Fat.... yet Fragrant!

So.  Today I have eaten:* 1 x Celebrity Slim mint-choc diet shake (see, started the day with good intentions!!)
+ coffee
* 1 apple
* An olive, 3 chunks of yummy cheese on crackers, 4 x Spring rolls, 2 pappadum thingies
(it was 'International morning tea day' at work)
* A tin of chicken on corn thins, plus a sizeable side-salad
* A piece of hedgehog slice, half a lamington, a tiny shortbread biscuit and a piece of Violet crumble.

And it's only 12.58pm.

Damn... if smoking doesn't kill me, I think quitting and becoming morbidly obsese surely will.

Just can't. stop. putting. stuff. in . my. mouth.  I am, however enjoying not smelling like smoke.  That's nice, and refreshing.  Women should smell like women.  I enjoy being fragrant :)

Just an update on TTC.  It's been 8 months now. 
Next month it's off to the fertility specialist if this month doesn't work.  Hence, another good reason for quitting the fags. 

Oh well, at least I have the "eating for two" part of getting pregnant downpat (even though it's been a massive fail in every other department!)
Wish me luck and LOL Cats!

Someone please stab me in the eye with a fork

I think it would be more fun than quitting smoking.

Yes that's right, Strawberrysmum is an evil little smoker. Or, was.  Up until yesterday.

Back on the patches again; and it seems harder each time.

Why do I not remember this completely unpleasant, crawling with bugs sensation?
Why will that voice in my head (ciggieciggieciggieciggieciggiecigge... come on, ciggie?) not SHUT the f*ck up?  The patch is supposed to stop that, right?
Why does my mouth taste like ass?
Why did I do this to myself.... again?

Usually quite a lot of blame usually gets thrown the Tradie's way - living with a chain-smoker is bound to result in frequent relapses.  No matter how saintly you've been, a fresh clean set of lungs causes temporary amnesia, and few glasses of chardonnay makes that ubiquitous packet sitting on the bench look mighty tempting.  But I can't go on blaming him and making him a scapegoat forever.

His journey is his journey, and mine is mine, our choices are our own.   And while I feverently hope he'll follow my example, I know from experience that forcing or trying to manipulate that particular outcome is futile.

I wish to god I could go back to 19 year old me and say: "Hun, put down that 1mg Dunhill.  It's not cool, and you look like a dick.  It's certainly not fun 15 years down the track when you have to stick that smelly thing in your face every two hours. Just don't even go there."

But hopefully I can do something even better than go back in time.  I can set a good example for my own little girl.

So here I go again ... begone bugs, a fresh start awaits.

The wall

How often, as a blogger, have you had an idea for a post and then thought about it a little too long and decided... nup, that's crap, I won't post that.

And that idea dies a little death, and your voice dies a little death with it.

I'm going through this at the moment.  I'm reading a lot of blogs... amazing, inspirational, intimidating, and wet-your-pants-hilarious blogs, and while I'm in awe of everything being put out there, unfortunately it is stoking the fires of the "I'm not worthy".

This is what I call The Wall.  It's what stops creation.

My mum visited me last weekend.  She bought with her a folder of stuff my grandpa had collected over the years of me and my brothers.  Amongst it - actually, most of it - was writings of mine from when I was in primary school.

At 9 years old, I wrote a series of books.  Much like Mr. Men (isn't everything derivative?), but my main character was Apple, and his friends were other fruits, like Grapes and Bananas.  Apple went on lots of adventures, like to the circus, his first day at school, even spring cleaning (Lol).

What's remarkable to me as I read them over was not the content - the stories were pretty basic - but that I'd written THIRTEEN of these mini-books, and all of them were carefully illustrated, stapled along the edges and "bound" with sticky-tape.  I was a pretty serious amateur author and clearly I was posessed by my project at the time.

I haven't felt that way in a long time, and it's sad.  At what stage did I give up my dream to be a proper writer?

I think a lot of people in the blog community can probably relate to this.

So now, as I ponder whether to post THIS or not, I'll say fuck it, and post it.  Because I do have a voice, and it's me... and although my blog may still be in its infancy and not yet know what it wants to be, I'm sure others can relate.  Many others have been where I am and can relate.

My beautiful sister in law gave me a book "Writing a Novel for Dummies" :D (Goddamn those Dummies people do everything, don't they?).  I'm reading it at the moment and ideas are gestating.  New ideas start with a tiny blastocyst in the brain and become something; they're born from that crazy thought you had, that you finally gave the respect it deserved.  Somebody's brain has to do it, why not mine?  The only thing stopping me is the wall.  YOU?

Tired face

I have Tired Face today.  This little known, but terribly debilitating condition is characterised by a series of little syndromes and is typically bought on by poor sleep.  

Tired face's most classic symptom is itching eyes, that get itchier as the day goes on and the more you poke your fingers in them (I know, I know).  Water doesn't help, either; especially not surrepitious water you apply with your fingers from the water bottle on your desk.  Nor, strangely enough, does saliva (don't ask)

Then there are just totally bizarre, random itches that just pop up from no-where.  LEFT EAR!  FOREHEAD!  FOREHEAD AGAIN, A LITTLE TO THE RIGHT!

It's  like the face has Tourettes but instead of swear words, it spouts histamines into one's dermis.

There's really no point applying makeup on Tired Face.  But if you do, prepare for it all to be gone by 11am, with whatever remains congealing under the eyes in an attractive Alice Cooper-esque fashion, or in the wrinkles which have magically deepened overnight.

Tired Face is greatly helped by the application of caffiene (internally, 3 cups) and chocolate (at least 3 rows, dark almond preferably).  The cosmetic effects will be minimal but symptoms become easier to bear.

Finally, a word to others: we know we have Tired Face.  You know we have Tired Face.  We know you know we have Tired Face.  But point it out to me and I'll probably punch you in yours.   (When did "You look tired today" become an acceptable greeting?  Thanks!  And you look especially haggard too!)

The only thing that cures Tired Face is sleep, and we're currently campaigning to have this important medicine added to the PBS.  Please help support the cause by leaving your comment here?  Thanks very much :) xo

What the pluck?

Imagine if you will: it's the mid-1990's.  Brooke Shields is sooooo last decade and for girls who think they're grownups it's all about the shiny, satin business shirts, big drop earrings,  seriously matte Burgundy Poppy King lipstick and tonnes of Eu De Poison.  And plucked brows.

Plucking my brows into almost-obsurity was one of the more daft decisions of my youth (and that's a pretty distinguished honour).

I blame Shannen Doherty.  Damn you Shannen.  You and Jennie and all the other 90210-ers with your little brows and big overalls and long flowery skirts which somehow looked cute on you but didn't quite translate to chubby 20 year old.

You see I used to have brows.  Lovely ones, very lush and full.  But somehow in my mixed up teenage mind I equated fat brows with, well, FAT and while I was at a loss to know what to do with my thunder-thighs I had the perfect weapon against disgusting fat eyebrows right at my fingertips.  And pluck those buggers I did, right throughout my late teens and 20's - actually make that early 30's as well.   Until one day I realised I missed them.

It may have had something to do with an article I read stating that full brows make you look younger.  Or the fact that, evidenced by nearly all models and actresses in magazines these days, the Skinny Brow has absolutely had it's day.

But much to my horror, I stopped plucking... but they didn't grow!  Or rather, they did grow, but not in the places I wanted them to.  There were sparse bits here and gaps there, although they had absolutely no qualms growing everywhere I didn't want them (note to eyebrows: monobrows, are not, and never will be in.)

I discovered, as many before me have done, that overzealous plucking is a no-way back street.  And now I'm doomed to wander the earth forever, morose and brow-beaten, searching for the perfect colour eyebrow pencil.   THANKS SHANNEN!!!!!!!!!!!

What about you?  Did you stuff up your brows in your youth?  Any other beauty decisions you regret?

Sleep, interrupted.

Before kids, if asked which Super-power I'd like I would probably have answered Invisibility, or the ability to fly (particularly handy in peak hour traffic).

Now, I'd probably answer The Ability to Sleep.  At will.

Having Litte Red seriously stuffed up what for 32 years seemed like a pretty basic bodily function.  Mind you, she's been a very Crappola sleeper, in all the colours of the Crappola rainbow.  The sort of thing that is bound to mess around with your body clock.

From newborn night-partier to early toddlerhood still up 3 times a night with a bottle, we've battled every battle and read every book.  Now, after what seemed a brief reprieve, we've entered the "Nightmare" stage of the imaginative 3-year-old.

"MUUUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMMMMMMMY!!!!!!! ARRRRRRRRGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!" Last night I lept of bed to this piercing scream, certain she'd been murdered.

"The Snakes!!!!!!!"  my sleepy poppet screamed.  "The Snakes!! They're all in my bed!"
After establishing the offending serpents were not, in fact in her bed, I wearily went back to mine.

But as usual, I couldn't get back to sleep.  I couldn't get back to sleep if a poisonous frigging Asp bit ME on the frigging butt.


Laying awake for hours I wondered just when I'd lost my ability to sleep, and how my snoring husband beside me seems to manage quite perfectly.

Then, of course, my brain kicks in and all is lost.  Thinking about doing THIS post, for one.  Then something I forgot to put on the shopping list.  Then about something I should have said to someone.  And other things I need to put on the shopping list.  And a brilliant idea for a novel that was lost before morning.

And before I know it, a new day is dawning.What about you?  Do you have similar night-time struggles?  Any advice?