In praise of paranoia

This weekend I am being treated to a day at the races....the day of days, the day that makes all the Phillies flock in all their frippery, yes my dear friends, I am off to Derby Day. Having been an avid dress collector,shopper and wearer for many a decade I find myself to be somewhat discerning in what I want from a good sales assistant. This is heightened by the fact that now that I am mostly at home with a little monster whom I love, I am precluded from actually pounding the pavement and 'shopping' as it were, in a normative sense. My shopping generally consists of perusing page after page of the miraculous interweb to which the yanks refer to as 'going online'; so today when I had a spare ten-child-free minutes I took full advantage of this vortex of 'me time' and had a sneaky shop. I was lured in by tractor beam to a shop that had one particular stand out piece, no doubt directed at Derby day devotees, that sucked me in and nearly had me at hello. I tried it on, prevaricated, pranced, fidgeted and sauntered. I heard appropriately subtle and not overly effusive so as to be insincere compliments from the sales assistant and her buddy sipping a medium latte. I could have made a snap decision and bought it for it was bordering on the perfect dress. Right look. Right price point. Right Race day. Bang. But nooooo, they asked me if I liked the fascinator they had teamed with dress. I responded and informed them I did not 'do fascinators' and that I collected and loved to wear really 'BIG HATS', with a rather ridiculous gesticulation of my arms...and they started giggling. These two ladies, in all their 'it's my shop and I'll laugh if I want to' glory were laughing so much, that the little angel/devil on my shoulder told me concomitantly to 'ignore them its not about me' and 'to get the hell out of there before those beeeartches make one more joke about me'; so I fled said shop and saved myself a juicy sum of cash to splash on Black Caviar. Moral of the story....if the sales assistants had not been laughing their bottoms off at something that, most likely was a private joke and had nothing to do with me and my mad gesticulation, I would have had a rad dress and them a rad sale. Paranoia just saved me a whole lot of cash and I'll probably look pretty good tomorrow anyway. Ladies we really should go shopping when hungover and we'd all be able to put a lot more in our paranoid piggie banks.

To Comment or not to comment? Bright cobalt blue metallic nail polish

About five years ago I commented on my sister-in-law (whom I love with a passion) Jo's bright cobalt metallic blue nail polish. It was not a complimentary comment. I thought I was doing her a favour by telling her it was tacky. It offended me. Not her choice to wear it. The colour itself offended me. Perhaps this was because I had a dress made by Memphis of Chapel street in 1997 of the same colour, in an equally tacky stretch sateen fabric. Since 1998, I saw the hideousness of this dress/colour choice, about which my lovely Lauriston friends would oft remind me, even still this dress and the accompanying faux tan caked-on-makeup and crazy-`tacky bouffant will come up in conversation. But I digress. The colour offended me, So obviously I was the one with the problem. Who gets offended by colours? I guess I do. What does that make me? I don't know and I don't care. Ironically, however, I had my comeuppance when of late, gelati colours were featured in an OPI nail polish campaign and I got sucked into the vacuum pull of mass media when someone painfully cool like Chloe Sevigny was photographed wearing it. So I purchased and wore pale blue gelati coloured nail polish. My sister-in-law brought this up the other day and reminded me, albeit in a joking fashion, of how rude I was when I commented on her blue nail polish years ago...oops. Moral of this story. Keep one's opinions and one's 'do the world a favour one less offensive nail polish colour at a time' attitude to oneself! For as sure as night follows day and fashion cycles like Cadel, what goes around surely comes around.

Child care triumph

After 3 different child care centres and many many dropped lips and tears, yesterday we had a victory. Matilda stayed at 'kindy' for four entire hours...happily! I left her there at 9:40am, she kissed me goodbye like the ice-maiden she is, not a whiff of emotion on her sweet little face, and swiftly dove into the yellow with pink sparkles play dough they had on offer. I skipped out of the room high-fiving every child care worker within sight! I knew in my bones that this the first day of the rest of our lives as truly independent beings. No more dropped quivering lips and cries to the tune of ' no go kindy...wha wha wha'. I'd hit pay dirt. I had FOUR ENTIRE HOURS in my home alone. I achieved so much I had to stop and recline on my grandmothers fluorescent aqua chaise lounge and just take it all in. No-one to district me or interrupt me from my blitz of productivity. No constant drone of nursery rhymes or dulcet tones curtesy of ABC2 (thank-you babysitting machine from heaven) in the background. I listened to grown-up music and I achieved! Having Matilda around for the last 23.5 months has taught me to be adaptable, responsive, flexible and attentive. Skills I REALLY needed to learn and am SO grateful for. I also have lots of fun with her but being a stay-at-home mum can be full on. LIke everything in life, a balance is all we need for equilibrium. Intuitively I've always known I needed time away from my daughter but I think its taken her (and me to an extent) this time to be ready for it. I had so much more mummy gas in my tank when I fetched her at 2pm...high on life and super proud of my little Picasso in training. The painting she did that day will be titled...'Triumph' and displayed proudly on our kitchen wall.

Binglebaby avoids the paparazzi...

Binglebaby isn't happy. She's been photographed reclining in her sweats. She's trying to work out if she looks like an emo hipster or just a hipster today...the tough decisions life throws at her in this post-modern hipster emo filled world. She's contemplating hitting icebergs for some cocktails but has realised that Max the cleaner isn't coming today-she has to do it herself...cocktails may have to wait.

Binglebaby is also officially 1 week old today (so mature)...hooray!

Stay tuned for more fun-filled antics

BB xx

The 92 gram egg...held proudly like Simba the lion king

Is this even physically possible for the poor chook? Poor gal. I hope she doesn't need plastic choosy surgery after this one. Maybe Chook's pelvic floor muscles are in better nick than ours. The mind boggles. Thanks Jemima for creating this fucking enormously freaky giant bird egg. YUM.

Beyonce's present to JayZ - perfect family car...

mummy porn

Last night I ate at a Italian establishment, D.O.C. (Denominazione di origine controllata, or Controlled origin denomination to the uninitiated). D.O.C. prides itself on its authenticity. Such is the authenticity that if you deign to ask if your chestnut fed Puglian air dried Prosciutto be placed on the side of the pizza instead of on top you will receive a polite yet mildly sardonic answer from one of the devilishly handsome real-life-genuine-authentic-Italian waiters with beautifully thick yet comprehendible accents to the tune of...'the chef does not change the menu'. One might think that the food would be the 'hero' in Masterchef speak, of this occasion, but no, it is the waitstaff who steal the show. I walked in, my parents, husband and child in tow, and was literally bowled over by running screaming children. Why were there so many children there? Because its mummy porn. A bit like real-estate.com. A restaurant filled with mothers and children, not a husband in sight, giant balloon sized wine glasses filled with mummy medicine cloaking the mummy eyes with what I like to refer to as 'mummy porn'. These young waiters, most likely in their early to mid twenties, all saunter around the room with the ease and confidence of male models, like Christopher Deane skating around the ice-rink, but way sexier. My family has been to Italy on a number of occasions so we dropped the odd 'Grazie', to which they politely respond the obligatory, 'prego'. The icing on the proverbial Torta was at the end of the meal when my 64-year-old mother said to the waiter, with a Rose induced enthusiasm...'Bellisimo', to which our friendly-sexy waiter replied...'are you talking about me?', to which I responded, 'most certainly'. We all laughed. Then our friendly-sexy waiter proceeded to correct her pronunciation so as the word referred to the food not the man. As we were leaving the second round of women flocked through the door, sans men or children, dressed up and ready for an Italian injection of gastronomic delights. I informed the waiter that the first time my mother went to Italy she was 24, hence her confusion of the pronunciation of the word. Second round lady D.O.C. diners...I suggest you mispronounce your Italian words too.

Even Beyonce...

Today at the local shopping centre, which is brimming with mothers wandering aimlessly through the miles of aisles in no-doubt sleep deprived hazes, I had an interesting encounter with a mother in the check out. She left her rollups on my section of the conveyor belt. Or more precisely, the rollups did a back flip into my section of the conveyor belt (how an inanimate object can do this only Woolworths will know) and when I noticed and notified the check-out chick and the customer before me, she started to explain that she was having 'one of those days'. I said to the customer gal...'We all have them', to which she replied 'really? that makes me feel so much better'. I paused for a moment, looked up at her stressed and confounded lovely face resting atop of a size 26 frame that needed a big hug and said...'even Beyonce has bad days'. She giggled. I think it made her feel less alone in her crap-day-haze. It got me wondering...does everyone think that when a bad day is happening to them that no-one else ever has days when they don't fell they've got it together? Maybe its part and parcel of the whole crap-day-experience. Do we think that people mostly experience joyous good days? Even if it is oft noted by journalists who interview disturbingly successful and highly effective people who proclaim their unbound energy. I refuse to believe there are people who bounce out of bed after 5 hours sleep and immediately pronounce (in muted musical song) Hooray! Good morning world! I am ready to take you on!!! We all have crap days, and only freaks sing in the mornings. A crap day just means a good day is on its way. Cheers to the good ones and to embracing that the crap ones happen to Beyonce too.

To blog or not to blog...

FYI...peeps, this is why! My husband Tim has a construction company that's in need of a social media and technology jet propelled rocket up its nether regions and I have started blogging to earn some cash(Google Adsense I hope you're listening)and to have a creative outlet whilst wrangling a busy 2-year-old-house-trashing-machine (Matilda - love her to bits- almost 2). I'm using spare moments in the day to navigate through Facebook, the Twittersphere and all things techno/media/whizzbang and thought it best to consult an expert to help me streamline this process. I have contacted Emily Doig (check her out...google her) who is a social media navigational maestro/genius and I am hoping to ramp up this action soon. I thoroughly enjoy it and am now embracing my inherent computer geek that obviously lurks deep within.

Benefits of sea changes...the simple life

Today my prize chook, aptly named Charcoal, layed a 92gram egg! When I was living in the city I didn't think it imaginable that a mere egg would change my entire day. When I discovered said egg, I brimmed with parental pride, jumped for joy and ran inside and SMSd my husband to inform him of our offspring's progeny (poetic licence if you please?!). I also find myself writing about this egg. Where is my head. Its stuck in an egg. My egg of pride. I am almost too scared to crack it open, it may be a triple yoker and overwhelm me albumin egginess. Ultimately, from egg, be it pride or ambivalence, an egg has made my days better. Charcoal, we will not make yo into your namesake. You have been a worthy investment and returned well for your $3 value.

Killed by kindness

I just went into the bank for a number of reasons, the least important of which was to ask the bank representative to disallow an over draught in my savings account. The bank man floored me when he said he would refund the $10.00 they had charged! One of the big four banks actually providing decent customer service and going over and beyond the call of duty to appease a customer is surely unheard of?!? I didn't even ask for a refund. He just offered it! Brody at Mornington you've made my day! I walked out of the bank, into the sunshine, dancing to the tune of "Oh What A Beautiful Morning', face beaming and ready to believe in life, love and the universe again. Is this is a common occurrence these days? Or is it in fact a sad reflection on modern society that am a bank representative actually refunded me some money?!? Perhaps sadder still that I am celebrating this win...either way, it is a win for the little people. You beauty. Chivalry aint dead and corporate greed may be adapting to the times. Fingers crossed I say!

Spin/Cycle class

Today I did my first ever spin class...hell on two wheels and two pedals. I consciously strapped myself in and sat on a 'saddle' that reminded me of stages of giving birth, and locked in for a treat of the torturous variety. The instructor must be on speed, she'd come straight from a pump or step class (what they involve exactly I know not, because I attempted step once and fell off said step in the first five minutes of the class) and continued to treat us like we were all in an all female military butt fat rendering and obliterating boot camp. I nearly puked afterward. I can now feel my lungs again, three hours later. Why do things that are good for you so often have to be so goddam bad? Having said that, I am frisking proud of myself for even attempting to channel Cadel Evans and give the so-called mountain climb a crack, albeit for 30 seconds, but those 30 seconds were enlightening. My quadriceps will be thanking me (intact they are, I can hear them burning messages of love via lactic acid as I write) and I now have a newfound respect for Mr Evans and his chunky toned Quads...

Finally...

It appears I started writing this blog over 18 months ago...goes to show how long it can take for something to get off the ground! Seriously, 18 months...WTF? I don't know about anyone else out there but that is just ridiculous! Then again, maybe its just a reflection of a reticent blogger/full-time mother trying to convince herself that if she just gets the housework done then everything will magically and miraculously fall into place. I thought I had no time before I had a child...now I am wiser. When I have another child I will look back at my one-child-only-self and tell her to make a cup of tea, sit down, and either relax or write like mad, beaucase when the next rugrat emerges from this vessel I'm sure I'll be overjoyed to even go to the loo in peaceful solitude! A toast to all of the mothers out there who finally get something done for themselves...even if it does take 18 months!