Sweating As A Skill

This week’s I Must Confess topic is confessing to any skills or talents I may have. I must admit that when I read this topic I was rather dismayed. I don’t have any skills or talents, I thought forlornly, as weepy violin music swelled in the background. What the hell will I write? I am a great big vacuum of mediocrity. Not exactly truly great or truly terrible at anything.  Oh wait….

I am worse than terrible at many things. In fact, I could write a comprehensive bullet point list of  The Things I’m Terrible At. Because what is a blog post without the ubiquitous bullet list?

Things I’m Terrible At

• Sport – particularly team sports or anything with balls in it *shudders*.
• Small talk – or, you know, just talking. Period.
• Maths – the thought of doing any of those Sudoku things is terrifying.
• Cooking – unless toast counts as cooking. It does right? Ahem. Truthfully, this is possibly a talent I could develop, especially cooking cakies. The problem with this is that it would lead to the eating of the cooked cakies, something I need to less of, not more of, so I figure it’s better to avoid the temptation.
• Sewing – when I did Textiles, or whatever  it’s called, in Year 7, I sewed my own finger. Enough said.
• Art – I really can’t paint or draw. Well, I can – stick figures. This is totally my brother’s fault. He stole all the artistic genes instead of leaving some for me. Hmph.
• Music – can’t play any instrument. From time to time I have had the delusion fanciful notion that I may be able to sing a little if I’d ever learnt to sing in my own comfortable range instead of attempting to channel Karen Carpenter. Impossible. Since I can never sing in front of people regardless, clearly Adele and Susan Boyle have nothing to fear from this bogan.
• Dancing – Two left feet. No co-ordination or sense of rhythm AT ALL. Awkward and self-conscious as fuck. Forget it.
• Craft – however, craft is evil so I’m terribly distressed by this one.
• Acting – I’m never destined to win an Academy Award. It may be a Asperger’s thing but my face is usually blank and expressionless no matter what emotion I may be feeling internally. Meryl Streep can rest assured – her job is safe. 

 After completing that woeful list I’m feeling a tad despondent. There must be something I’m good at. Maybe I just don’t know what it is because I rarely try doing new things. Using ‘rarely’ in the sense of ‘never’.  All the cool people seem to be into crochet these days. I’ve thought about giving it a go. This thought usually lasts about 2.3 seconds. 

In order to finish this post with at least a shred of dignity I’m going to claim one dubious thing as a ‘talent’ or ‘skill’. For the last few weeks I’ve exercised every single day. I’ve done so without any expensive gym membership or personal trainer. Take THAT Michelle Bridges. I’ve just dutifully put on a DVD (okay, at least one of them featured Michelle Bridges) or a Youtube clip and became sweaty.

That’s something, right? Shut up. I’m saying it is. So ner!

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

                                             What are your skills or talents?

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Sefish Bogan?

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I  was sitting here in blissful, wonderful silence this morning reading this post  by the wonderful Emily at Have A Laugh On Me and her questions got me to thinking. Yes, that’s what that  burning smell is. I do  occasionally think about  other  things beside cake or Karen Carpenter. See? I waited until the third sentence to mention them! Hmph. 

I love quiet time. I guess it goes with the territory of being quiet, shy, introverted and an Aspie.  Yep, I certainly hit the jackpot there with all those marvellous traits. Apparently, I don't know how to spell marvellous anymore as it has just appeared with one of those annoying squiggly red lines under it. Or spell, period. Isn't that just MARVELLOUS? Or however the fuck you spell it. HMPH.


I also have to confess that sometimes this fervent love of solitude makes me feel like I may be a tad selfish and self-absorbed at times. Which is just plain silly, right? This is a theory that I've actually had suggested to me: that quiet people are selfish. At the time I remember thinking that this was utter bullshit but of course I didn't say anything. After all, I'm quiet (or selfish depending on your point of view) so I kept my 'what a load of bullshit' thought to myself.



The irony was that this occurred in a group I attended to do with confidence building.  Oddly enough being told that you're considered selfish didn't do a great deal to boost my confidence. Funny about that.


Another funny thing is that I before I had children I kind of knew this about myself - that I had an extreme need for quiet time and solitude and that this would probably be my biggest challenge with having children. In spite of this, I still plunged ahead and had three of these delightful creatures, proving that in addition to being selfish I am also a masochist. On the plus side, it's nice to have yourself figured out at this advanced age. Meaning, the wrong side of forty. I’m a selfish, self-absorbed masochist. Nice.



Which brings me to Emily’s question  about volunteering for the school tuck shop, P & C or as a parent helper. As a stay at home mum who doesn’t do any of these things am I being selfish? Even though I feel  like I have  valid reasons, are those reasons selfish or wrong?




Reasons:





I don’t have good people skills:  People are scary. You have to talk to them and make eye contact, which are two things I am simply not stellar at. Should I force myself to do so in spite of this?





I have helped in the canteen at the boys soccer grounds. Once. Shut up. This involved a hatrick of skills I do not  possess. Talking to and serving people,  remembering orders and adding up the money. I was a nervous wreck at the end of an hour and have never wished to repeat the experience.





I struggle with just helping my boys with their homework. This is something I’m not proud of, but there it is. It’s quite humiliating to not understand primary school homework, so  perhaps I do need to  return to school. However, not as a parent helper, but as a student, so I can learn basic grammar (this blog could certainly benefit from it) and maths all over again and how to spell words like marvellous. Plus, I’m sure I’d still look quite cute in a uniform and pig tails. No?


Previously, I took Mr 5 to a Play Group where the interactions between parents sometimes became slightly political while I  tried to remain like Switzerland – neutral – and not get  involved. For this reason I prefer to avoid P&C committees with the same sleuth like elusiveness I employ in avoiding the I Quit Sugar craze. In fact, that is where you would find me at Play Group. In the corner where the morning tea cakies were, shoving them in my gob to avoid talking and, you know, just because I’m addicted to cake. Ahem.  If  P&C meetings involved cake of any description, I’d be a candidate for The Biggest Loser before the year is through.


I did volunteer to help in the library at the boys  previous school. I figured that I do have a Library Practice Diploma (even though it's more than twenty years old - details) and experience working in specialist libraries ( a long time ago, but again- details). I was given a stack of books to take home and cover. I didn't mind doing this. Where other people might find it tedious and prefer social contact, I'd rather work with books than people. I'm weird. So perhaps I could try that again and play to my strengths.


Now I’m back to my original point about LOVING quiet time. I as I stated, it does seem somewhat selfish but the truth is that I desperately, desperately need to have time to myself or, to be completely blunt and honest, I feel that my mental health starts to suffer.  In order to function as a mother of three boys and keep on top of everything that goes with the territory I need time to recharge. I also need to do physical exercise and break a sweat every day. I know everyone needs this, but as a person who has challenges with anxiety requiring medication I need this like I need air. It does seem selfish and a tad self-absorbed at times but it’s the truth.


 And that little myth about having more time once the kids are all at school? That’s what it is: a myth. Sorry to burst that bubble if your kidlets are not at school yet. I personally find that school brings with it much more stuff to organise and remember and also constant socialising in the form of school fetes, assemblies and the inevitable birthday party invitations that arrive. These are things I need to pace myself with. As someone on the spectrum, I have different challenges than other Mum’s who perhaps can handle the whole multi-tasking, socialising, P&C committee attending, soccer Mum thing with greater ease than me.





And ultimately, as I read in the book Power Over Panic by Bronwyn Fox, my mental health  has to be more important than what someone might think of me. This is now my mantra.





Do you need quiet time to cope with the demands of parenting?  How do you recharge? Or do you think I’m selfish?

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What Does My Family Think Of My Blog?

Good morning, all you groovy people! It's Monday, which means it's time to confess something. This week the wonderful Kirsty is asking the question: What does your family think of your blog?


They think it's awesome, of course! After all, everyone's entitled to my opinion! Okay, I made that up....


Hmmmm, Let me think about this.


They never really say much about it so I haven't got much to go on. The 12 year old has mentioned perhaps once that he thinks it's "Sort of cool." My nine year old doesn't mention it at all. However, if I ever post anything on Facebook about him, regardless if it's something positive, he doesn't like it whatsoever, so I'd presume he's less enthusiastic. Mr 5 doesn't know what a blog is and that I have one so he has no opinion.


Meanwhile, Micky Blue Eyes has complimented me on my writing ability, declaring me 'witty'. Despite this, he apparently has some objections to being portrayed as a bogan (can't imagine why) and thinks I should be 'more positive' suggesting I change the blog title. Since I'm lazy and quite unimaginative when it comes to thinking of titles, I just decided to completely ignore him.


Besides, I conducted a comprehensive survey (posting a question on Facebook counts as a survey, right?) asking if I should change it and the results were unanimous. The whole two people out of my 150 plus Facebook 'friends' who politely pretend to read my blog said I should keep the title because I'm totally famous on the Internet and a Professional Bogan of Kath n' Kim proportions. Or something.


My only concern about it - the blog in general and the title- is if it ever impacts negatively on my boys. I wouldn't want them to ever be picked on or bullied and called a 'bogan' as an insult because of my blog. I don't worry about it too much because hardly anyone reads this space except a handful of people who already know us. I'm assuming they wouldn't wish to associate with us whatsoever if they really thought we were horrifically embarrassing bogans. They get that the bogan theme is intended to be somewhat tongue in cheek.  Anyway, I'm prepared to either ditch the blog  altogether or change it if ever did become a problem for my boys.


This is not very likely as the number one fan of  this blog is my Mum who has always believed that I'm some sort of writerly genius just waiting to happen ever since some of my primary school teachers told her this was a possibility. More than 30 years  ago. Still hasn't happened. Oops. But it's nice that my Mum never gives up on me and thinks this blog is work of blinding brilliance. Thanks Mum. I don't think my Dad ever reads it. Not because  he doesn't care but because when he's online all  he ever thinks about is Manchester United with the same kind of intensity and passion I reserve for my Karen Carpenter fascination. My brother, who inherited all the artistic talent, happily designed the banner/header thing for me so I assume he somewhat approves.


In the end it doesn't really matter what anyone thinks, anyway. It's like Dr Phil says (you have to love Dr Phil's sayings) : You wouldn't worry about what other people thought of you if you knew how seldom they did.


Similarly, I wouldn't worry about what others thought of my blog if I knew how seldom they did. I mean, I'm not exactly trying to change the World here or writing anything profound. I'm just having a bit of fun for the heck of it. So I'm not concerned about who does or doesn't like or read it.  I'll just continue banging on to myself  here for as long as it makes me  happy. So ner!


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







Enough about me and my blog….

What do YOU think of me and my blog?

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Sport Makes Me Snooze

It is totally un-Australian (that's a word, right?) of me but all sport bores the bejesus out of me. There. I said it. I've always really wished I was the sporty type. One of those Mum's who turn up at school pick-up clad in tight Lycra looking svelte, spray tanned and smug. I think I can safely say that at age 43, it just isn't going to happen. I loathe Gyms and abhor all team sport. I am uncoordinated and uncompetitive. Considering that I had to Google the word competitive because I appear to have forgotten how to spell and apparently the synonyms for competitive are: ruthless, merciless, aggressive and fierce. I'm reasonably certain nobody has ever uttered any of those words and my name in the same sentence. It is quite clear that I was never meant to be an Olympian. Unless they ever make Cake Eating an Olympic event. Then I'm in with a shot.

I do not even enjoy watching any sport. Cricket and tennis are just the three B's to me. Meaning, bats, balls - BORING! Micky Blue Eyes, who is thoroughly addicted to all things soccer whether it's playing or spectating, cannot comprehend my antipathy toward sport. To him it's the equivalent of saying you don't like breathing.

"You didn't even like any sport when you were a kid?" he'll ask in utter bewilderment.

"No," I assure him.

"I don't understand how you could be a kid and not enjoy running around, playing sport," he stares at me as if he doesn't know me and is worried that he may have married some bizarre alien creature.

Perhaps it is something to do with being Aspergian. I gather that a great deal of us do not gravitate toward sport. I don't mind doing a bit of moderately paced basic aerobics (grapevine, anyone?) as long as it's not too complex with too many fancy moves. And as long as I don't have to wear leg warmers and a leotard. The 80's, Olivia Newton John and Jane Fonda have a lot to answer for.

I've recently taken to doing various workouts on Youtube at home. I'm weird. This way nobody has to see all my wobbly bits jiggling up and down or how hopelessly uncoordinated I am. I can wear my daggiest, most comfortable gear. It works for me. Kind of. It might work a bit better if I wasn't addicted to cake. Ahem.

As far as watching sport, the only thing I can tolerate watching is figure skating. There is music and they have pretty costumes and the moves are incredible. Although it does make me feel a bit wobbly and dizzy just watching them spinning around.

Thankfully my parents never insisted that my brother and I had to do any sports when we were growing up. I would have found it torturous. Micky Blue Eyes is most insistent that our boys should all be doing at least one sport. Mr 12 and 9 have been playing soccer for a number of years now and they seem to like it, especially Mr 12. They have also learnt to swim. I haven't learnt to suddenly become all passionate and intense about soccer even when it's my boys playing. I know. Mother Of The Year, right? The shame....

Plus, having an interest in sport would certainly be an advantage when it comes to small talk. Another thing I am simply not stellar at. Sigh. Instead, when people start discussing the tennis, cricket, footy or anything else with balls in it, I sit there and fade into the furniture. Some sporting dude apparently became Australian Of The Year and I had never even heard of him. Don't ask me to remember his name. Shut up.

On the plus side, at least I will always have a convenient cure for insomnia. I watch sport - instant snooze fest. In fact, after writing this, I already feel a Nanna nap coming on...

Oh well, that's me. UNsporty Spice. Later, dudes.

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

                                                         Is it UnAustralian to not like sport?

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The Bogan And The Not So Beautiful Go To Budgewoi

Happy New Year, all you lovely people! Yes, I'm aware that it's currently February so I probably should have managed this salutation a tad earlier. Oops.

I've been missing from this space for a while. I'm not sure I can string a coherent sentence together. I seem to have lost my blojo. Meaning: blogging mojo. Possibly because I never even had one in the first place. Sigh. I just started to feel like I was boring myself with this thing so I came to the logical conclusion that if I was bored writing it, readers must be bored too and it was time to take a break. Plus, you know me. Always super busy eating all the cake doing all the things.

Meanwhile, certain things have been happening among some of our acquaintances and old friends which I won't go into because that is their stuff. Suffice to say that it all just reiterates the fact that life is short, life is a lottery and frankly, pretty fucking unfair at times so you had better do the things that make you happy. Therefore, if laughing at myself with this ridonkulous little blog and using words like ridonkulous which isn't even word makes me (or anyone else) giggle, then dammit, I'd better keep doing it. Those who are bored by my banal musings can easily click away. Or not click at all as the case may be.

We've been busy little bogans. Or not so little bogans, in my case. Nope, haven't managed to go cold turkey on the cakies. I am exercising, so that's something. Of course the exercise would be much more beneficial if I could quit the cakes but you get that.

Christmas was a subdued affair. We spent the day at home eating a whole lot of food. Because nobody ever does that and we like to be different. Cutting edge and all that.  The next day we went to my brother and sister-in-law's place and ate even more food. Might as well be consistent with certain things.

New Year's Eve and day seemed like just another day. Except it was suddenly another year. I had a lovely, child free (Grandma to the rescue!) lunch out with friends to celebrate mine and my friend Kim's birthdays before packing our bags for yet another bogan road trip. This time we headed to the Central Coast which is basically similar to Boganville but with a beach. We figured we may as well keep things classy.

During the hour long drive, the boys pondered over whether the NSW Central Coast town of Budgewoi is pronounced Budgie Woi or Budge Woi. Apparently the locals call it Budgie. The Woi is optional. It was good to see that the boys take after their mother, always wanting to know the answers to important questions.

Arriving at our cabin, I was already a lovely rosy hue of pink despite slathering myself with five hundred layers of 50 plus sunscreen and wearing long sleeves. This phenomenon continued for the duration of the stay if I so much as ventured outdoors for even a nano-second. If there was ever a person who could be sunburned indoors during a blizzard, I'm sure it would be me.

Nevertheless, I did bravely head to the beach. Once. Shut up. It's torture for us Rangas! I'm not so sure I love a sunburned country. Or being sunburned in this sunburned country, anyway.  You know what I mean. If you don't, then just pretend you do. We're good? Okay, to the next thing. I also celebrated my 43rd birthday while there, when Micky Blue Eyes and the boys presented me with an overwhelming gift. Wait for it:

A card.

They even signed it and everything.

Grounds for divorce?

That evening we sauntered down to the local pub which felt more like a sauna. Haven't the owners heard of air conditioning?

Once there, we ordered some burgers with chips and bangers and mash for Mr 9 (typical classy bogan fare) for which we clearly and politely requested that the gravy be served on the side. Not a particularly burdensome or difficult request. However, the dish arrived smothered in gravy which Mr 9 loathes but Mr 12 loves, hence ordering it 'on the side'. Consequently, Micky Blue Eyes took it back only to endure the disgruntled chef scowling and slamming things. I can only pray that  the resulting gravy free dish that reappeared didn't have something worse in it. Yikes. We scored some cakies at a bakery on the way back to make up for that lacklustre culinary experience. Besides, it was my birthday. Shut up.

The boys struck up a friendship with some other kids in the next cabin and enjoyed the park's movie nights replete with microwaved popcorn.

The real highlight of the trip came when we enjoyed lunch at Toukley RSL before hitting the local Vinnies and Salvo's stores. It's hard work being a Professional Bogan, people. You have to be seen in all the right places.

Some days later we were back in Boganville, where intense preparations began to have Mr 12 ready to start High School. We had to purchase an Ipad as they use those instead of text books and we didn't already own one. Maybe one of these days I'll also get an Iphone and finally catch up with 2014. Or at least 2007. Or something. Ahem.

Hair cuts were the next item on the agenda. Those completed, I took the boys home where Mr 12 kept scratching furiously. Finally, Micky Blue Eyes turned to me and uttered the dreaded 'N' word.

"Do you think he might have nits?" he asked, brow furrowed.

"It could be just dandruff," I replied hopefully.

Wrong.

An examination of his head proved otherwise. Up until this point we had managed 12 glorious nit-free years. On the plus side, at least this now clarifies or emphasises our bogan status. SO proud. Okay, not really...

We frantically treated all of our hair and washed all bed linen. This is not what you want just days before school returns!

Thankfully, the little buggers seem to have disappeared and Mr 12 made it to his first three days of High School. His verdict? Too easy. We shall see, dear. Especially once homework, assignments and essays start rolling in.  Also, he was super excited when he had a double period of PE on Thursday. This makes me rather concerned that he may not even really be my child at all. To say I was never excited about PE during High School could be the understatement of the century.

On Monday Mr 5 officially starts Kindergarten. I won't cry. No way. Not me. I might have something in my eye. Sniff. I should be celebrating. After all, doesn't this mean I will suddenly, magically have all this extra time on my hands to do important things?  Like update this blog more frequently!

BOOM! Be warned.

Stayed tuned for the next exciting episode of Days Of Our Bogan Lives....

What's been happening in your World?

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The Last Hurrah

Greetings Earthlings, from planet Boganville! Oh okay, it's more like a Sydney suburb in NSW, Australia, which as far as I'm aware, is on planet Earth. DETAILS. It certainly seems like we bogans are creatures from the planet Zorg, though, right? Don't answer that...

This post may be my last hurrah for the momentous year of 2013. And what a year it's been for myself and my family. Jam-packed with all our usual under achievements and boring as bat shit astonishing escapades.

I wouldn't even  know where to begin. Oh right - January. That's usually the first month of the year, I believe. Here goes nothing. I mean, seriously and truly - NOTHING. But I figure since I'm noted for posts about nothing, why break this record now?

JANUARY

We ventured up  north to Queensland and the beautiful sunshine coast where it was, not surprisingly, quite sunny. I'm taking a wild guess here and assuming that's why it's referred to as The Sunshine Coast. You think? While there, I turned 42 and did not discover the Meaning Of Life AT ALL. I blame it all on Douglas Adams, quite frankly. He shouldn't have set me up for such lofty expectations of this age. HOW RUDE.

FEBRUARY

This is the shortest month of the year. I only mention this because I can't remember a thing of what I did during it and I have to make up something. Traditionally, my Dad would always go on a February Diet for this reason. Instead, I broke the tradition by eating like a Wildebeest* (and becoming one) because, you know - REBEL and all that. Not to mention a glutton. Hey, we weren't mentioning that!!

MARCH

Mr 8 became Mr 9. Moving on, as I can't remember anything else from this month...

APRIL

Easter! Which means chocolate! That would be the highlight of April for  me. Shut up.

MAY

I'm sure something happened in May. At the very least I would eaten and showered and even fed my kids occasionally.  I think. I hope. Maybe. Well, they're still alive, aren't they? HUMPH.

JUNE

June was so crazy, action packed and momentous that I struggle to put it all into words! So I won't. You're welcome.

JULY

Mr 11 became Mr 12. There was cake involved.  Nothing to do with the birthday, there just always is  cake involved in my life. Which finally caught up with me when I had a blood test and discovered I had high cholesterol and blood sugar. Classy.

AUGUST

Micky Blue Eyes turned  50. There was more cake and yet more food. What else?

SEPTEMBER

What can I say about September? Seriously, WHAT can I say about it? Help me out, here. I need to make some shit up....

OCTOBER

Is the month that comes after September. Always has, always will. Interestingly, it's also the only month that begins with the letter O. I mention this purely because I don't want to mention cake again. Oh. Oops.

NOVEMBER

In this magnificent month Mr 4 became Mr 5 and Micky Blue Eyes and I celebrated our 18th Wedding Anniversary WITHOUT cake!!  I know! I can't believe it, either!

DECEMBER

Well, here we are folks, limping through to the finish line of the wonderful year we've called 2013. Mr 5 has 'graduated' from pre-school and heading to 'big' school next year. Mr 12 is also heading off to High School. He had his Year 6 Farewell this week and looked rather dashing in his outfit.

Meanwhile, yesterday I received the best and only Christmas present I want when Micky Blue Eyes has his annual procedure and received the all clear from Cancer for the 9th year in row!! Now, THAT'S worth celebrating! With cake. Too bad we didn't have any. Oh well, wine it is, then!

Cheers!

*Pauses to take a long sip*

Ahhhh - refreshing!

Now, where was I? Oh yes - December! Unfortunately, I failed in my frantic efforts to cancel Christmas, which means it's going ahead on the 25th as per usual. This year we are spending the day at home. I can't remember ever having done that since the boys were born so I'm actually looking forward to it.

Then, 2014 shall arrive and we are heading off for another one of our ubiquitous bogan jaunts. This time to the Central Coast where we shall be staying in a lovely cabin type arrangement, because why stay here in the cramped conditions of the Bogan Box with 3 boys fighting over a computer when we can go to even more cramped conditions and do the same thing there? Makes perfect sense, really.

Well, folks, that's it from me, except to wish each and every one (well - there's at least one) of my lovely readers a very happy festive season and a wonderful New Year!

*It turns out that Wildebeests mainly eat grass, not cake. Who knew?

Linking up with Robomum for The Lounge. Better late than never, right?

                                              Was 2013 an action-packed year for you?

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I'm Dreaming of A Cancelled Christmas....

Good morning Groovers and Shakers, welcome to another Monday, the most universally loathed day of the week. It occurs to me that there seems to be rather a lot of songs written about Mondays considering that it is a much despised day.

Think about it:

Manic Monday
Rainy Days And Mondays (always get me down)
Monday Monday (can't trust that day)
I Don't Like Mondays

Hmmm, I think I'm starting to see a pattern here.

Anyway, the point of this post was not to talk about Mondays but to confess to how I really feel about Christmas. Since I have just spent the last couple of months trying to desperately to cancel it - to no avail - I think my feelings are rather obvious. I'm trying to work out exactly where this antipathy to the silly season comes from. The only answer I'm left with is my rather unhelpful tendency to catastrophise everything.

After all, I don't really have that many people to buy gifts for. Nor do I sweat it out in the kitchen on the big day cooking a gigantic traditional turkey Christmas lunch with all the trimmings. No way. We tend to go with the seafood and salads option in our family.

Some people will be horrified at this declaring that it's not really Christmas without a Turkey or a roast dinner. However, my Mother being the sensible woman she is, steadfastly refused to ever cook a roast on a hot Summer's day when my brother and I were growing up, so it's never really been a tradition for me. We live in the land of Oz, therefore no White Christmas for us! It doesn't make sense to have roasts when you're already roasting, people!

Instead, we had this off beat tradition of going out for dinner on Christmas Eve to a Chinese restaurant, because if you're going to have traditions they may as well be classy ones. And what could be classier than spring rolls and fried rice?  Over the years this tradition faded, but we have finally decided to re-ignite it and are heading out with my parents for some sizzling platters on the 24th before coming home, leaving the carrots out for the Reindeer's and then bundling three excited boys full of anticipation and MSG into bed. Should be fun.

On boxing day we are invited to my brother and SIL's home for a good old fashioned Aussie BBQ. On the actual day nothing is planned. Besides being woken up at Stupid O' Clock by three excited boys screaming that Santa's been. Again - should be fun.

I have, in fact, begrudgingly accepted that Christmas is on and I am not able to cancel it, much to my disgust. I even tried to get into the spirit and put the Christmas tree up yesterday. Okay, technically it was actually Micky Blue Eyes who did it. Mr 9 and 5 helped to decorate it and the results were quite stunning. In a sort of abstract bogan way. No photos, so you'll have to imagine it.

The main reason I dread the silly season is basically because of the shopping. The fact that it is entirely my own fault that I tend to leave this until almost the last minute despite vowing never to do so again is completely IRRELEVANT.  Also, I have the internet at my disposal with a plethora of online shopping opportunities so why I don't plan ahead and do this is beyond my comprehension.

I tend to assume that it's all up to Santa.  So get that red suit on and the sleigh ready and get to it, old dude!  What do my boys want?

Mr 12 wants a PS4 which only costs an arm, a leg and a kidney, so I'm counting on you, Santa! Mr 9 wants Lego and some obscure Club Penguin paraphernalia which does not appear to exist in any store, so again - your job Santa! And Mr 5? Well- he only wants every Lego set made in the whole World Ever, all of which cost around a gazillion dollars. No problem, right Santa?? I'll consider it sorted!

Just one question - you don't hang out with that lazy old Dinner Fairy, do you?? If you do, she should definitely be on your Naughty List. She has been very naughty. Very, very, very naughty INDEED. And no - I have NOT been reading Enid Blyton again. Shut up.

Okay folks, that's enough from me.  Only 23 days to go - but who's counting? 

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

                                                
                                                      Have you been naughty  or nice?

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