologist. And no, I can't explain what they are, or do, even though I've been to one. There seemed to be a lot of tapping involved. The woman tapped away while Mick I gave each other pointed looks. We never went back.

Around this time, I started to read as much info on this pesky PCOS thing as I could find.  The thing that seemed to come up a lot in all the literature was that exercising was of extreme importance in managing the condition.

So I gritted my teeth and started to exercise.  I kept on exercising, even though I thought I might explode and die from the effort.  I did aerobics like a possessed woman. I sweated buckets. It sucked. Still, I woke up the next day and did it again.  Then a funny thing happened.  I started to like it. I hardly ever missed a day. 

I had a body like Denise Austin. Well not really, but I
did used to have hair like that...

Then, an even funnier thing happened.  The girl who'd been absolutely hopeless at anything sporty or physical, and was a total unco-ordinated klutz suddenly found herself becoming *gasp* an Exercise Addict. I LOVED it.  I knew all the annoying things Denise Austin would say on the tapes before she said them, I was so familiar with them.

"If you rest you rust!"

"If you don't move it, you lose it!"

Oh, and apparently I was always 'doing great!' and a 'champion' though I'm not sure how she knew that.

Not surprisingly, with all this exercising and eating healthy stuff, I dropped a few kilos.  Funny about that. Eat less. Move more. Lose weight. Hmm, not exactly rocket science. I'll never understand  why mother nature or whomever couldn't work it out so lazing about eating cakies could have the same effect. Hmph.

I also went back to doing some casual library work and secured a 12 month position with a law firm in the city. If I was never going to have a baby, I may as well work, I reasoned.

My 30th birthday rolled around. I went out and celebrated with friends, where I whined about not being able to have a baby with other friends in a similar circumstance. Not a particularly classy thing to do, when you are already, in fact, well and truly, up the duff. But, I swear to God. I seriously had NO IDEA. 

A month or two later, still firmly in the grip of Exercise Addiction, I attended a friend's hen's night. I wondered why my clothes were becoming too tight. And why I felt extremely ill after only a few drinks.

Additionally, all the energy I was now used to having from my Exercise Addiction seemed to have deserted me and I found it a herculean task to simply put one foot in front of the other. My boobs were permanently sore and my periods had disappeared.

All common symptoms of PCOS according to all the info on it I'd been reading.  It couldn't be anything else.  I'd tried for years to become pregnant. Even fertility drugs didn't work and the professor dude said IVF was my only chance.

So, when my poor mother had the audicity to gently suggest that perhaps I might be pregnant, I turned into a shrieking, shouty, insane woman, who slapped her own mother in the face (sorry Mum)  and sunk onto the floor in a sobbing heap.

Upon hearing this, Micky Blue Eyes had had quite enough of my moodiness. I suspect I was rather unpleasant to live with really. (Sorry, Micky) He made me go with Mum to the doctor's the very next day.

At the doctors surgery, he had me lie on the bed and examined me. My belly suddenly looked ridiculously huge compared to the rest of me, when I lay down.

 "It looks like you're pregnant," he told me. It was like he was saying: "It looks like an alien has invaded your body and presently will burst out of your torso, like Sigourney Weaver in ALIEN" for all the sense it made to me. No way, I wasn't pregnant. "But  you better have an ultra sound to make sure."

A few hours later I went in for an ultra-sound. The examiner squirted the gel on my suddenly ridiculously huge belly and started prodding me and saying nonsensical things in her Asian accent. I thought it sounded something like 'oh yes, there's the head, and the arms..." What?! It really was an alien?!

  "I'm pregnant??!!" I finally managed to gasp. The woman looked completely startled. "Yes, yes! Pregnant, 26 weeks! You didn't know?"

All I could do was laugh and cry hysterically at the same time, while the Asian lady kept repeating "26 week! And didn't know! Ha ha ha ha!" I'd like to think she was laughing with me, but I suspect she wasn't. She also mentioned the baby was a boy without asking if I wanted to know, which was slightly inconsiderate.

Still laughing and crying, hysterically, I finally went out and told my ecstatic Mum she was becoming a Granny again in only a few months! Then, I rang Mick.

"Hello Dad," I said, when he answered.
"No, no it's Mick, " he said "you haven't rang  your father."
"I know!" I replied.

We all went out for dinner that night to celebrate. It felt better than winning lotto.  Well, I've never actually won lotto, so if that could be arranged so I can tell for sure, I probably wouldn't mind.

Lotus flower: pretty, but not helpful during Child birth

3 months or so later our son (now Master 11) was born, but I won't describe the birth. If I did, I would end up sounding like one of those awful hippy drippy new agers who just use the power of positive thinking while imagining their uterus opening up like a lotus flower. Ugh. Hate them. After all, epidurals were invented for a reason, right?

But I never had one. Or any pain relief, for that matter. Yep, that's right. I was TERRIFIED of child birth and I aced it. After a 3 month pregnancy. You can hate me if you want. Okay, I'm shutting up now.

Hang on. One more thing. Obviously I have 3 boys now. All conceived naturally. So, the Professor dude was wrong. That, or I just finally figured out what caused it...

Right, I'm off to dig out those Denise Austin tapes to see if I can become addicted to exercise again, instead of cakies.  After all, if  you rest you rust.

Linking up with The Lounge which is being hosted this week by Robomum.

What was your worst adult temper tantrum?

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Bumps To Baby Part One

A word of warning. This blog post could be a tad tedious until you get to the twist at the end. Which most of you already know anyway. So, I apologise for boring you.  Then again, it is what I do best.  Boring people, that is. It's a gift I have. The ability to be a crashing, heaving bore.  We shouldn't waste our gifts, presumably, so here goes. Brace yourself.

There came a time after Micky Blue Eyes and I were married for a year or so, when I fervently desired to become Up The Duffian.  This was in spite of an overwhelming, irrational fear of childbirth.  Actually, let me re-think that. It's not entirely irrational to be afraid of growing another human being inside you, then having to push said human being out your,..erm, va jay jay.  That shit hurts. Like hell.  The idea of that kind of, sort of, um... actually totally FREAKED ME OUT.

Professor type dude

So, consequently it was somehow rather ironic when it seemed as if it wasn't going to happen after all.  My girly bits were not co-operating and doing what they were supposed to. Apparently this was due to some pesky thing called PCOS or Polycystic Ovary Syndrome.

This led to me having to see some Professor type fertility dude,  and being jabbed with drugs.  Not the fun kind that might make you happy, the crappy kind that make you moody, bloated and basically like you have a permanent case of feral PMS.  It may have been worth it had it worked. It didn't. I was pumped full of drugs and still not in the pudding club.

By this time we were several years into trying and beginning to become extremely despondent and disillusioned with the whole bumps to baby  thing.  We decided to take a break from the treatment.

Then, one Saturday shortly thereafter, we were having a lazy day at home. I started experiencing stomach pains. Figuring it must be something I ate, I put up with it.  The pain intensified and before long I was doubled over agony.  The pain was excruciating, I had never experienced anything like it.

Then came the projectile vomiting. I was Linda Blair in the Exorcist, only scarier.   I was only able to lay there while pain gripped my insides with brutal ferocity, in between bouts of hideous, projectile vomiting.

Linda Blair in the Exorcist.  I was scarier. Eeeek!

"I can take you to the hospital." Mick would say.
"Noooo!" I wailed idiotically and writhed in agony. Unbelievably, I survived the night. I was certain I was going to die.  I visited the nearby medical centre, where they told me I just had a gastro bug and sent me home.  Where I proceeded to remain in agony for another two days, before my Mum took me to her doctor who ordered me straight to hospital.  They suspected my appendix were in trouble and never connected it to the fertility drugs

Emergency surgery revealed I has a massive blood filled cyst. The surgeon seemed quite shocked saying he'd never seen anything like it. This (the agony/projectile vomiting/blood filled cyst thing) was actually a wonderful side effect to the fertility drugs called Ovarian Hyperstimulation.  I didn't learn until later that this condition is also potentially fatal. So I hadn't been exxaggerating to think I might die.

 To cut a long story short I went back to the Professor dude only to discover I now had endometriosis as well as PCOS and in his professional opinion I would never be able to have a baby without IVF. 

"It's your only chance." he informed us, expressionless. Micky Blue Eyes and I sat there dumbfounded.  No doubt he had to deliver the same news to equally dumbfounded, distraught couples every day, so it was nothing new for the Professor dude. It was a punch in the guts for us though.

My only chance of a baby was through IVF which involved me taking drugs which would more than likely cause this potentially fatal Hyperstimulation thing again.  I would have to consider risking my own life for the sake of creating a new one. Heavy stuff.  Devastating actually. 

We really believed it was never meant to happen.  But, as you probably know, it did. With a surprising twist...

Stay tuned for the details.

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Honeymoon & Other Happy Holidays

There was a time in our lives, as unbelievable as it is now, when we thought we might never be able to have children.  So we thought, what the hell, we'll travel.

London, Paris, New York - they're nice places, I've heard. But we went to Dubbo instead. As you do.  Especially if you're a couple of bogans.

For our honeymoon we had booked a trip to Tasmania on the Spirit of Tasmania.  This involved driving to Melbourne at the time as the boat didn't depart from Sydney. Miraculously, Mick had somehow persuaded me to do this as I have a fear of boats and water. Apparently love really is blind.

The trip accross the Bass Strait went smoothly. We had booked all accommodation with a budget motel chain. Let's just call them 'Best Bogan'.  The first place we checked into, I went into reception.

"Hello," I said, approaching the lady at reception "we have a booking." She checked our details then exclaimed "Oh, it's your honeymoon!"
"Yes," I said, wondering how she knew.
"We're giving you the honeymoon Suite!" she beamed. Okay.

We entered the room.  It was the same as any other run of the mill motel room.  Except for the giant, red, shiny, love heart shaped water bed in the middle of the room. Classy.

From Hobart we travelled on to Cradle Mountain.  Micky Blue Eyes  really enjoys nature.  In spite of the fact that he is actually an Accountant, he prefers to ignore that and think of himself as an Albhy Mangels type of adventurer when we're on holidays.  However, this was our honeymoon.  It's supposed be to romantic, right?


Somewhere in Tasmania. I can't remember where
exactly, it was 17 years ago for FFS. 

A four hour walk around the lake in the rain while starving and nearly passing out from hunger, wasn't exactly cutting it.  Neither was the near death experience of a cruise on the river Strahan through Hell's Gate.  And I know why they call it that. This boat trip and another one to Maria Island, certainly did absolutely nothing to cure my fear of boats and water.  I freak out going on the Manly ferry now.

The following year we headed over to Perth, Western Australia and stayed in the Park Royal in the city.  We have fond memories of sitting in the foyer sipping cappuccinos while a piano player tinkled away in the background.  Such is a thing is impossible now. Sigh.  We hired a car and headed up north to Monkey Mia.

The only thing to actually do at Monkey Mia was sit on a beach, albiet, a stunningly beautiful beach, and wait for dolphins to decide whether or not they wish to appear. They did, eventually.

Another memorable vacation involved a trip up to Cairns in sunny Queensland.  We spent several days staring at the four walls of the motel room while a cyclone raged outside.  At one point, it became deadly calm and Mick remarked that he'd love to go for a walk.  Just then the announcer on the radio said "You'd have to be out or your mind to go out there now."  Apparently it was the 'eye' of the cyclone passing over so everything becomes still and calm until it starts raging away again.

In spite of this, we did make out to see the Great Barrier Reef and I actually went snorkelling, which is a minor miracle considering my intense fear of water.  Not to mention being seen in a swim suit.

On yet another holiday at Coolum on the Sunshine Coast in Queensland, Mick suddenly decided to become my personal trainer and had me jogging up a hill daily.  We were into our long fertility trek by now and were trying to get fit (long story for a whole other blog).

 The following year we went to Darwin. We thought this was like visiting the 7th Circle of Hell. We were wrong.  We discovered that is actually Broken Hill in the middle of January.  Somehow I survived the heat, blissfully unaware that I was pregnant. Maybe the jogging worked, not sure.

Our happy holidays reached a whole new level with the arrival of children.  Now any jaunts around winding roads are filled with the wonderful sounds of Mr8 puking his guts up.  This happened on our trip to Tassie (again) last year. Not to mention the relaxing flight to get there, when we received the wrath of the flight attendant numerous times for not being able to control a recalcitrant Mr3 who proceeded to take his seat belt off as we were preparing to land and busy himself turning on the overhead lights. Fun.

And the fun continues...as we are in the process of planning for our next adventure. Which exciting destination will we choose for a September school holidays road trip? Dubbo? Orange? Timbuktu or Woop Woop?  Stay tuned for some (not so) exciting developments.

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To Be A Bogan, Or Not To Be A Bogan? That Is The Question

As you know by now, Micky Blue Eyes, the boys and I live in the truly glamorous area of Sydney I've called Boganville.  The blog title is a bit of a give away. 

This begs the obvious question.  Are we, indeed, bogans? I must confess, I'm not really sure that we are.

I am currently sitting here in my most alluring outfit of old tracky daks and a polar fleece jacket that I have owned for years. In a home that is in utter disarray. A ramshackle old fibro box.  All extremely classy.  We will usually have some sort of elegant and refined meal for dinner. Like bangers and mash.

On the other hand, I'm not terribly fond of many of the things that the stereo-typical bogan supposedly is.Which, according the web-site Things Bogans Like include:

• Reality TV
•  Acca Dacca
•  Tatoos
• Meat Lovers Pizza
• Pauline Hanson, and erm..
•  Hot Asian Chicks

I mean, I have nothing against Hot Asian Chicks, of course, they're perfectly fine.  They're just not really  my thing, if you know what I mean.

The list is very comprehensive and can be found here.


Frankly I'm not even entirely sure what Dikileaks is, which is #205 on the list.  Can anybody tell me? On second thoughts, do I really want to know?

In fact the only things (or celebrities really), that I do like, after a quick squiz at that list, are Michael Buble and Sarah Jessica Parker, in spite of her alleged resemblance to a horse. I must admit, I am also rather partial to a mild curry.

However, not one of my boys has a rats tail. Or a wacky, weirdly spelt name that sounds like something out The Days Of Our Lives. Only worse.  You know, something like Blayze or Foxx or Jaxxon.  Apparently those are just some of the Baby Names Bogans Like, as well as:

• Calcypher (I guess you could shorten it to Cal)
• Caramel ( I thought this was a milk shake flavour, not a name. Silly me.)
• Chaos (well, children do sometimes cause chaos so it could be apt)
• Chardonnay ( Yes please, but chilled and in a wine glass, not on my child's birth certificate)
• Frolic (once again, it could be apt where children are concerned as they often do. Frolic, that is)
• Luscious  (Sounds a tad like a porn name, but maybe that's just me)

I could go on, but the list is rather long. 

In addition to my boys having boring names, I am so tedious and tragic that I don't have any tatoos or piercings.  To make matters worse, my favourite music is Carpenters. In other words, Nanna music or elevator music.  Doesn't exactly scream Bogan does it? (It may scream mega nerd from hell, but that's another story.)

A woman this classy
could never be a Bogan.
Nope. No way.

Of course, as the site points out, the old concept of the Bogan has evolved  from just the flannie wearing, mullet-headed, heavy metal loving, garden variety Bogan to the more upwardly mobile Cashed Up Bogans.  These Bogans favour McMansions, Masterchef and rather pretentious weddings.

As I've mentioned in previous blogs, I did sport a quite fetching mullet-perm as a teenager, but that was when I was suffering from *TES, as opposed to being a bogan.

So, I can only come to the logical conclusion that this is yet another of those little ironies in my life. I'm a non-bogan living in Boganville. Yep, definitely not a bogan at all. 


Now that we've settled that, I think I'll go put my Uggs on, my feet are freezing.

*Tragic Eighties Syndrome

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

Do you like 'Bogan Style' Baby Names? Or anything that Bogans Like?

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I'm Not Spotless, I'm Clueless

Being a Boganville Housewife Extraordinaire supposedly means it is my job to keep the Bogan Box in a reasonable state of cleanliness and order. It's only a small house, as the word Box would suggest, so therefore you'd think it wouldn't be too difficult.

Wrong. I simply do not get housework.  Anybody who walks into my home could be forgiven for thinking that I am a lazy, feral sloth creature.  That all I do all day is sit on the computer posting boring as batshit blogs and Facebook updates.  And I would never do anything like that. Ahem. Mainly because I can't now. But that's not the point.  I do have one. I promise. I will get to it presently.

The truth is, I have tried so hard to be a Domestic Goddess. To de-clutter, organise and have everything gleaming and perfect.  Or, if not perfect, at least somewhat presentable. 

Inside the Bogan Box. This was a good day. Oh, shut up.

I have purchased all the gear. The mops, brooms, tubs of Gumption, bleach and Pledge Grab-Its.  I even purchased that awful smug book called Spotless. And the even smugger (is that a word?) Speed Cleaning, which promised I could have a spotlessly clean house in 15 minutes a day. Uh, yeah right.

 I thought I would finally find the secret answer and knowledge that everyone seems to have but me.  Apparently it's bi-carb and vinegar, according to that book.

Bi-carb and vinegar fix everything.  So I bought those too. But somehow, my house still isn't gleaming. Not even remotely. It smells really vinegary though. Sigh.

The problem is, I can't even logically work out how to go about all the tasks I need to do.  If I have say, ten things I know I need to do (it's more like 17 million on any given day, really, but I condensed it) I can't work out how to prioritise them in a completely rational, logical way as most people seem to.  I feel bewildered and over-whelmed before I even begin.

"Write a list. " Mick tells me.  I've tried that too. Lists and I don't get on.  I either forget the list, lose the list or have a lovely list of the things I failed to complete that day mocking me from the fridge door.

This picture does not accurately reflect the amount of washing
in our house, which would actually be enough to fill the Indian Ocean.

So I'll just plough in and start doing something, usually folding washing. We always have mountains of the stuff.  Something or someone ends up distracting me. It could be the phone ringing or Mick talking to me. Mainly it's the boys.  Or I'll just walk to another room to put the clothes away, become completely distracted by something that needs doing there and end up totally forgetting the piles of clothes back in the other room I still haven't put away.

This leads to Micky Blue Eyes finding the piles later, and becoming annoyed thinking that I deliberately left them there for him to put away.  I never do.  I just simply forget. The truth is I am just a very forgetful and easily distracted person, especially when it comes to housework.

On the surface it appears that I don't care about this. About the state of my home. That I am deliberately blase about cleanliness and order. Thoroughly relaxed and unconcerned. On the inside, however, this is not the case whatsoever and it actually causes me a great deal of consternation.  I've spent nights unable to sleep going over and over it. Truly. Feeling bad about myself because I don't seem to get something so seemingly simple. I mean, it's not Rocket Science is it?  These are routine, menial tasks.

To make matters worse, we never invite people over, simply because I am too ashamed.  The shame and guilt eat me alive some days.
It also appears that I am the furthest thing possible from a perfectionist.  Judging from the perpetual state of my home the idea is truly laughable and absurd, I realise. However, I struggle with the belief that I should be perfect.

Not only should I be a perfect Domestic Goddess with a gleaming home looking like something straight of a Home Beautiful magazine, but I should also be the perfect mother.  Able to cook exquisite meals which are promptly served at 6pm every night.  Have my boys into a strict routine.

 But even that's not quite enough. I think I should also be able to make time not just to get a bit of exercise, but to literally train almost to the degree of an Olympic Athlete. Oh, and since we are living in Boganville, if we wish to have any hope of making it to Boganville Heights, I really should be working outside the home and earning money. 

In addition to this, I feel I should really make time to be a creative genius with my writing.  A boring as batshit blog isn't good enough. I should have been able to have whipped up a best-selling novel, you know, by lunch time. Yesterday.

I think I see where the problem is.

I'm not a perfectionist. I'm a should-ist.  I think I should be perfect, and therefore because I fall so glaringly and pathetically short of my list of shoulds I constantly feel like a useless failure.

These feelings don't work for me.  There is no pay-off for me, in cleaning all day.  I can't seem to find any positive feeling of a job well done or pride in my home.  I just feel like I'm repeatedly failing at something that is supposedly easy or menial. So, the more I think about it, it actually makes sense that I  would eventually feel like giving up on it. It's not that I'm lazy. It's more like it just doesn't work for me, there's no pay-off, so I might as well be blowed and forget it and do something else that does work for me. Like writing this blog .Even if I feel like I should be doing something else.

After a diagnosis of Aspergers last year, I'm pretty sure it's time to let all the shoulds go.  Maybe there are some Aspergians out there who are thoroughly logical, clean and ordered. I am not one of them.

 One of the traits of Aspergers can be reduced Executive Function, which refers to a lot of the things I am talking about. Like prioritising tasks, working memory, switching attention between tasks and organisational and planning abilities. There is a lot more to it, but it's too dry and uninteresting to bang on about too much in this blog. The upshot of it is, as I heard author of The Complete Guide To Aspergers Syndrome, Prof Tony Attwood succinctly describe in an interview, a lot of us Aspies "Couldn't organise a piss-up in a Brewery."

 It's true. For me. I really can't.  And, I guess it just has to be okay. Sure, I don't want to fall into the trap of using my Aspergers as an excuse.  It doesn't mean that I can just throw my hands up in the air and say I give up, and we live in a feral pig-sty. Even though it seems like it on some days. It does mean that I accept that it won't be as perfect as I'd like. 

The fact that being an Aspie for me, means I crave order and routine in my environment and surroundings, while simultaneously being completely clueless about actually creating it for myself and my family, is just another one of those little tragic ironies of my life that I have to live with.

And the only other thing that I should do, is throw away that bloody Spotless book. See? I'm de-cluttering.

And then promptly stop using the word should.

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

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