how to annoy me…

have a discussion with me about the fact we will get rid of the piano because:
we don’t have the room
its over one hundred years old and
regardless of how often you tune it, it is always flat.

Then arrange for a piano tuner to come on Chef’s day off – but tell him after its arranged so he had to cancel all his plans for that day (which admittedly were largely focused on X-box and wanking but still…)

Then have the tuner not show up.

So, now, on a Sunday afternoon – I have a man tuning the piano we’re going to get rid of – and I.can’t.do.anything.

Then express surprise when i say we’ll be getting rid of it in the next six months, and say to me, ‘well maybe its not worth getting it tuned’.

here’s a word for the weary – c.o.m.m.u.n.i.c.a.t.i.o.n.

It’s Ironic, You Idiot. (Or, how to disappoint a curious Saudi in three easy search terms)

Now as you know, we’re not exactly the world’s most digitally advanced bloggers, but we try – lordy we try.

Part of this effort to merge with the cyber environment is the installation of a couple of different tracking devices on this site, so we can spy back on those who spy on us. Our capacity to do this is somewhat limited by being too cheap to pay US$5.95 a month to get full functionality, but nevertheless there is amusement to be had in the service we get for free.

Like the odd fortnight of Norwegian attention.

And the Israeli visitor on our guestmap. Shalom, visitor.

But this is the most amusing visit so far: according to the new Stats Counter keyword analysis, we recently and very briefly hosted a visitor from Saudi Arabia who found this site using the keywords “glamorous women pictures”.

In the week of the death of Donald Horne, best remembered for the politicial misuse of his ironic description of Australia as “The Lucky Country”, I think it’s apt that our Saudi friend should be so disappointed to find us less than glamorous…

mtc
Bec

Week 35

I figure that Week 35 is as good as any for an official countdown to Chef and I joining Bec and Prof being officially outnumbered by their offspring (stop sniggering Bec, I can hear you through all those cross city tunnels, distributors, coat hangers all the way on the other side of this here great city).

So, at 35 weeks…
– I am incubating a rapper. The occasionally hard doof is far outnumbered by the almost consistent Footloose manouvres of grooving and moving this child engages in.
– I have gone up three bra sizes.
– I have officially reached the point in pregnancy when fashion flees.
– I have never, ever, in.my.entire.life. not felt like chocolate or coffee for so long.
– I have been doing a wee on average every 1hr45mins since 28 weeks.
– Apparently I’m glow. In fact, it is quite obscene just how much pregnancy does for my complexion, hair, nails and shiny eyes.
– I am officially excited about what this little creature is – not just whether its a boy or a girl, although that is occupying quite a bit of my brain at the moment as I have no feeling either way – but who and what they will be like as they grow up.
– I am actually quite nervous about the whole labour thing – two very different experiences are making the third seem like not such a great idea.
– I can not come at chicken in any form – except for an Oporto Rapper, of which I could eat one every.single.day. Go figure.
– I have never not been obsessed by food for so long in.my.life.
– I am so tired. All the time. And I know this isn’t a patch on the reality once it’s on the outside. That scares me.
– I am so grateful for paid maternity leave. And that annoys me. Because I shouldn’t feel grateful, it should be a natural right for every single woman like equal pay. But still, I am so very very grateful. (I can’t imagine my mental health issues if it wasn’t the case and we were facing losing a second income indefinitely for the third time).



Bliss

Getting home from seeing my shrink and not being medicated.
Chef home and cooking dinner.
Dinner being Felix’s request – spaghetti and meatballs. (I surrended to the evil empire power of PayTV American indoctrination of our future generations years ago)
Feeling like (and having) a divine glass of Four Sisters Semillon Savignon Blanc.
Sitting next to my Oscar (and helping him w/ his dinner – sometimes it is nice having a 7 year old who happily lets you still feed them. I said sometimes.) and having him rest his head on my m.a.s.s.i.v.e. belly.
Watching a video with the whole family, and loving it. Elf. Highly recommended (disclaimer: I LOVE anything with Owen Wilson, Luke Wilson, Will Farrell, Ben Stiller and Vince Vaughan).
Children just ‘going to bed’ with no fuss, no fanfare, no hassle.
All being home together.
Bliss.

(Although now I’m enduring channel flicking between the AFL and the Ashes…)

I know it’s spring because…

Our orange tree is blossoming and the scent is divine. Plus, Shirley-next-door’s jasmine has twined an extra couple of feet through our orange tree and I swear it’s shooting out pheremones through the branches.

As I stood outside this morning, sucking it all in and trying to ignore how badly the deck and furniture need new oil, my gorgeous boy came to the door:

GB: Tan I come outside?

ME: Of course you can, honey.

GB: Tan I come out dere now wit you?

ME: Yes, baby, come out.

GB: Tan I really come out dere right now?

ME: Yep, absolutely, right now, not a problem, is there something bothering you babe?

GB: pointing and looking worried. When I come outside, does dis door stay open?

Now, since he’s only three years old, this past winter is the same length to him as four years of my life. No wonder he’s forgotten what the back door is for.

Other proofs of spring include that I don’t have to turn the lamp on to read my monitoring reports at 6am and the kids suddenly look too pale for summer clothes.

But the real clincher is that the Professor has announced he’s going to bed three times, but is still sitting on the lounge mesmerised by the live telecast of the final cricket match in the current Ashes series. (For the record, as I type England’s 154/4 and that fuckwit Shane Warne has taken all four wickets. Amazing what he can do with his hands when they’re not occupied with yet another woman WHO IS NOT HIS WIFE.)

mtc

Bec

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