Good Morning

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This morning I have woken up in 2004, in a studio apartment.  Last night I slept in my HQ, which is a spare bedroom upstairs where I have my sewing stuff and a too-small table to spread out my notes and papers. 

I dragged the boys to a small hardware store yesterday for vacuum bags for the ants but they didn’t have the right size. So after we came back from a birthday party and then a burger joint, I dragged my tired ass upstairs and crawled into bed with this guy.

This morning, I am surrounded by most things I had in that teeny apartment more than a decade ago, when I moved to Sydney to start my grown up life in the big smoke: bathroom, desk, ironing board, wardrobe, and clothes strewn hell to breakfast. The only thing I lack up here is a kitchen. On the other hand, I’ve got some thought-provoking art that I didn’t have back then.

Even someone talking in their sleep in the next room, last night, reminded me of those days, because my studio was a renovated sun room or etc, on the back of a house with a couple of roommates in there. But someone complaining loudly about not being able to play minecraft had me crashing back to reality, and I need to tidy up the kitchen or Husband will lose his shit when he comes home today. We met a few months after I moved into that appartment, he was a little less vocal about my mess.

To Do: drink.

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We have a big house. It’s going to hurt when it falls down on us. There are carpenter ants underneath it and in the walls, munching and munching away to make a space to lay eggs. I can’t remember the names of them, I always think they are Trelawney Ants. 

They are fuckers, is what they are. They were eating a wall at the front of the house, then we had them gassed. I found them in our bedroom, which led to finding a leaking pipe in our bathroom and some horrendous damage, oh goody! With that gone, that should have dried up the ants interest in the house, but today I found them on my bedside, in my wardrobe and my clothes. It’s all a bit overwhelming, not to mention annoying AF. But that’s the joys of homeownership, I suppose. 

Note to self: next time we contemplate buying a house, cloose an empty plot of land and build it ourselves. When we are ready to pour the foundation, also pour every last cent into the wet cement and stop right there. It would be less stressful, I think.

We will need to replace the damaged wood inside the walls, and floors, too, if they are defying gravity, and I wouldn’t put it past them. 

I tried to vacuum the c****s out of my wardrobe, and succeeded for a few minutes, until I saw them all over my clothes and fucking wept – just like Jesus, except not as pious, and then geared up the vacuum but the bag was full, and the GD thing won’t work without a bag and there are no bags left. I hate my life.

Good Luck!

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Husband was away last week so I had a few days off from work and the boys and I did a few errands and what not, but it was hot af so we weren’t cavorting like we planned. Thursday was the day I had planned yet another baby shower for a colleague, so I stashed the boys in a spare room at the back and worked my magic. But I hope the parents-to-be aren’t under the impression that kids (or mine) are that well-behaved that often, because that is some straight up bullshit. To their credit (AND MINE), they were quiet and kept themselves occupied while the rest of us played, and they were justly rewarded with cupcakes, win win. But the real winners were, of course, my colleague and his wife because they are still naive about kids and parenting…

They have a nautical theme for their nursery, so I complied but couldn’t do all the cutesy stuff like “captain adorable” onesies etc because some of the up and ups are quite busy and, ahem, non-participatory when it comes to arts and crafts. So I put a game together, in the fashion of the Sydney to Hobart yacht race, with blue, grid-lined paper for the board and the water. Then we needed boats to sail over them thar seas.

The boats sailed with the aid of a compass and encounted obstacles and assistance in the form of dolphins, wind, knots and booze, among other things.

We ate “seaweed snacks” aka lettuce wraps, and cured meat (jerky) and fruit (rollups) for the vegetarian. Because I was out of the office I wasn’t able to make adorbs cupcake toppers like I wanted, but we did have lifesaver candies strewn throughout the seven seas. 

The object of the game was to make it to “Bay-bee-dos” as opposed to Barbados, but the map was conveniently unmarked in true pirate fashion, or “ran out of time because I’m at home wrangling monkeys” fashion, but it was fun and everyone had a good time. But again, good luck to the parents-to-be if they think it’s all plain sailing. Not bloody likely!

Yoga Challenge

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A friend started a yoga challenge. I thought about doing it, too, but I inevitably fall short midway or near the end and feel like shit when I ignore the reminders or emails for the remaining days (or weeks) for hauling my ass off whatever flat surface it’s on. Butt, haha, I dug out an old disc from the our movie pile and thought I’d try to do it for as long as I can, no pressure. 

We got the disc in a newspaper in Sydney before 10yo was born and I might have watched it 3 times, including today, but everyone we knew got the paper for the free discs and bags and whatever. The best one was the double album of xmas songs by Bing Crosby and Dean Martin! We still listen to that in December.

Anyhoo, I cleared a space and contemplated my toes and my asshole because yoga makes all parts of us free and limber, especially in your own lounge room, and also my need of a mani-pedi as my dry heels slid across the carpet. The carpet is in need of a vacuum and there was all sorts of shit under the couch when I moved it. So much for the kids cleaning up when I ask them, and for not making weapons in their spare time.

I managed the beginner moves, no problem, except for the part where I’m on the floor and the tv is high on the wall and I’ve the sound off as I thought the boys were still sleeping, silly me, so I had to keep looking up for the next move. Until the end, that is, when she grabbed her ankles and kissed her ass goodbye in some weird, sex-slave pose that I didn’t bother with.

So, a win for this morning and maybe I’ll try again after work, maybe even in the same pants which I bought before we moved to The States and have probably also, only worn three times. And then who knows for the weekend, I’ve heard of wine yoga so maybe I’ll sign up for that challenge.

Yogi out.

Dog Ate My Homework

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When I moved out of home, I dumped my folder of writing in the bin. At the time, I deemed it too precious to share and I was moving in with the boyfriend. I didn’t want him to read it. I knew that he wouldn’t appreciate it and yet, I moved in with him, anyway.

I watched a movie the other night and the dog ate the guy’s writing, which reminded me of my own wasted papers. Such forlorn waste.

My book is on tour this week and I’m petrified of figurative bulldogs lurking around figurative corners. But I’m not letting the dog eat my homework, anymore. Nor should anyone else let anything stand in the way of their creativity. Paterson recovered and so shall the rest of us.

mmm, Paterson

Of The Essence

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There is never enough time, and if we had more of it, we’d probably try and do more so we’d end up with the same lack of it. I have the day off work, today, and there was a long list of cool shit I wanted to do, but there’s just not enough time for everything.

We didn’t end up going to the movies, which is a shame because tix were only a buck, but we’d seen it anyway AND we met this cool aussie guy randomly, which never happens. We made it to the coffee shop for df gf #bigwigdonuts, and then enrolled in the summer reading program at the library.

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I feel you, buddy

Now I’m drinking white wine and baking shit, coz that’s how I roll. Later this afternoon will be a different ballgame, though, since we need to tidy the house and that is sort of an undertaking. But I found some smores supplies, so bribes will help, and maybe we can have a campfire. No, actually it’s just marshmallows, but we can still campfire the shit out of them which the boys will enjoy.

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domesticated as fuck

So even though there’s never enough time, today has been quality time, and I’m glad of that.

All The Things

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This week was all the things, including all the feels. I had the week off work since Husband is living it up in the Swiss Alps or etc. Nothing more I appreciate than that my office is understanding about child care!

This week was the absolute best, and not because Husband was absent, but I wouldn’t have been home if he was here, so, draw your own conclusions. I had been looking forward to this week for the last month and let me tell you, parenting paid dividends, this time.

I, of course, had high expectations of everything we would do and we haven’t achieved all of them, but we’ve had the best week, and I didn’t even drink! Here is a rundown:

Monday: hot AF, park, bike riding, skaty bowl, treasure-hunting at goodwill

Tuesday: skaty bowl with friends, other skaty bowl

Wednesday: gorgeous weather, #makemusicday, #makemusicsalem, saw friends, saw #salemsown #therealkyloren as well (he’s had a haircut and looks hotter than ever), saw all our fave bands, frozen yogurt, park, skootering and skateboarding

Thursday: park, scootering, skateboarding, playing in the river, kids art studio, trendy cafe where kids tried new food and didn’t embarrass me

Friday: played wii games with the boys (wii-athon that did not turn into a pissing match, haha!),  trendy cafe again for gf donut holes and we read books quietly, kids art studio. 

I’ve even managed to wash some clothes and have the boys put them away, shock horror [insert licture of laundry – is there an emoji for that, yet??]; last night we had afternoon tea for dinner; the boys have mostly cleaned up that fucking mess of a room where the goddamn lego was fucking everywhere including under and around their expensive bloody instruments. Wonders, people, wonders, never, cease.

Other things I have enjoyed without interference from getting ready for work or being at work or driving to and from work include: sleeping in, wearing skirts, reading til all hours (I do this anyway but it was better this week), relaxed kids, not driving to school, self-directed reading, boys being excited about summer projects, baking, life lessons like patience and making mistakes, and so many other things that I’ve forgotten because I was living in the moment.

Husband will be home tomorrow night and he’s excited to be home because I do all the fun stuff. Thing is, though, I’m back at work next week so the un stuff goes out the window and I’ll be grumpy and poo-bootsy again for being stuck indoors and not on vacation for 3 straight months. That’s where the drinking starts again, I guess. 

Baby Update

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Not that one, that’s just a food baby, remember!

 It’s been two action-packed weeks since we discovered we had baby chicks, and not just a handful. There were 10 babies and then an 11th wandered out to join them. And then one fell by the wayside, somewhere – the vicious cycle that is cutthroat Mother Nature, and then I made the mistake of naming the runt Little Joe, sad emoji.

Little Joe had me reminiscent of Baby Minnie – small, eyes still not quite open, and not always with the family. Little Joe must have been the 11th baby, and since he was younger than the rest, he was smaller and usually sleeping on the job, so he would get left behind when Princess Fiona shuffled everyone else off to greener pastures or away from those pesky fucking roosters. No one needs to see their antics at 3 days old. And trying to sleep or catch up to Mum means probably not getting all the tasty snacks or getting a drink when the babies sneak over to the water dish while King Cock – AKA Isabella, watches imperiously from nearby. Little Joe did not come back out of the coop the next day, sad sad emoji.

I made a chunnel for my birds – a chicken tunnel. The idea was to link up the chicken yard with the horrendously overgrown garden, which is fenced to keep out the everloving deer. We have a good swathe of backyard with no trees, which apparently acts as a landing strip for predatory fucking birds, so the chicken yard has an enormous net over the top, hence they can’t just wander willynilly to the garden. 

Anyhoo, the chunnnel was working great, and Princess Fiona got into the habit of taking the babies for their morning nap out there, away from the rest of the assholes, in the dappled shade and relative quiet of the orchard in between. But owls, motherfucking owls. Owls are not all nocturnal, contrary to what I had “learned” my whole damn life, and “owls” eat birds, other birds, nasty fuckers.

An owl came swooping out of the daytime sky and clawed a baby bird through the fucking wire, grasping the chunnel and pulling and pushing it until it managed to cut off the head of a baby. I know the wire isn’t bullet-proof but cheese and rice, people, I thought it might have been cannibal-proof. Apparently not. 

So now we’re down to 8 babies and I count them as often as I see them, because chicken babies, like their human counterparts, find ways to try to kill themselves. I’ve  had to cover the fence with more fencing so they can’t wander around the yard chirping about snack time to all and sundry predators, and frankly, ain’t nobody got time fo’ dat because my own babies still sort of try and kill themselves or each other. The only saving graces they have in common is their general cuteness so I, at least, won’t kill them.

Peekaboo baby!

Camping

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As a general rule, camping is not my favourite. There are bugs, it’s dirty in the tent, if you’re having sex then it’s sort of impossible, if there’s kids then they fuck around in the tent; all that good stuff. Backyard camping, however, means the kids sleep in a tent and I slip into the house, or I wake up stupidly early after sliding around in the sleeping bag making noises like a shopping bag every five seconds so I continuously wake myself up, then slip into the house in the morning. This episode of That Camping Life involves the latter scenario. I woke up at 5.20. What. The. Fuck.

It was lovely to hear the myriad birds outside the nylon, but it was also lovely to shut the heavy wooden door of my house against their melodic warbles and reheat my forgotten tea from yesterday – black as my camper’s heart because I left the bag in – in the modern, non-camping miracle AKA the microwave, and contemplate where to find another modern miracle, the ibuprofen. I feel pretty good, all things considered, but the camp beds sort of suck, probably because they were made to support 200lbs of camo-encased huntin’, fishin’ and fuckin’ man, after a long day in the undergrowth, gun in hand, before he slakes his hunger for meat and thirst for Pabst Blue Ribbon, or etc, whereas I am a more modest 150lbs, and drank white wine and pinot noir, and spilled peppered pork ribs on my dress. In hindsight, it sounds like I should eat and drink more so I pass out, or just sleep on the ground. Or sleep in my own bed, where Husband has slunk off to, now. 

I’m surprised the boys were still asleep. There were up pretty late, but the sun is up pretty early, these days, and the nylon doesn’t do much to keep out those golden rays.

I also heard an animal sniffing around this morning, before I pulled the tag on the zipper of my sleeping bag, tooth by torturously loud tooth, trying to be quiet even though I knew I would have to clamber over Husband’s face to get out of the tent (not as romantic as it sounds) because he positioned the camp beds against the zip and himself the gatekeeper of it. But there was no sign of our friends’ dog when Husband magnanimously rolled out of the way after I mutterred “fuck it” and tore down the last few inches of that damn zip. Perhaps it was a raccoon, and now it is ripping the nylon to shreds and terrorizing my children while I sip my cooling tea and recross my legs on my plush armchair. Or an opossum, coyote, or even a fucking cougar. 

When I opened my eyes to the tent ceiling, I pictured a bloody jacket hanging there and a T-Rex head nosing about. My getaway would have been short-lived because the zip would keep getting caught on the inside of the sleeping bag, and the camp beds are the wrong way. I would have been crunched up and eaten, and Husband would have slept through it. Or it would eat the dog. Either way, I’m in the house, now, and that’s all that matters.

Work In Progress

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This is a short, true story, true crime you might say.

Out to dinner with the kids and I managed it not to be a big deal that 6yo was ready to cry his eyes out becase we didn’t go to his preferred restaurant, and also that we didn’t have any meltdowns even though we waited 30 actual minutes for our food. 

We had a nice dinner with mostly good manners and mostly polite conversation. I paid. We were leaving. The child I was sitting next to at the table cocked his leg as we were about to walk away from the table and farts. For fuck sake. I hardly even picked up on it because  (it’s hardly rare) I was saying something to the other two, but these two older ladies at the adjacent table started laughing, one of them actually laying her head on the fucking table, she was laughing so hard. I looked at the perpetrater and became irate. If it wasn’t at the end of an otherwise exemplorary example of my parenting outside of our house, I would have joined in and even rapped on the table and nudged the other in the ribs, ey, get a load of this one, haha etc.

No. Couldn’t do that because he proved me wrong in my own estimation. If only he could have waited until we were home, or even until we were locked tight in the car and smothering. 

This is my lesson and let it be yours: the fun never stops and so, too, neither should the gentle reminders about farting at the table.