I did yoga today. At work. It made me feel like I needed to puke. Graysh.
Last week. That’s right, last week, I had a dream that not only was I naked at Warriewood Square (the Northern Beaches answer to Fountain Gate) but I sidled up to a posh designer toilet as part of those in-square special displays and proceeded to complete ablutions – all the while yelling at the boys to stop running off and stand in front of Mummy to give her some privacy.
I have no idea if this was all just part of my burning and constant desire at the moment to do a wee that lasts more than 3 seconds and is more than 5ml or deals with the whole poo issue with a degree of satisfaction rather than “that’ll have to do” or who knows. It was horrifying and yet compelling all the same.
Other musings of the moment:
– I wonder if my mother ever actually understood the Internet, and actually read this, just how many lemon delicious puddings it would take to a) stop her crying and b) apologise for all the bad bad things I say about her on here.
– Is Barnaby really a bad name?
– If we called it Lulu would she hate us forever?
– I’m hungry, I really need Doritos.
– God that heartburn is a bitch, I wish I hadn’t eaten those Doritos.
– Ah, I’ve walked three steps so naturally, I need to urinate.
– Why does my brother’s choice of life and approach to it irritate me so much. I fear I am turning into Holly Hunter’s sister on Home For The Holidays.
– I wonder if I look fat in this.
– Man my back hurts.
– Do I really need to do a wee or is that just pelvic congestion.
and so on and so forth.
Well that’s how I feel whenever I give someone this blog address. Which is why I’ve almost never done it. But then I went out on Saturday night, to a grown-ups party, with NO CHILDREN, and I relaxed. Lordy, I relaxed.
To quote an ex-NSW Premier, I was about as relaxed as a cricket and chatting to my friend Tony Park (hi Tony, hardly anyone comes here, and according to our site counter a strange proportion of those who do, speak Norwegian… but if anyone uses this link to buy your books you owe me commission).
So I’m chatting, and chatting, and then somehow I’m chatting about blogging. And while any decent drunk would have forgotten all about it by the next morning, Tony is not any decent drunk. I blame it on his extraordinary height: I think gravity just gives up and lets the alcohol pool around his ankles instead of his brain.
I also blame it on the fact that he’s got used to sharing explicitly written sex scenes with his mother (a truly lovely lady) and mother-in-law (equally nice, I’m sure) when they edit his manuscripts (published by Pan Macmillan, folks, click here).
You get the dustjacket picture?
Tony Park: journo, traveller, Army Reservist. Very tall. Makes his mother read his sexual fantasies.
After his 7th SMS today asking for the blog address I’m thinking it’s time to stop being silly and share it around. Yes, even to Pete. It will give you both something to call web research next time you’re looking for billable hours for PR clients.
But watch out, Captain Park: while you’re searching for rude bits about the Professor you might instead find yourself in the middle of one of Kim’s descriptions of pregnancy induced vaginal varicose veins. Be afraid.
* the last time I uttered the words in this title, the three people I was with all looked at me curiously and said, “No.”
I know it’s an oldest child thing, but god I love being right. I’ve been saving this one for Wedding Day.
Now we just have to wait for Simone to get a record property settlement and my delight in Shane’s wrongness will be complete.
When your two sons blow rasperries on your tummy to ‘give the baby a kiss’. And you show them where the baby is lying, so they are actually blowing raspberries on the babies butt.
When the baby’s head is so low in your pelvis its causing pelvic congestion, but your kids really really really want to give it a raspberry on its cheek…