Mash

There are probably strange moments in any job. I remember in my first job realising the strangeness of picking chicken off of microwaved carcasses to be chopped up for sandwiches in a tiny back kitchen. It just struck me as very very odd. But today, while jammed in an operating table that had been lowered onto my hips (now bruised), with my arm in a strange man's armpit as his arm balanced on my breast, with tubes and machines that go ping everywhere, I realised I probably work in one of the weirdest professions in the world.

I am very tired, my feet hurt, and Bingley cracked my back tonight and I swear I grew 3cm, but I helped cut out cancers today.

Theres's not much esle I can say after that. I'm too tired to be eloquent. But when I stumbled through the door tonight, after doing that awesome lifesaving stuff, the Elfling was waiting up for me to read the very last chapter of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. And best of all, as we finished the story, she laughed out loud at the ridiculous Gilderoy Lockhart. And I was so glad that I am a Mum too.

10 days to go!

Roses

I went to Ikea today and came home with only 3 more items than I had planned. I call this achievement.

And when the 3 items are fairy lights, I don't think they count anyway.

I am planning on posting a picture with every post this month, and this one is of my beautiful Monkey wearing daisies in her hair. The daisy chain is a result of my never-ending fidgetiness and need to keep my hands busy combined with my love of all things botannical. It is not unusual for me to be sporting flowers in my hair, tucked behind my ear or pinned to my dress. And on that very warm Melbourne afternoon my two princesses insisted on being decked out in the little chips of sunlight.

Matching this, fashion this month is very pretty, with florals and lace and pretty colours predominating and my very feminine heart is in raptures. I was sent a sample of perfume in the mail the other day - Guerlain's Idylle and after a preliminary sniff test I was massaging the tiny bit of oil into my wrist and neck as if hypnotised.

The magic thing was that Bingley who is often derisive of perfumes, mostly due to the hay fever that they incite, loved it too - with an enthusiasm that almost matches my own exuberance. It has notes of lily of the valley (how I love that name), jasmine and Bulgarian rose and BEST of all, not a trace of vanilla. It matches perfectly with my new Review dress and my silk rose shoes.

Peur

We flew home in a storm on Sunday night. The lightning lit up the black clouds that enveloped the plane and streaked in bolts across the sky. I watched in awe as we flew, the storm getting angry around us, and weirdly silent. Perhaps we were flying too fast to hear it, but there was none of the crashing thunder that you'd expect with a tropical storm. Just light and the air.

In the cabin those who were reading or sleeping carried on blithely. And my children watched excitedly as they saw bolt after bolt split the sky. But I felt increasingly anxious and had the first sensation of fear I've ever felt when flying. Watching their faces flash with the fury from the sky, the reality of being so far above the ground and so very very vulnerable hit me. I know logically that electrical storms are not an issue for modern planes, in fact I've studied why they're not, and yet as we plummeted with turbulence my brain refused to listen to logic.

I strapped them in tightly and held onto the Possum on my lap as a lump rose in my throat as I thought about them. Willed myself to listen for the reassuring sounds of the ailerons extending and the landing gear deploying, feeling the cross wind envelop the plane as we rocked. We circled high over the city as the clouds cleared, and the reassuring lights twinkling up at me calmed my heart rate, and the big yellow moon beyond overlooking all.

I have never felt so grateful to land before. So happy to walk out onto the tarmac and feel the warm humid breeze of an approaching storm as it lifted my hair and whispered against my neck. There was something in the air that night, and it frightened me. I am not used to being frightened.

Orthopaedia

Worked too long tonight so I'm sharing this just in case you've been asleep for the last month. Makes me laugh every time.

Purple's a fruit.

I solved the bread crisis, which in retrospect was most likely due to not getting enough vitamin B, with seeds. Seeds and nuts really, but between the two I’ve noticed my blood sugars are absolutely more stable and I’m feeling generally a lot healthier. It didn’t help though when at morning tea meeting today someone brought out a packet of mint slice biscuits. There is no way on Earth I can say no to them, but managed to restrain to only one, so I am feeling virtuous and smug.

I’ve also been going to the gym after work, and hope to make it a regular habit. Something that is made more difficult through apathy and staying up too late to watch Season 3 of True Blood, but is worth it nonetheless. The biggest thing I’ve noticed? My posture is better. I tend to gain weight on my arms, upper back and bust. Which when your bustline is already too big puts a lot of strain on the thoracic spine. In any case I feel more confident and generally like I’m breathing properly when I stand up straight, so the effects are multifactorial. I really ought to start the day with some sun salutations as well – I know they’ll make me feel better, but when it comes to that or burying my face in the pillow for 10 more minutes unfortunately the pillow still wins. Hopefully it will start getting hot soon so getting out of bed becomes necessary.

The jacarandas have just started flowering I noticed. Study time for university and high school students… and, as it turns out, for me. I have a bit of down time at the moment, and have been trying to fit in some independent study. Mostly just to keep my brain active, but also to further my education and place me in a better position when I apply for training positions.

I am a paper studier, and cannot get by with computers/internet alone. It may seem odd, that in an age when you can google or wiki your way through everything that I would shy away from technology, but when it comes to real learning, I am at my best in a library with a paper book, off a shelf, a ream of recycled/reclaimed paper and some pens and pencils. I like to doodle diagrams and make up flow charts. I once fancied a career in anatomical illustration and like to do my own sketches of the blood supply of the forearm and the muscles of the eye. I very firmly believe the mantra of “see one do one teach one” and cannot help myself from trying to share pieces of new found knowledge.

In fact, anyone that’s been trapped in a car or other small space with me for any length of time knows that I can’t help but share. And teach/explain. Ever wanted to know the molecular basis for diabetes? Welllll let me pull up a seat.
Anyway, I’ve procrastinated enough, and need to re-read the physics of MRI. Hope you are all well.

Run to the water

I wonder if I will ever lose the fear of not being good enough? It's a pervasive fear - one that sucks my breath occasionally, leaving me fighting and drowning in a wave of anxiety. Swamping and painful. While the world continues to spin around me. It's like the tally of all the things I've done wrong in my life sits close to the surface, always being added to (as humans necessarily do) but occasionally I'm tipped into that bucket, cold and icy.

I've been told guilt is a useless emotion, and perhaps it is, but sometimes looking at the decisions I've made in life that have added to my bucket-o-shame I can't help but wonder how I could have done it better. Where I could have stepped in and made a difference to the outcome in a way that didn't leave me feeling wretched. It's the way I learn, and hopefully stay mostly on the side of being a good person.

But today listening to my children screech in the darkness about the unfairness of being sent to bed without a dvd (because they scratched the one that they picked for movie night) while I look at the detritus over the floor, I feel hopeless and trapped in my family situation (when i ought to be feeling blessed), I feel ungrateful and whiny. Panicked and resentful. And I can't help but think that negativity attracts negativity.

That maybe my terrible parenting is a direct result of my terrible behaviour which is a direct result of my terrible selfishness.

So I'm writing and drawing aimlessly tonight. Bloodied edges of my ragged fingernails painful as I tap them on my high feedback keys. Enjoying the flash of pain. And waiting for my brain to settle down again, because this sort of turbulence always passes, but while I'm here, it's hard to remember to keep my belt buckled and to remain calm.

Summer

It's easy to complain about Summer, especially in Queensland where the heat and the humidity can literally suck the life from your bones. When you have airconditioning it is possibly worse, the comparison between the frigid dry coolness of aircon and the indecent sultry humidity is stark. It can feel like an overfamiliar hug, hands everywhere and thick heady air that heavily pulls into your lungs.

It's lazy weather, it slows your mind and your body. Adorns it with a glistening slick. Coats your tongue and makes it sluggish and slow. When you fight the heat it punishes you. Puts stars in your vision and gives headaches. Frays tempers and raises blood pressure.

But when you succumb to it, when you let yourself be touched and welcome the embrace it curls through your blood, slow and warm and golden and suffuses you with light.

I lay in my hammock this afternoon, glowing in the ambient humidity, damp curls over my forehead and clothes limply clinging. I swayed gently, kicking with one lazy foot over the edge and felt the light southerly breeze dance over bare arms and legs. Listened to the strains of Radiohead and the Beatles and Muse that Bingley had queued up and just let myself soak in the warmth.

And as I listened to the air hum with the thick heat of Summer, I fell into the warmth, let it fill me and succumbed. And it was actually not so bad.

PS. He was fine. Even had a 90 minute sleep! I'm still sad but school holidays are doing much to inspire good things about going back to work.

F is for Fail

I have lost weight in the last few weeks, without actually trying. I stopped caring what I ate, went to the gym when I wanted and drank what I wnted and hey presto, weight loss. I still have a way to go, a depressing way to go, but I can at least fit into some of my old clothes. Including some of my favourite clothes, not just my fat day clothes.

So this morning, in a sunshine and lollipops mood, I felt like wearing one of my dresses. I have a collection of beautiful dresses (mostly red) that I adore. Almost all of them are impractical for breastfeeding, but I don't care. I selected my favourite spotty, 1940s style fitted dress, so very fitted that it snugs in on my curves without causing a single lump. It skims in and out and then has a floaty skirt that ends a few inches above my knees. It's got just enough of a slip so that you can sort of see a hint of leg, but it's not completely sheer. As you may be able to tell I adore it. It also has a deep V-neck, which is supposedly flattering on a large bust.

Anyhoo, I pulled it out this morning and put it on and after a bit of contortion realised it fit. I could do the zip all the way up the back and not one of the pearl faux buttons along the front were straining. I felt pretty and feminine and *normal* as I did my hair and danced around the house.

What I had forgotten however is that I had fed the Possum literally minutes before I got dressed. A big morning feed... One of several that the Possum has on any given morning (he clusterfeeds in the morning). But I was completely oblivious to the issues that this would cause.

After dropping the Elfling off at school, I noticed I was involuntarily tugging on the deep V of my dress to pull it up a bit. I was very absent minded though, and assumed it was just the fact that although the dress is pretty demure, it's a litle bit dressy for school drop off. And headed off to the shops...

About half way around Coles, I realised that my hand was almost glued to the front of my dress, trying to pull it up/trying to cover he heaving mass of glandular tissue below. As I walked around, every time I saw a baby, every time the Possum made a slurping sound as he munched on his fist, I would get a tingle from my collarbone to nipple and the gigantic exploding bosom would heave. And let it be known, that at 9am on a Tuesday morning, there are a lot of babies in Coles.

By the time I got to the checkout, the faint blue lines of veins were becoming visible. As I bent over to empty the trolley, the poor pubescent checkout operator looked stoically into the mid distance and turned an unbecoming shade of puce. The man behind me was very helpful and started up a polite conversation with my cleavage. It began to get painful and they were still growing. It felt like someone somewhere had a bicycle pump with which they were inflating a voodoo doll. By the time I grabbed the fruit from the Greengrocer and headed back to the car I figured that I would never need hire a jumping castle for the kids next birthday party, I would just need to delay a feed for an hour.

I finally got home a few minutes ago and managed to peel off my dress, desperately hoping that the Possum would oblige in the deflation efforts. But alack and alas, the usually ravenous booby boy had fallen asleep and snorted at my attempts to subtly woo him back into consciousness for a snack.

Anyhow, lesson learned. No more dresses, for the time being at least. And out come the F cup bras. How I have (not) missed thee.

Food and Wine

Another perfect day today. I need to write a post about last weekend and our fun times at the Ekka, but I thought I'd catch up on today first. Last weekend we went to the Ekka and while there tasted a couple (or more than a couple!) of wines, and knowing that the girls were going to Mum and Dad's this weekend we planned to go up to Mt Tamborine to buy some from the cellar doors. I also orginally planned to also book us a chalet with a spa, but decided instead to sensibly leave money for moving (I regret this very sensible decision!)



This morning we headed up the mountain after a leisurely sleep in with the adorable Possum to look for the place where I had tasted a particularly yummy pink muscato and eat some lunch and otherwise enjoy ourselves.



We started at Cedar Creek Winery which, amazingly enough was the exact place I wanted. They had a really nice selection of sweet wines, their specialty being my favourite of all grapes, the muscat. I was already determined to buy the sparkling pink muscato (a kind of sparkling sticky desserty wine that is also quite light as compared to traditional treacly muscats) so that was quickly jotted down while Bingley was impressed with their cream liqueur. They also had a range of light and quite sweet rose and reds. The Revelation Red would probably be completely snubbed by true wine connoisseurs but I liked it, especially as it's low alcohol.

While we debated what other bottles to add to our order we decided to sit down and have a meal for an early lunch. The location was beautiful and the warm sun out on the terrace warmed as we ate duck and stuffed pork loin. Very very good.



After lunch and with our purchases in the car we headed to the Cheese Factory to taste some award winning cheese. I was in fromage heaven trying the boutique range of onsite developed cheeses. Between us we picked a truly stinky blue, a creamy triple brie, a pungent gruyere-esque Mont D'or and a herb spiced feta. So so good.



The cheese factory is in the same grounds as a small boutique brewery so Bingley couldn't resist tasting some lagers and ales while I drank a very dull ginger beer and fed the Possum.



Bingley was now feeling in need of a head clearing walk (the beer tasting platter was quite potent!) so we decided to drift down the gallery walk, unimpeded by small people who wish to touch everything. So much to see, and so nice to be able to meander without worrying about the girls near a road/produce/expensive bric a brac. Because I am a glutton we ended up in Granny Macs which is heaven for sweet tooths. Smalls bags of every sweet you can think of, and tucked up the back is the fudge counter where you can taste a huge range of traditional and quirky (pumpkin!) flavoured fudge.



After stuffing ourselves with fudge on the walk back to the car, I had one final purchase I wanted to make, a bottle of white muscat from O'Reillys Vineyard which I'd tasted at the Ekka and loved because of its smooth raisiny flavour and thick honey like texture. The drive out was beautiful and driving into the gates I had high hopes of a devonshire tea to complete the afternoon, however we'd arrived too late for food (which made me very sad) and had to make do with just a bottle of liquid gold.



At this point I was really disappointed that I hadn't booked accommodation... It was a golden afternoon, we had a car packed full of goodies and the idea of driving just down the road, getting out and having a soak in our valley view spa made me want to shiver in anticipation. Instead we sensibly drove home so I could make us some hand cut sweet potato chips with yoghurt sauce and eat more fudge and have a good chunk of cheese.

I love food and wine so much. It's such a feast for the senses and Bingley and I had so much fun doing adult things with the obliging Possum in tow. I have decided that I want a replica of today in 2 months for my birthday, except this time I will get my spa.



I'm sorry for the crap writing, but I'm craving more fudge and haven't been able to focus. Mmmmmm rum and raisin fudge drooooooool

Been a while

I haven't much to write except to say I've been ridiculously busy. Family stuff, a hectic uni timetable, trying to stay fit as well as some personal issues have all eroded into my blogging time. There's also been the lack of suitable material, because I'm sure that the minutiae of my life are not particularly interesting to anyone else.

I'm a bit over ophthalmology at the moment and will be glad to switch to another surgical specialty next week. The hours aren't too bad, but this is very clinic heavy and clinics tend to be quite repetitive and/or painful so I'll be happy to have it done with. There has also been some time consuming token assessment that has been driving me slightly mental... hence the dearth of posts.

The husband received his pay review today and has been given a decent raise. He, of course, is a little unhappy but for the work he's doing at the moment and the flexibility in hours they've given him we're not too disappointed. I, of course, am proud of him either way, but he frets a lot about "providing" so it's just one of those things. He still has 2 years to break the 6 figure mark (his goal) and he's not that far off so I think he should be pretty proud of himself.

The Elfling has finally got a confirmed place at an after school hours care centre for next year, not in our preferred centre but a confirmed place none the less. This is a huge weight off my mind, as school hours do not mesh in well with parental working hours. She is very excited about heading off to big school and thankfully some of her friends will be joining her at Prep. Her very best friend in the whole entire world who she has played with now for nearly 4 years is on the waitlist for the school (doesn't live in catchment) and we have everything crossed that he will be able to go too.

The Monkey is going beautifully and her language is just exponential at the moment. She uses words/sentences as her primary mode of communication now instead of tantrums which is nice. Not to say she can't throw some doozies but we're pretty good at ignoring them and she hates performing without an audience. We haven't fed in ?3 days and we're going with the don't offer, don't refuse method of weaning. If I wasn't feeling quite so tired at the moment I wouldn't even consider it, but she seems happy so we'll just see how we go.

After a beautiful weekend barbie and swim at a friends place I've also re-enrolled the Elfling in swimming lessons (even without the freaking government's childcare rebate that we are owed for LAST FINANCIAL YEAR totaling in excess of several thousand dollars) and am trying to work out if I can find the money somewhere for the Monkey to go too. Next year they will both definitely need lessons and we will probably continue with the gymnastics so need to find the time and the resources for that as well.

Enough minutiae. Not much else happening at the moment. Waiting to become an Aunty again, waiting to get my results from last rotation to know that I will graduate at the end of the year, waiting to see if the dollar recovers before December so we can actually afford our luxe holiday (it's in USD), waiting for Friday.

Salad

I keep starting new blog posts and then not finishing them, forgetting to save and then exiting. I go to write funny little anecdotes that I want remembered and completely forget to type them out. And then I sit here with the white box open begging me to FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY type something, and my mind goes blank. So here is a mish mash of stuff that is swirling around in my brain.

On Friday I went to our local fish and chips takeaway to buy dinner and went to the bottle-o while I waited for my order. While there taking 2 imported 6 packs of bière to the counter for LH I tripped over an errant case in the middle of an aisle, head first into a rack of red wine. Because I was born under a lucky star I broke nothing except my pride - quite a feat when one is lying on a hard floor looking up surrounded by alcohol bottles clinking away beside me.

On Thursday the Elfling asked if she could stay home as she was so tired, and had been having a hard time with the long kindy days. So we did, playing around in the sunshine, watching movies and basically not doing a lot. We then went out for dinner where she ate a few spoonfulls of dinner before stuffing herself with icecream and jellybeans.

I rode to work this mornign and only got off to push for 2 hills. One which I will always push for and one which I am hoping to master by year's end. It took me even less time again today and my fingers were 20% more frozen. I call this progress.

I had the most eclectic collection of patrons in clinic this morning, they got kookier and more bizarre as the morning went on. From the hoarder, the one with the strange affect, the hobbit and the liar they were all some of the most interesting persons I have ever met. Just goes to show that diabetes strikes everyone.

There is a lady sitting across from me at the moment chewing the zipper on her jumper. The rasp of teeth on teeth is grinding along my nerves like chalk on a blackboard.

I love having a shower in the hospital before I start the day. There is something so refreshing about it and it's not the same as having a shower as soon as I get out of bed. This makes me happy.

I have already started trying to bargain with myself so as not to have to ride every day so have implemented a rewards/bribery scheme with LH. If I ride/go to the gym 4 days a week I get to sleep in both mornings on the weekend. If 3 times, I only get 1 morning on the weekend. Less than that and he gets the full weekend worth of sleepins. May I say that this is the best bribery ever. I don't know what my weight is atm and I don't care, but I do care about sleep. I have erotic fantasies about sleep. I am a shameless sleep whore. And so he has struck gold with the "Bribe wife to do what she wants".

The only problem is that the rewards seem tipped heavily in my favour. Riding is getting heaps easier (ie I'm getting fitter), I am probably losing weight - as above haven't checked so have no idea - and I get to sleep. Pretty much win win situation. I've found that riding is heaps easier to stick to than going to the gym as well. While I love the gym, I prefer going during the day and my days are made up of going to work. They don't combine so well. But I have to go to work every morning and riding (even with shower) is now as fast or faster than catching public transport and driving. So I don't need to make a "special time" for it, it's just my "getting to work" thing.

Which makes me think that in future weeks adding the gym on top is maybe not a bad idea. Tonight I'm thinking of doing all my measurements again, including weight and posting it on here for me to be embarrassed by. I then have 16 weeks until we head off into the tropics and I have a sneaking suspicion that I need to lose about 8kg. Half a kg a week. Now being as I've come down hard on other people's obesity on this blog, it's only fair that I see that I can conquer it myself. And all you who've been tuning in can be my judge and jury, though I'd love it even more if you were to join me.

If "now is not a good time for you" then I challenge you that you're just making excuses because there will never be a good time. I am broke, I have 2 children under 4, I go to uni fulltime, I have to study, I have a husband to look after and a house to keep clean (with his help). I have a lot on my plate. You probably do too. But being unhealthy is not a choice for me, so I need to keep it up. Hope you do too.

Back later with the dreaded Olympian stats.

Bruise

I have a mystery bruise on my bicep. I have no idea where it came from, but every day in the shower for the last week I've been marvelling as it at first darkened, then turned a brilliant purple, then green and now yellow. It joins the similar bruise of unknown aetiology on my hip and the one on my shin. I have no idea where they came from - probably the result of me walking into a benchtop/door handle/bed frame or similar but I have no memory of doing so. So I watch in fascination as they evolve, every morning bemused by their ambush attack.

The best bruise I ever had was at 18. Friends and I had gone to the local watering hole to be, well "watered" and stayed out past the last bus home time. Being as it was barely 2km home from this local establishment (though extraordinarily hilly) we set off in great spirits on foot. Now had we continued on foot, this story would probably end with "and we went home and went to bed". Unfortunately, after a few hundred metres we spied a pair of shopping trolleys.

Now shopping trolleys are reknowned for their precision handling and comfortable seating arrangements so we decided that we should ride them home. Clambering in in noisy appreciation we took it in turns to push or be pushed for a while. I had the great joy of having my turn at pushing on an uphill stretch and getting to the top of the hill I was puffing and sweating from the exertion of pushing a 50kg shopping trolley with 70 odd kilograms of friend up a steep hill. So obviously it was my turn to rest.

At the top of the hill we swapped places and I sat in the extremely comfortable hard metal contraption and leaned back against the cracked babyseat, chest heaving a little with the effort of the aforementioned push looking forward to having a break. So we set off again, Smudge holding on gamely to the handle of the trolley as we descended down the hill (Sir Fred Schonell Dr for those familiar with the area). Except it was steeper I think than she'd anticipated, and Smudge was not the strongest of girls. Suddenly, about halfway down the hill she lost her grip.

Picture the scene now, it's after midnight but there are still occasional vehicles on this busy road and I'm hurtling down a hill in a shopping trolley hair streaming out behind me feeling not a small bit anxious - shopping trolleys of course getting a very low ANCAP rating due to the lack of airbags and antilock brakes (being somewhat deficient in any brakes...). I had, at this stage, a couple of options. One was to close my eyes, scream and hope that it miraculously all turned out ok. Another was to open my eyes, scream and hope that it miraculously all turned out ok... or there was option number 3.

As I was hurtling along, bouncing a little on random debris on the road and watching with dissociative amusement of the spectacle I was making, I decided that at some point I would stop, and that the manner in which I stopped could be decided by me, or by some "higher power". Not being the religious type or having a particular higher power to turn to (as well as being slightly independent) I chose to stop it myself. When there are no brakes and your momentum is increasing, the options to stop are somewhat limited, and the best solution I could think of was to tip the trolley. Trolleys are very heavy. I weighed about the same as the trolley - so it took a lot of determination to decide this, but once I had made my plan I set about implementing it.

And I did - tipping the trolley on its side while executing a near perfect J turn - so precise that if I could do that on a snowboard LH would marry me all over again. The trolley shuddered to a stop almost immediately and I was still in one piece - no broken bones, not having got up close and personal with either tree or oncoming cars... Excelsior! Unfortunately, as I went to stand up, I realised I had made a single fatal flaw - in using my body weight to both swing and tip the trolley I had waved my arm outside of the cage and on tipping had effectively trapped it between trolley and asphalt - thankfully not shredding it to pieces. It did however leave a bruise that was the talk of my friends for months afterwards. The rainbow of colours catapulting it well into the realm of king of the bruises...

The funny thing was, aside from the throbbing pain and the absolute revolting appearance of the bruise, every time I looked at it, my immediate thought was how clever I'd been to stop the trolley. And in the shower this morning, looking at the baby brother of my ultimate bruise, I was grinning like an idiot - because once upon a time I bested a trolley at 40km an hour.



PS I passed paeds - 1 more exam til I'm a Dr
PS2 I went to the gym again today - arms are shakier than they were when I was using them as a trolley brake

When Will I Be Old Enough to Have My Own Room???

We spend a lot of time getting excited about the Monkey's burgeoning vocabulary. She's added so many words now that I don't know where to start in listing them, but suffice to say that we're understanding her a lot better and she's a lot happier for this now that the daft tall ones are obeying her commands faster.

She still resorts to the patented point and shout (loudly) method that is almost infallible, and is not averse to the ninja banana-on-freshly-ironed-and-clean-work-clothes attack when she feels the need to express herself more strongly than the usual adorable ear splitting banshee. But mostly she is starting to become more verbally dominant, and we look forward to the glinty light in the tunnel when we don't have to decipher sobbing, ground punching, wailing incoherence.

But then the Elfling reminds us of the beauty of the preverbal period and puts everything in perspective. Aside from the whining, requests for horrid plastic toys, parental manipulation and elephantine memory (interspersed of course with the delectable/manipulative/perfectly timed "I love you") the Elfling has an ability now to recount stories that are best left to internal monologue. She also is incredibly curious.

Example A, her running commentary while I'm in the shower, especially after Wednesday's sojourn.

E: "Mum what happened to your hair?"
J: "I went to the hairdresser and got it cut"
E: "Not *that* hair [you ridiculous cretin]"
J: "..." (I can't hear you, I can't heeeeeeaaaaarrrr you)
E: "MuuuUUUuummmm, what happened to your haiiiIIiiiIiiir"
J: "*sob* I want to be able to shower without an audience"
LH: (laughing so much he snorts and starts choking)
E: "Did you losted it? Daaaaadddddyyyyyyyyeeeeeee Mummmmeeeeee doesn't have fur any more"
LH: (passes out [from choking] on the bathroom floor hitting his head)
J: "I'm 26 years old, I deserve to be able to have a shower on my own"
E: "Don't be silly Mummy"

It got better though, on picking her up from Kindy yesterday, I got *that* smirk from one of her carers. The "your child has been embarrassing you in your absence" smirk. With perfect timing the Elfling in her angelic sweet clear voice rings out "you don't have any hair on your bottom any more do you Mummy?".

Bloody kids.

Sensorium

I'm not usually a tactile person. I'm not a hugger (except for the babies and LH), I won't come in your personal space (unless you're on a train with me - then watch out :p), I find kissing friends and relatives always uncomfortable and often miss in my haste to get it over and done with. My idea of personal hell is a pedicure/foot massage because someone would be touching my feet.

I think part of it aside from the weird social norms of kissing people you don't really want to kiss, is that I am incredibly ticklish. Back massages have to be exactly the right depth for me otherwise I start spasming with laughter. If LH tries to run his hand along my belly then I double over; if he tries to do that "feathery stroke-y" thing over my face and neck then I start squirming and have to suppress giggles. My skin just seems to be hyperaware. I'm always cognizant of anything touching or brushing my skin, and the lightest touch can send me into a sensorial spin. So usually I'm not exactly thrilled with anything that has to do with me requiring to be touched.

Today though was what I dubbed in my diary "appointment day". After dropping the girls off at kindy I first dropped in to my favourite waxing salon. The first time I went in there I was squirming with more embarrassment than I had going into the nearby sex shop to buy a friend a novelty blow up doll for his 21st. These days though I can head on in without feeling the need to don large novelty glasses and Mata Hari-esque disguises. I was thrilled to note that my favourite therapist was looking after me today, and we quickly got down to business - her leaving me with the attractive paper undergarments that they use to assist the process and me thinking to myself about how bizarre it is to lie on a bed half naked listening to Jack Johnson in a room that is attractively scented with citrus. Got down to business relatively quickly while having a lovely polite conversation.

There is something in having your legs akimbo and being in some small amount of pain while chatting away that is beyond bizarre. The only thing that comes close is childbirth, but the results are not quite comparable... I've never needed a frozen water filled condom after a wax. Within a short period of time though I was completely relaxed. There's something about the way warm wax feels being spread on your skin that is endlessly soothing, even with the flipside.

Got done in record amount of time and after admiring results in the mirror (look it's my blog, no one's making you read :p) and slathering on the mango scented product headed off to the hairdressers. Whereby after amusing myself with the hydraulic chair for a while I was taken over to a sink to have my hair washed.

I've never been fond of the hair wash ritual. It's someone touching my head and the "massage" thing that they're all trained to do after invariably makes me squirm and wish it would all just be over soon as I lie back and think of England. But today, maybe because it was quiet, or maybe because she was just forgetful, the hairwashing girl washed my hair twice, and by the second time I was just zonked and couldn't move. Sensation was just incredible - kind of like it must feel when a baby is patted off to sleep. Then she started on the head massage and I DID actually fall asleep it was so good. When it was over I had melted into the chair and they had to scrape me off to take me over to get my hair cut.

There is something pretty cool about getting your haircut as well - just ask the Elfling who cannot stop herself. Watching big thick chunks of healthy hair just fall into your lap is very therapeutic somehow. Metaphors about cutting through the jungle to reach the hidden castle abound. And because I was in a relaxed mood still from the head massage when she offered to blow me (with the hairdryer you perverts!) I took her up on her ridiculously over priced offer. I love having my hair brushed, and having my hair brushed while pouring hot air all over a nicely desensitised scalp is just tinglingly good.

By the time I walked out I was almost incoherent. Smooth shiny hair, smooth shiny... well let's not go there. And on my awy to the car I passed the Body Shop - which I love to browse when I don't have to worry about the Elfling and Monkey "sampling" the body butter display. Being as Wednesday mornings are pretty quiet in the retail sector I was ambushed as soon as I went in, and when I was offered a makeup trial I decided to go with the flow as the girl selected "colours" for me...

And then applied them with this silky brush over my face. Now I've already said that I'm not into the whole feathery stroke-y thing, but being in a state of complete sensory overload already, feeling this brush across my face was just incredibly good. My eyes closed just thinking about sensation. She even brushed over my eyelids which I've mentioned before is one of those spots for me that instantly renders me docile like a cat getting scratched behind its ears. Bonus was, by the end of it I had new sleek hair, lovely make up and a body that felt like a puddle of goo.

To top off a perfect day I had lunch with a friend, tried on some clothes (size 12, all off the rack, all fitted perfectly) and spent the afternoon under my doona having a nap stretched out between soft and snuggly sheets.

I'm about to go to bed with Mr Darcy and cannot think of any way this day could possibly get any better. Well unless the terrible twosome decide that tonight's the night that they will not only both sleep through but past dawn... here's hoping.

McDreamy

I was reading some of my (very old) diaries over the weekend and found a little bit from when I was 17 and convinced I was going to die alone. I'd just had a messy break up (though I was the dumpER) and was sketching out my ideal man, because even though I was moping, I was still convinced of Prince Charming. It's a pretty interesting list to look at, because my lovely husband matches so few of the ridiculous criteria. And funnier still because I have a few friends who match so precisely and yet I've never been able to see as more than big goofy brothers - no salacious dreams, no impure thoughts whatsoever because that would be gross.

So as best a list I can cobble, if I was able to choose Prince Charming...

First and foremost he had to make me laugh. Now I've seen this little pearler on so many dating sites of late (I have a friend who likes me to peruse/veto/dissect RSVP profiles) but it's a bit of an abstract thing. I have a strange sense of humour. I love puns, I love witty little epithets, but I also have a 15 year old boy inside me that loves laughing at absolute ridiculous shite. I secretly loved American Pie. I think Bruce Willis is hilarious. I make bad taste jokes about NZ friends and sheep. But you have to understand the Chaser and political satire to truly make me laugh.

It was imperative that Princey was smart, not just a little bit bright, but gifted IQ. 145 minimum. I wanted to be challenged intellectually and almost competitively by someone who could talk with me coherently about the Mandelbrot set before moving onto politics and art. I foresaw nights curled up on a squishy opshop lounge chair debating vivaciously about wankerish elitist topics while drinking red wine.

I wanted artisitic, someone who wrote, or painted and could produce beautiful original things. Someone who could express themselves. And I guess I wanted some artistic temperament to go with it. A Gleam chaser. Someone who was stormy and tempestuous at times and glorious and sunny at others. Who radiated joie de vivre and would match me for crazy, unpredictable, spontaneous and heart bursting Phil adventures. I wanted to read their poetry or lyrics or their canvas and be inspired.

Following on from that I wanted someone who could play music. Someone who sang, or played guitar or preferrably piano. I have always been melted by the piano, and as someone whose favourite feature on a man is hands/wrists/forearms, fingers splayed over a keyboard is almost erotic. In fact one crush I had in highschool persisted long after it should have based solely on how much I loved watching him play piano or shift gears while driving.

I wanted him to speak another language. Didn't matter which one, but I guess I have an attraction to European languages. Spanish, French, not so much Italian, Russian, Finnish, Swedish... all good. An accent would be perfect as well, and in fact accents still make me weak at the knees.

Another must of this Charming royal of mine, was that he would be very much attached to his family and friends and want one of his own. I wanted a man who loved children and foresaw himself sitting on a couch with a baby snoring into his shoulder. Who liked the idea of watching ballet concerts with little bepigtailed princess girls or running alongside a bicycle as his son pedalled furiously along before veering off into a bush.

He had to have an element of the silly and the childlike, who could appreciate things like eating icecream, building sandcastles, watching B grade and blockbuster action movies, play wrestling, pillow fights, silly sex, computer games, card games, laughing at inappropriate times... basically so I didn't feel like such a loon when I did all of the above!

Physically I wasn't so stringent. Even as a teenager I struggled to describe a "type" and none of my boyfriends physically resembled eachother at all, but there were certain things that have always done it for me...

He had to be tall. I'm 5'7/170cm which isn't particularly tall, but it's not short either, and I wanted to be able to wear my highest boots and still only come up to chin height. Probably a remnant from movies where the heroine is always being kissed on the top of her head when she has a bad day. I have lots of bad days, I like being kissed on my hair, ergo, he had to be tall.

Buildwise although I can very much appreciate the ripped physique, I've always had a thing for the weedy, pale English type. Ewan McGregor in trainspotting. Long and wiry and lean and pale. Sinewy. Very very strong. But not over muscled. Not the all American hero. Someone who was perfectly capable of keeping my hands pinned behind my back but who I wasn't worried was going to crush me under their Mr Universe pectorals. Someone who would look incredible in a perfectly tailored suit.

Dark hair. I have never been attracted to blondes. I think this partially stems from my Mum telling me very young that all blonde men went bald, and while this is not entirely true, blondies do seem to go thin faster than brunettes, and I think this may have stuck in my head. There is just something about very dark hair though that attracts me. Maybe it's narcissism :p

Blue or green eyes. Preferrably blue. I think it's the combo with the dark hair that makes me swoon. I don't know what it is about this "type" aside from the fact that it's so striking. I always notice men who have dark hair and blue eyes and it always makes my breathing just that little bit shallow. Even now that I'm a happily married old matron!

The aforementioned hands. I can't stand "girly" hands on a man. I HATE long fingernails on men. I cannot stand fat wrists, no tone, creepy fingers... Hands are a deal breaker. You've heard of men who won't date women over a Size 6 or with less than a D cup? Well I'm as shallow as them because hands are a make or break thing. In fact pretty much all of the above can be overcome by a pair of beautiful hands lol. The wrists and forearms are incorporated into this, and the stronger and leaner they are then the more infatuated I become. I admit it, I'm a wrist pervert.

So what does this all add up to? Let me summarise Prince Charming. A foreign artistic clown who laughs at my jokes and is incredibly intelligent, artistic, insane, and goofy, who plays piano, loves children and is very tall, thin, dark haired, blue eyed and has perfect forearms... not so much to ask for! And funnily enough, I married my perfect match who meets very few of those criteria. Careful what you wish for eh?

Breasts... I haz dem... look away if that bothers you

Post from April last year, still, sadly very relevant...

Why are bras so hard to buy? Finding the perfect bra was once a quest of mine, to find that comfortable, ultimately glamorous bra that made "the girls" look as perfect as possible, while minimising projection, passing the LH phwoar test and not causing my hands to lose sensation as the straps dug uncomfortably into my shoulders.

Whenever I found a bra that vaguely met those standards I would buy it instantly, regardless of cost simply because finding one was a miracle, and expecting to come back and find it on sale was like the Holy Grail of shopping. Sizing was a ridiculous "guide" depending on which brand, which particular style and which way the wind was blowing. I had bras from Size 10DD to 14B with bits and bots in between. But my collection was pretty glamorous. Embroidered, gorgeous, underwired bras in every colour of the rainbow, often with the matching underwear for ultimate *ego* boosting.

Then I got pregnant. And people told me I had to get rid of my lovely underwires and buy maternity bras. Bras that came in 2 colours, white and beige. Occasionally with Nana embroidery and straps so thick you could use them as a spare rock climbing harness. I ignored their advice and bought none, waiting until I actually needed those complicated looking drop down cups to go buy some.

By the end of my pregnancy I was fairly busting out of my pretty bras, and was actually pretty OK with the idea of buying the Nana bras. Plus once the Elfling made her squalling entrance into the world I didn't care much about underwear, so long as it was functional. 6 months into the feeding game I was so much looking forward to wearing all my carefully stored rainbow, those mood lifting, bust enhancing, lovely garments that were hidden away.

But when I stopped feeding they didn't fit any more

Not only had my boobs changed colour and shape, but they were also bigger. Add that to my breastfeeding weightGAIN (how does that work? All those people that said BFing makes you lose weight LIES LIES LIES) and there were about 2 nice bras that still fit. And when I say fit I mean I could stuff my boobs into. They no longer did all the pushing up, cleavage enhancing, free drinks receiving thing. Oh no, they merely held on for dear life.

This pregnancy, not only did I get to deal with the after effects of last time, but I also got to deal with pregnancy breast growth. Now that was fun. Stabbing pains shooting through breasts that were incredibly sensitive and on permanent high beam. My slightly less pretty new underwire bras digging painfully into my new boobs that were apparently growing out of my armpits. Growing up to a large E cup and if I was willing to actually admit it, probably a comfortable F cup.

So not only were they huge and uncomfortable, but I had to buy maternity bras again because my last attractive Nana numbers were all too small (except one particularly fetching beige number). This time around there was much more variety in maternity bras. Pregnant supermodels had seen the gaping hole in the market and brought out delicate lacy numbers, perfect for those hazy soft focus shots on magazine covers. I was so excited. Pretty bras! In technicolor!!

Eagerly I made the excursion to try on these pretty pretty bras. Lovely AND functional I grinned to myself. But of course, these bras were made for women with slightly enlarged nipples and not a single one of them fit. So back I trudged to old faithful beige, and got wildly excited when I saw one I could wear in black.

So until recently I was back in my beige and whites. Suffering the big-bosomed-breastfeeders curse of dispiriting underwear. Then I decided to become a gym bunny.

And if I thought maternity bras with their uniformly 1950s conical boob look was bad I was about to step into the twilight zone.

Modern sports bras come in more fabrics, configurations and colour choices than modern sports cars. Light weight, tensile strength, intelligent design (with or without a compassionate God), embroidery, side support, shoulder padding, airflow generators and more structural support than the Sydney Harbour Bridge. All designed to keep you cool and minimise the dreaded bounce.

Most I tried on were OK should my effort include such things as rolling out of bed in the mornings, or the more strenuous climbing the stairs. But should both of my feet actually leave the ground at the same time, they would not so much act as support but as catapults for breasts (and permanent high beam mentos style) that could take an eye out.

So I tried the new generation sports top types favoured by my exercise idols on such shows as Biggest Loser and discovered a phenomenon I like to refer to as uniboob. Where two perfectly normal, well adjusted boobs suddenly morph into one, cyclops style in the middle of my chest, also creating a nice sweaty chasm down the middle, that just inspires one to work out.

So they were useless too. I started to wonder if having boobs that I bounced hard enough to actually tie around my neck would be such a bad thing... until clever clot that I am, I had a Mexican taco eating family revelation... porque no los dos???

Cue raucous cheering from the assembled crowd.

So gym nights now see me trussed into not one but 2 superengineered titanium alloy, carbon fibre precision instruments that barely allow me to breathe let alone bounce, and all excuses for not running are held firmly to my chest.

The only problem is that when I come home and the Monkey is yelling for a feed it takes me half an hour to free myself from them again .

Doritos...

Ever get a craving for something? When I was pregnant I didn't really get many, despite the tuna fish with chocolate topping stereotype. Occasionally I wanted specific fruits, or really really needed to sink my teeth into a juicy 2" eye fillet steak, but I never wanted to stop and inhale a doughnut for example. Mostly my cravings are organic fresh foods (especially fruit), or fresh made pasta or a chunk of swiss gruyere on dense sourdough.

But shamefully, sporadically, I have a craving for doritos. If I suck my tongue I can taste their saltiness. I fantasise about slowly licking the partially hydrogenated cheese solids off the edges. Of eating them secretly so no one else knows. And when I give in, I can never have just one. I can't just say to myself, I'll have a handful and then put the rest of the packet away to have later in small acceptable amounts. Oh no. I need to devour the whole thing, attack it until there is only a deflated crinkled bag left at the end and I'm feeling slightly exhausted and guilty.

This craving is worse when I am drinking. In between flirting benignly with strangers or leaning over to play pool, my brain will be thinking about salty treats, and the fact that they will compliment my vodka perfectly.

So why not indulge? Because they are bad for you. I always feel hideous when I have them, slightly nauseous and ashamed of myself for being carried away by flavours that have numbers. Of falling for the marketing. I do obviously buy them on occasion, and people have them at parties (but under the eyes of others I am usually OK at restraining myself to just one or two). But I try never to have them in the house, because if they're there, then I know that the second that I'm alone that I will start breathing differently in anticipation, and that soon my fingers will be wrapped around a triangle, smearing orange, and bringing them to my already watering mouth.

Right now I want a family sized packet. And I would finish. them. all.

Gah.

Memes, because I'm too tired to do anything else (though I did see Commuter #4 this morning)

Thanks Mel! (Though now you'll all think I'm insane - lucky I didn't post me "is he into you", "are you a freak?" and "what question mark are you?" results...)

You Act Like You Are 20 Years Old

You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel like an adult, and you're optimistic about life. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences. You're still figuring out your place in the world and how you want your life to shape up. The world is full of possibilities, and you can't wait to explore many of them.

What Age Do You Act?

You Should Be a Social Worker

You are deeply caring and empathetic. You are able to take on other people's problems as if they were your own. Sensitive and intuitive, you understand human emotions well. Helping others gives you the most joy in life. You feel like it's your purpose in life. You do best when you: - Have a lot of responsibility - Greatly impact someone's life with your work You would also be a good philanthropist or stay at home parent.

What Should You Be When You Grow Up?

You Are 28% Obsessive

You tend to have a few obsessive thoughts, but you generally have them under control. Sometimes your worries keep you up at night, though they usually don't interfere with your life.

How Obsessive Are You?

The Part of You That No One Sees

You are passionate, romantic, and emotional. You put love first in your life, even though you have often been disappointed by it. You expect to be swept of your feet, and you never expect infatuation to die out. Underneath it all, you are scared that you aren't lovable. Your insecurity has ruined many relationships, as you are unable to see the love that's really there. You are secretly afraid of being alone. Confronting your insecurities is incredibly painful.

What's the Part of You That No One Sees?

Your Personality Is

Idealist (NF) You are a passionate, caring, and unique person. You are good at expressing yourself and sharing your ideals. You are the most compassionate of all types and connect with others easily. Your heart tends to rule you. You can't make decisions without considering feelings. You seek out other empathetic people to befriend. Truth and authenticity matters in your friendships. In love, you give everything you have to relationships. You fall in love easily. At work, you crave personal expression and meaning in your career. With others, you communicate well. You can spend all night talking with someone. As far as your looks go, you've likely taken the time to develop your own personal style. On weekends, you like to be with others. Charity work is also a favorite pastime of yours.

The Three Question Personality Test

What These Orchids Say About You

You are exotic and intricately beautiful. You possess a unique grace that's both delicate and strong. You are thoughtful and refined. You are the definition of class.

What Do The Flowers You Pick Say About You?

What Your City Walk Means

You are unique and philosophical. You have your own way of living life, and you relish your independence. You are very introverted. You generally prefer quiet time by yourself to most social interactions. Money is fairly important to you. You aren't super greedy, but you enjoy spending money on yourself. You enjoy the world around you, and you thrive on new environments. You can be easily surrounded by natural or man made beauty.

The City Walk Personality Test

Your Thinking is Abstract and Random

You are flexible, adaptable, and creative. There's many ways that you can learn - and you're up for any of them. You relate well to other people, and you do well working in groups. You can help people communicate together and work with each other's strengths. You don't work well with people who are competitive or adversarial. You prefer to work toward a common goal... not toward conflicting goals.

What Kind of Thinker Are You?

You Are a Total Brainiac

You're amazingly brilliant. Some would even say genius. You're curious, thoughtful, analytical, and confident. You take on difficult subjects because you want to... not because you have to. No field of knowledge is too complicated or intimidating for you. You've got the brains to do anything you want. It's possible you end up doing everything you want.

Are You a Brainiac?

You are a Hippie

You are a total hippie. While you may not wear birks or smell of incense, you have the soul of a hippie. You don't trust authority, and you do as you please. You're willing to take a stand, even when what you believe isn't popular. You like to experiment with ideas, lifestyles, and different subcultures. You always gravitate toward what's radical and subversive. Normal, mainstream culture doesn't really resonate with you.

Are You a Hippie?

You Are Very Sexy

Damn! You are one hot number. You have a lot of sex appeal. You know you're sexy, and you're not afraid to put it all out there. And while you're very appealing, you're careful not to be trashy or over the top. Sexy is all about attitude. And you totally have the attitude that people love. How You Are Sexy Your modern look is sexy. You don't give people too much of the same old thing. You like to change it up. You are secure in social situations, and you definitely have a confident vibe. And that's very sexy. You are flirtatious and fun with most people. You know how to keep things light, friendly, and sexy. You accept your body as it is, and that's sexy. If you feel attractive, you are more attractive - no matter what your shape is.

Are You Sexy?

You Are 44% Pure

You're not so innocent... in fact, you're quite unpure. You have seen and experienced a lot. And you're no worse for the wear!

The 100 Question Purity Test

And my favourite of the lot

Your Life is 64% Perfect

Your life is pretty darn perfect. You don't have much to complain about. Of course, your life is occasionally less than perfect. But you're usually too happy to notice.

How Perfect is Your Life?

Oh and apparently I'm not pregnant - there was a quiz for that too. Phew!

Fantasy

It started this morning, this fantasy of mine, as I was woken from my already broken sleep by LH nuzzling my shoulder hoping to get some predawn "quality time" before the terrible twosome came barrelling through the door. It was hazy at first, like all fantasies - a simple concept, waiting for the details to become apparent to me. As I showered and dressed and got the girls ready for the day I filled in a few of those gaps. Mostly the location, for what is a fantasy without a location?

As I rode the train into the city, standing because there were no more seats, I met the eye of an unnervingly good-looking businessman wearing an even more fabulous smelling aftershave and let the intoxicating aroma work its way into my imaginings. I embellished a bit here and there, and only stopped fantasising when I realised that I had been staring off into space and was attracting attention so blushing furiously I tamped down the daydream and headed off to work.

In between taking histories, reading notes and attending lectures and tutorials I added a few more details. Mostly superfluous to the action, but I have a vivid imagination and the salaciousness of it all was building my desire to fever pitch. As I sat down on the bus to go home this afternoon, I sat next to yet another desirable, this time older man, perhaps in his early 40s with silvered hair and broad shoulders.

Gagging for it as I was, I kept myself sitting upright and avoided looking at his truly magnificent shoulders and arms and resisted "accidently" brushing against him. I was convinced that he could see my thoughts, and a blush burned my ears and kept my colour high, which, along with my guilty face and unshuttered eyes I am sure broadcast to all and sundry on the bus exactly what I wanted to do with this man and his warm, broad chest. He was wearing a nice aftershave as well, and it was not helping matters.

I determinedly closed my eyes, and conjured up images in my head, to distract myself from the inviting expanse of my fellow passenger, and sighed audibly as the true object of my desire swum behind my closed eyelids...

...Soft, pure white sheets that slip like silk over my skin... heaped white pillows, some firm, some very very soft, curtains around the bed, swathed close creating a darkened harem, dappled afternoon light, muted by heavy rain clouds that drop their bounty on a tin roof above...

Somehow I managed to get home, and as I cooked up the very unerotic lamb chops and vegetables (side note I appear to have the only children in the world that don't like mashed potato), I again drifted off...

...On this cool, darkened wet afternoon, in this 4 posted orgiastic dream, LH is stretched out between the sheets, his skin smelling of the same intoxicating aftershave as my new commuter muses...

Knowing that I could fulfil my fantasy soon, I decided to spice it up a bit and mixed my favourite lemon meringue pie hand whipping the egg whites to stiff peaks, thinking of how LH and I could feed eachother the soft chewy, caramelised tops of the meringue before indulging in the best bit...

...Smiling softly but with a wicked naughty girl gleam (as they always do in erotic fantasies), I move in close to the divine smelling LH and kiss him softly on his shoulder, mimicking the actions that started this whole distracting day...

The girls finally in bed, and the lemon meringue pie cooling on the stove, my body heat rising as we reach the climac of my dream, I have it pictured perfectly...

...I nuzzle him until I find that perfect spot, that place that took me a few years to find without error, caress it with my lips before finally moving in, dropping my head my lips parted... LH sighs in anticipation, he's been wanting this almost as much as I have... our bodies are liquid and we've both been thinking of nothing else since the sun groggily rose in the sky in the morning... curling in close my head finally drops, my eyes roll back, and with a slight snort and a hypnogogic jerk I fall into blissful sleep for 8 hours straight...

I've been craving it all day.

Hey!

Youse are all lovely eh?

I'm so tired I can barely move but I'm fine, really. Happy as someone who is basically liquid goo on the couch can be (goo from tired - nothing sinister). I have a few posts rattling around in my largely empty head including

Havianas - they are THONGS people, double pluggers, flipflops. They are not real shoes!! YOu can't wear them with a suit! They are not "cute", even if they are purple. They are a symbol of the fact that people are gullible for *fashion* because your feet look universally ugly in them. And have I mentioned they are exactly the same as $2 Woollies ones? No? Well consider yourself told (and ripped off).

Commuter #4

And a poignant love story where I finally say goodbye. And it hurts a little bit. (boobs may be mentioned).

But back to top, I really am OK. Promise. Cross my pinky's over my heart etc etc.