So we ran into some friends that we hadn't seen for awhile the other day. It was the first time they had seen Magoo, and one of the first questions they asked was "so when's the next one coming?" Strangely, we get this alot. I don't mind close friends discussing this when we have a good chat, because it is then more about my overall life plan. But throwaway questions from those further removed really give me the shits!
Why is it that everyone is so preoccupied with the next milestone in each other's lives that we are completely ignoring what's going on right now? Poor Magoo is still pretty fresh out of the oven, yet already we have to be talking about the next one? Is what we are doing right now not enough of an interesting story?
I shouldn't be surprised though. When I was in high school it was "what are you going to do at uni?". When at uni it was "where are you going to work?". Got a boyfriend - "when are you getting engaged?". Got engaged it was "have you set a date yet?" Got married it was "when are the kids coming" etc etc.
But I wonder when is the end-point of enquiring about someone's future? In 40 years time will we all be asking each other: "how's the prostate holding up?", "How long do you think that hip's going to last?", or even just "Think you'll bite the big one this year?"
Please give the poor new mum's uterus and other reproductive gadgets a break. I can unequivocally say that even if hubby and I had the time or energy to get back "baking" we are focusing on Magoo and loving him is more than enough for us right now.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
GALL Movie Review - Election
Since having Magoo we don't get out much on Friday and Saturday nights. We are therefore at the mercy of whatever the television stations can dredge up from the depths of their viewing library. It is common knowledge that weekend television is pretty much crap, and I like to think of it as the TV people's way of punishing us for being at home at these times - I call it "GALL", or "Get A Life, Loser" television. Better Homes and Gardens and the near monthly repetition of Mean Girls and True Lies are good examples of GALL television.
But occasionally someone, somewhere takes pity on us GALL viewers and puts a real pearler on, as they did on Friday night.
If you haven't seen "Election", with Reece Witherspoon and Matthew Broderick, then get thee to the nearest Video Ezy and check it out. It's a black comedy based around a high school presidential election, with the painfully annoying Reece Witherspoon running for class president, and Matthew Broderick's initially squeaky clean teacher watching his life disintegrate around him. It's got adultery, lesbianism, backstabbing and bee stings and is bloody funny.
But I would like to point out that I in fact recorded this one as I was out - yes OUT for the first time in a looong time (woot woot!).. Thanks for a great night Bee :)
But occasionally someone, somewhere takes pity on us GALL viewers and puts a real pearler on, as they did on Friday night.
If you haven't seen "Election", with Reece Witherspoon and Matthew Broderick, then get thee to the nearest Video Ezy and check it out. It's a black comedy based around a high school presidential election, with the painfully annoying Reece Witherspoon running for class president, and Matthew Broderick's initially squeaky clean teacher watching his life disintegrate around him. It's got adultery, lesbianism, backstabbing and bee stings and is bloody funny.
But I would like to point out that I in fact recorded this one as I was out - yes OUT for the first time in a looong time (woot woot!).. Thanks for a great night Bee :)
Ikea - keeping Aussies in line since 1975
The other day Hubby, Mother in Law and I took Magoo to Ikea for the first time. I don't know how other countries feel about Ikea but Australians just love the place.
We love the ingenuity, the organisation, the value for money (oh us Aussies are such a bargain driven lot), and of course the ball room. Despite the fact that I am about 20 years too old for the ball room I still fantasise about having a turn in there. From recent conversations I know I'm not alone...
To Australians, Ikea is like a symbol of all things European, and don't we just love to get away from our stubbies, pies and footy for a bit of European elegance... mate.
But it does crack me up how we flock there by the thousands despite the fact that Ikea and it's "co-workers" (no not employees, staff or workers, but "co-workers") contravene so many of Australia's conventions. Allow me to elaborate:
Convention 1 - Australians have a God-given right to take trolleys into the car park as they please and if you are lucky we may return them to the trolley collection thingy but we still reserve our right to leave them anywhere we wish... mate.
At Ikea not only do they want you to return your trolley to a particular place but there are bloody great bollards surrounding the exit to make it physically impossible to take your trolley into the car park area. Of course it is also impossible to easily get in or out with a pram as we found out...
Convention 2 - Australians have a God-given right to receive as many plastic or other bags as they wish upon purchasing even the smallest item. For we will use them as garbage bags later on - hence we are recycling... mate.
At Ikea you can pay for a paper or reusable plastic bag. Don't get me wrong on this, I think Australia is pathetically behind European countries in cutting out plastic bags, but the "20 cents for a bag!!!" comments I was hearing cracked me up.
Convention 3 - Australians, upon paying for food, have a God-given right to make as much mess as we please and don't even think of asking us to put anything away... mate.
At Ikea when you have finished your food you must return the tray and contents to a big rack at the side of the cafeteria. I think this is quite reasonable, but I watched with eager anticipation as a couple of young guys got up and went to walk away without clearing their table. Sure enough, a "co-worker" appeared like an Oompa Loompa (I don't mean he was short, just fast and well-timed) and instructed the young blokes to clear their table. Despite looking as though they'd been asked to slice off half an arse-cheek and wrap it as a Christmas ham, they dutifully did as they were told.
Whenever I'm at Ikea I just can't help but feel that we are all pretending, that we are made to behave in a way that is so very against our great Aussie instincts. So why do we do it? Is it that we want to be seen to be oh so Euro chic? Is it that we picture a couple of Swedish brutes called Jan and Sven waiting to pounce on us at any minute should we put a foot wrong? Or is it that we are afraid that if we don't behave, Ikea will pack up all it's stuff and go back to Sweden and we will never get to buy an Akut kitchen utensil set for $1.95 ever again?
PS The Daim cake is great.. mate.
We love the ingenuity, the organisation, the value for money (oh us Aussies are such a bargain driven lot), and of course the ball room. Despite the fact that I am about 20 years too old for the ball room I still fantasise about having a turn in there. From recent conversations I know I'm not alone...
To Australians, Ikea is like a symbol of all things European, and don't we just love to get away from our stubbies, pies and footy for a bit of European elegance... mate.
But it does crack me up how we flock there by the thousands despite the fact that Ikea and it's "co-workers" (no not employees, staff or workers, but "co-workers") contravene so many of Australia's conventions. Allow me to elaborate:
Convention 1 - Australians have a God-given right to take trolleys into the car park as they please and if you are lucky we may return them to the trolley collection thingy but we still reserve our right to leave them anywhere we wish... mate.
At Ikea not only do they want you to return your trolley to a particular place but there are bloody great bollards surrounding the exit to make it physically impossible to take your trolley into the car park area. Of course it is also impossible to easily get in or out with a pram as we found out...
Convention 2 - Australians have a God-given right to receive as many plastic or other bags as they wish upon purchasing even the smallest item. For we will use them as garbage bags later on - hence we are recycling... mate.
At Ikea you can pay for a paper or reusable plastic bag. Don't get me wrong on this, I think Australia is pathetically behind European countries in cutting out plastic bags, but the "20 cents for a bag!!!" comments I was hearing cracked me up.
Convention 3 - Australians, upon paying for food, have a God-given right to make as much mess as we please and don't even think of asking us to put anything away... mate.
At Ikea when you have finished your food you must return the tray and contents to a big rack at the side of the cafeteria. I think this is quite reasonable, but I watched with eager anticipation as a couple of young guys got up and went to walk away without clearing their table. Sure enough, a "co-worker" appeared like an Oompa Loompa (I don't mean he was short, just fast and well-timed) and instructed the young blokes to clear their table. Despite looking as though they'd been asked to slice off half an arse-cheek and wrap it as a Christmas ham, they dutifully did as they were told.
Whenever I'm at Ikea I just can't help but feel that we are all pretending, that we are made to behave in a way that is so very against our great Aussie instincts. So why do we do it? Is it that we want to be seen to be oh so Euro chic? Is it that we picture a couple of Swedish brutes called Jan and Sven waiting to pounce on us at any minute should we put a foot wrong? Or is it that we are afraid that if we don't behave, Ikea will pack up all it's stuff and go back to Sweden and we will never get to buy an Akut kitchen utensil set for $1.95 ever again?
PS The Daim cake is great.. mate.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
False Advertising
How often do we see a sticker on a car and pull up alongside it at the lights and find a pretty obvious case of misleading and deceptive conduct?
When I see a "Magic Happens" sticker I want to see Dumbledore crammed in behind the wheel, his bejeweled hat on the front seat (or at LEAST a hippy with crystals). Not some 30-something guy in an Andy Sipowicz shirt-tie combo in a car with an exhaust that rejects the belief in a mechanic, let alone magic.
When I see a Playboy symbol I expect to see a hot 20-something chick with impeccable hair and makeup and "built in" airbags. Not the overweight and lanky haired 18 year old with stupid plastic white sunglasses driving with a death wish.
And if a guy has the "No Fat Chicks" sticker, then knowing a man's aversion to hypocrisy, I naturally expect an Adonis with Brad Pitt like abs lounging across the front seat, his intoxicating natural scent wafting through the open window. NOT the pimply faced fat virgin slurping his maccas coke and listening to the Venga Boys.
And don't get me started on the "Baby on Board" signs, asking for drivers to be cautious while the driving parent speeds and weaves with gay abandon.
In this fast paced world am I asking to much to be able to rely on the representation a person makes on their rear window? Should the stores selling such stickers not be held accountable for ensuring that people satisfy the criteria of displaying such propaganda? I can live in hope.
Now I just need to find a "I just realised I have baby spew on my shoulder" sticker and I'd be telling the truth 99% of the time.
When I see a "Magic Happens" sticker I want to see Dumbledore crammed in behind the wheel, his bejeweled hat on the front seat (or at LEAST a hippy with crystals). Not some 30-something guy in an Andy Sipowicz shirt-tie combo in a car with an exhaust that rejects the belief in a mechanic, let alone magic.
When I see a Playboy symbol I expect to see a hot 20-something chick with impeccable hair and makeup and "built in" airbags. Not the overweight and lanky haired 18 year old with stupid plastic white sunglasses driving with a death wish.
And if a guy has the "No Fat Chicks" sticker, then knowing a man's aversion to hypocrisy, I naturally expect an Adonis with Brad Pitt like abs lounging across the front seat, his intoxicating natural scent wafting through the open window. NOT the pimply faced fat virgin slurping his maccas coke and listening to the Venga Boys.
And don't get me started on the "Baby on Board" signs, asking for drivers to be cautious while the driving parent speeds and weaves with gay abandon.
In this fast paced world am I asking to much to be able to rely on the representation a person makes on their rear window? Should the stores selling such stickers not be held accountable for ensuring that people satisfy the criteria of displaying such propaganda? I can live in hope.
Now I just need to find a "I just realised I have baby spew on my shoulder" sticker and I'd be telling the truth 99% of the time.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Singing in the shower.. and the car.. and the toilet.. and in bed... and the nursery...
I love to sing. I've always been one to belt out a tune whenever the mood takes me. Which is pretty much most of the time.
A friend and I sang Pink Cadillac (with microphones, very professional) at an assembly in primary school. I sang in the chorus in high school productions, and I even sang as part of a small group at my high school graduation assembly.
Yet recently I have come to question my singing ability.
My mum says I can sing, but I realise it's a mum's job to say such nice things. Hubby looks pained whenever I sing, and I think I've ruined many a good concert, road trip or other lovely moment with my vocal talent or lack thereof. Mr Magoo LOVES it when I sing to him, but to be fair he has virgin ears and wouldn't know a good singer from Kylie Minogue.
It is hard to tell because when I sing I hear the voice of an angel. I think I read once that when we hear ourselves talk or sing we are actually hearing the sound through the bones in our heads rather than through the air and into our ears (ie what everyone else hears). If that is true then perhaps they should use skull bones as the new you-beaut acoustic material, cos I think I sound frigging good through my skull bones. Instead of donating our bodies to science or the like, we could donate our skulls to the Burswood Dome. God knows it needs the help.
Will a lack of ability stop me from singing? Nup. Although poor Mr Magoo could well grow up with a very distorted understanding of pitch and range and other singing stuff.
And of course I do apologise to all those ears I hurt along the way.
A friend and I sang Pink Cadillac (with microphones, very professional) at an assembly in primary school. I sang in the chorus in high school productions, and I even sang as part of a small group at my high school graduation assembly.
Yet recently I have come to question my singing ability.
My mum says I can sing, but I realise it's a mum's job to say such nice things. Hubby looks pained whenever I sing, and I think I've ruined many a good concert, road trip or other lovely moment with my vocal talent or lack thereof. Mr Magoo LOVES it when I sing to him, but to be fair he has virgin ears and wouldn't know a good singer from Kylie Minogue.
It is hard to tell because when I sing I hear the voice of an angel. I think I read once that when we hear ourselves talk or sing we are actually hearing the sound through the bones in our heads rather than through the air and into our ears (ie what everyone else hears). If that is true then perhaps they should use skull bones as the new you-beaut acoustic material, cos I think I sound frigging good through my skull bones. Instead of donating our bodies to science or the like, we could donate our skulls to the Burswood Dome. God knows it needs the help.
Will a lack of ability stop me from singing? Nup. Although poor Mr Magoo could well grow up with a very distorted understanding of pitch and range and other singing stuff.
And of course I do apologise to all those ears I hurt along the way.
Crazy-Brow
No - that was BROW. Although yes Crazy Cow would be apt for me lately.
Sigh. It's no secret that new mothers are hard up for time for self grooming. Which is all the more frustrating for me given my attempt to be a yummy mummy. So it came as another painful blow today when I looked in the mirror and noticed I had what can only be described as a crazy brow. Overgrowth I expect when plucking time becomes a luxury I can't afford, but this was something else. It has taken on a shape of its own, with a big curve at the edge, akin to an old fashioned circus moustache.
I ran to tell hubby, who is off work this week. I secretly hoped he would look and say "nah you're being silly". Instead I got a laugh and "oh yeah!". I promptly forgot about it until we arrived to pick up our swish new car and were walking into the dealership and I said "oh no the crazy brow". Hubby replies in his of all times to be honest way "yeah, it's really obvious now you point it out".
Where did crazy brow come from? I'm sure it wasn't there yesterday. It's like all my little brow hairs, left to their own devices have been conspiring and plotting for weeks and today is the day their little plan was put into action. I wonder what else my neglected beauty areas have in store for me?
Sigh. It's no secret that new mothers are hard up for time for self grooming. Which is all the more frustrating for me given my attempt to be a yummy mummy. So it came as another painful blow today when I looked in the mirror and noticed I had what can only be described as a crazy brow. Overgrowth I expect when plucking time becomes a luxury I can't afford, but this was something else. It has taken on a shape of its own, with a big curve at the edge, akin to an old fashioned circus moustache.
I ran to tell hubby, who is off work this week. I secretly hoped he would look and say "nah you're being silly". Instead I got a laugh and "oh yeah!". I promptly forgot about it until we arrived to pick up our swish new car and were walking into the dealership and I said "oh no the crazy brow". Hubby replies in his of all times to be honest way "yeah, it's really obvious now you point it out".
Where did crazy brow come from? I'm sure it wasn't there yesterday. It's like all my little brow hairs, left to their own devices have been conspiring and plotting for weeks and today is the day their little plan was put into action. I wonder what else my neglected beauty areas have in store for me?
Monday, October 19, 2009
Kerbside "network"
I was driving through my suburb today, which I have to say is a hearty mix of old and new, nice and hideous, house proud and eyesore. It's kerbside collection this week, where everyone gets to put out all their crap and the council comes and picks it up. This service is in lieu of using council tips like we used to when I was a kid.
We have these every few months, and each time I am amazed at just how much crap each house gets rid of each time. For hubby and me, we don't really have any crap left to toss out, we did it the first time. Yet it seems that some families each time just keep discovering more junk - the three matresses, a couch, a coat and hat rack and some old kids pipeline furniture that they didn't know they had last kerbside collection. I mean seriously, just how many mattresses can one house have??!!
I have a theory. Whenever people's crap comes out, so do the kerb crawlers, like seagulls to a chip. They roam the streets looking for that special loot that they may be able to use. My theory is the council never actually comes. Everyone is just swapping crap. House A puts out their crap, House B scavenges it and takes it away. House B then realises it's crap and puts it out next collection. House C scavenges it and takes it away. It's the "network".
Hubby put my very rusty and decrepit old bike out there once, and no word of a lie he turned his back to tend to something in the garden and two minutes later he turned around and the bike was gone. Vanished. Into the kerbside "network". I like to think that it now bounces happily from house to house, from trash to treasure and back again...
Just a funny story, years ago during the lead up to the collection we saw a house with a lounge setting on the kerb that happened to be identical to the one we have in our lounge room (hand me downs from my folks, we always intended to get them re-covered, may still do). Oh the temptation to, under the cover of darkness, go and dump our setting next to theirs, and then see the looks on their faces when they saw that their lounge setting had "multiplied". Ah we did have a chuckle over that...
We have these every few months, and each time I am amazed at just how much crap each house gets rid of each time. For hubby and me, we don't really have any crap left to toss out, we did it the first time. Yet it seems that some families each time just keep discovering more junk - the three matresses, a couch, a coat and hat rack and some old kids pipeline furniture that they didn't know they had last kerbside collection. I mean seriously, just how many mattresses can one house have??!!
I have a theory. Whenever people's crap comes out, so do the kerb crawlers, like seagulls to a chip. They roam the streets looking for that special loot that they may be able to use. My theory is the council never actually comes. Everyone is just swapping crap. House A puts out their crap, House B scavenges it and takes it away. House B then realises it's crap and puts it out next collection. House C scavenges it and takes it away. It's the "network".
Hubby put my very rusty and decrepit old bike out there once, and no word of a lie he turned his back to tend to something in the garden and two minutes later he turned around and the bike was gone. Vanished. Into the kerbside "network". I like to think that it now bounces happily from house to house, from trash to treasure and back again...
Just a funny story, years ago during the lead up to the collection we saw a house with a lounge setting on the kerb that happened to be identical to the one we have in our lounge room (hand me downs from my folks, we always intended to get them re-covered, may still do). Oh the temptation to, under the cover of darkness, go and dump our setting next to theirs, and then see the looks on their faces when they saw that their lounge setting had "multiplied". Ah we did have a chuckle over that...
Yummy Mummy
It's funny how I never cared too much about where I rated on the attractiveness scale before I had Mr Magoo. Sure, I didn't want to languish down in Mingerville, but I wasn't too obsessed. Yet now, it is exceedingly important to me that I am a yummy mummy, or MILF if you prefer acronyms.
What is it about women that right at the time we should be the least worried about how we look, given our new more meaningful roles (blah blah blah), we become obsessed with our looks? I never used to worry about my toenails before, so why does it irk me now that they are unpainted? Is it one of those "you want what you can't have" scenarios, in this case the "want" being the time to paint said toenails?
Who knows but either way I want to be yummy. Which leads to the next question. Does Yummy Mummy mean yummy AND a mummy or yummy FOR a mummy. I'm starting to think it's the latter.
When I was pregnant (around 27 weeks, and let it be known I was huge while pregnant,) I had two very dressy functions in consecutive weeks. I wore a lovely preggo dress and did the best I could given I was the size of a whale. The number of compliments I got at those two functions was as amazing to me as how I was told I looked. Given that I was the size of a house, I assume I wasn't being told I looked amazing compared with say Jennifer Hawkins, more so amazing compared with perhaps Rosie O'Donnell. I hereby coin the new term "relative appreciation".
I believe this relative appreciation concept is the lynch pin of the yummy mummy concept. People expect less of you when you've popped out a rug rat, and hence by looking normal, you are exceeding their expectations. It's easier to be hot when you've had a baby than before hand.
So knowing this, why does it matter? I don't know, it just does. The whole world seems obsessed with how well a woman bounces back after having a child, it's the ultimate test of her physical and mental resilience. Like how well a building can withstand an earthquake. Well I know this body has experienced about an 8 on the Richter scale, with a few aftershocks thrown in. It's currently still standing, and back in it's original shape. Lets hope the cracks don't start appearing any time soon!
What is it about women that right at the time we should be the least worried about how we look, given our new more meaningful roles (blah blah blah), we become obsessed with our looks? I never used to worry about my toenails before, so why does it irk me now that they are unpainted? Is it one of those "you want what you can't have" scenarios, in this case the "want" being the time to paint said toenails?
Who knows but either way I want to be yummy. Which leads to the next question. Does Yummy Mummy mean yummy AND a mummy or yummy FOR a mummy. I'm starting to think it's the latter.
When I was pregnant (around 27 weeks, and let it be known I was huge while pregnant,) I had two very dressy functions in consecutive weeks. I wore a lovely preggo dress and did the best I could given I was the size of a whale. The number of compliments I got at those two functions was as amazing to me as how I was told I looked. Given that I was the size of a house, I assume I wasn't being told I looked amazing compared with say Jennifer Hawkins, more so amazing compared with perhaps Rosie O'Donnell. I hereby coin the new term "relative appreciation".
I believe this relative appreciation concept is the lynch pin of the yummy mummy concept. People expect less of you when you've popped out a rug rat, and hence by looking normal, you are exceeding their expectations. It's easier to be hot when you've had a baby than before hand.
So knowing this, why does it matter? I don't know, it just does. The whole world seems obsessed with how well a woman bounces back after having a child, it's the ultimate test of her physical and mental resilience. Like how well a building can withstand an earthquake. Well I know this body has experienced about an 8 on the Richter scale, with a few aftershocks thrown in. It's currently still standing, and back in it's original shape. Lets hope the cracks don't start appearing any time soon!
The Mother's former and current self
More about me.
I grew up in a middle class suburb in a middle class family and went to a middle class public school. While it wasn't the worst school I could have gone to (we didn't have a stabbing like my friend's school did), it certainly shaped my decision that my children would not be going to a public high school when the time comes.
I used to be hugely into sport and had an activity almost every day of the week. I loved to dance, sing and do drama. I sadly do none of these things now. The loss of these passions is a big regret in my life and getting one/some of them back is a bit of a goal for me.
I would like to think I am somewhat attractive. I am smart, funny and fiercely loyal to those who are important to me. I am trustworthy, ever punctual and ok if I'm honest I'm a bit of a germophobe. I count my bottle of hand sanitizer as a close friend and it is among my top five items to save in a fire. Although the alcohol in it would make it akin to a Molotov cocktail... a very clean one...
I don't have 200 friends on facebook. I rarely go on the bloody thing, though that's not to have a go at those who do. I guess I would just rather talk to my friends than count them online. My true friends, of whom I believe I have a good number, are gold to me, and losing one through whatever means hurts like hell.
I truly do not know what Twitter is. I will consider it an achievement in life if I never find out. So please noone spoil it for me.
I have been married for almost five years, and with hubby for nearly 11. I truly believe we are soul mates and I simply adore him as much as I did when we first started going out. We are best friends first and foremost. And we both like the Apprentice. So it works.
I love going to the movies (God bless the mums and bubs sessions!) and would take a comedy over the other genres any day of the week. On the box I love Glee, Boston Legal (Alan Shore is my older man crush), Nip/Tuck, The Apprentice, Family Guy, Entourage and my sad guilty pleasure: Home and Away.
I vote liberal but am a bit of a socialist.
I love to travel but am terrified of flying.
I love animals and feel bad that I love to eat them more than I love to look at them.
I miss the freedoms of being childless but like any parent would say think it's a very small price to pay.
I grew up in a middle class suburb in a middle class family and went to a middle class public school. While it wasn't the worst school I could have gone to (we didn't have a stabbing like my friend's school did), it certainly shaped my decision that my children would not be going to a public high school when the time comes.
I used to be hugely into sport and had an activity almost every day of the week. I loved to dance, sing and do drama. I sadly do none of these things now. The loss of these passions is a big regret in my life and getting one/some of them back is a bit of a goal for me.
I would like to think I am somewhat attractive. I am smart, funny and fiercely loyal to those who are important to me. I am trustworthy, ever punctual and ok if I'm honest I'm a bit of a germophobe. I count my bottle of hand sanitizer as a close friend and it is among my top five items to save in a fire. Although the alcohol in it would make it akin to a Molotov cocktail... a very clean one...
I don't have 200 friends on facebook. I rarely go on the bloody thing, though that's not to have a go at those who do. I guess I would just rather talk to my friends than count them online. My true friends, of whom I believe I have a good number, are gold to me, and losing one through whatever means hurts like hell.
I truly do not know what Twitter is. I will consider it an achievement in life if I never find out. So please noone spoil it for me.
I have been married for almost five years, and with hubby for nearly 11. I truly believe we are soul mates and I simply adore him as much as I did when we first started going out. We are best friends first and foremost. And we both like the Apprentice. So it works.
I love going to the movies (God bless the mums and bubs sessions!) and would take a comedy over the other genres any day of the week. On the box I love Glee, Boston Legal (Alan Shore is my older man crush), Nip/Tuck, The Apprentice, Family Guy, Entourage and my sad guilty pleasure: Home and Away.
I vote liberal but am a bit of a socialist.
I love to travel but am terrified of flying.
I love animals and feel bad that I love to eat them more than I love to look at them.
I miss the freedoms of being childless but like any parent would say think it's a very small price to pay.
Hello Blog New World
No I don't have a supremely amazingly fascinating life. No I am not famous. No I am not an avid writer(although I did get some excellent feedback on a short story I once wrote in year 10...). I am just one of the thousands of people who for whatever reason got the epiphany that oh my God if nothing else I need to start writing down everything I think and putting it out there for every man and his literate dog. My reason was that after seeing Julie and Julia (good movie, check it out) and seeing the lovely Amy Adams (yes bit of a girl crush) blogging and narrating as she wrote, I somehow have a strange compulsion to do the same. No, my blog isn't about cooking.
I am a 31 year old happily married chick who four months ago today gave birth to my heart and soul, my little boy "Mr Magoo" (Not his real name ;o). I used to be a very busy and important (tongue in cheek) business analyst and sat in front of a computer all day fiddling with numbers. I now spend my days with Mr Magoo, changing nappies, producing his much adored "booby" when required, and making home for our little family. It is safe to say my life now is the absolute polar opposite from what it was. I used to be smart, highly paid and wore makeup and business attire. I am now addle brained, financially dependant and am often covered in some type of bodily fluid. I am officially the Mother formerly known as someone very very different.
And it has taken me four whole months to get to the point where I can now say that I am happy. It sounds like a bunch of complete dramatic BS, but what was once cold is now warm; what was in black and white is now in colour. I have left behind the coldness and hard arsed shittiness of the business world and have traded it for kisses, hugs and an amazing amount of love. I don't know how I ever made it through a day before Mr Magoo came along.
So here I am, ready to share myself - present and future - with.. well anyone who may want to read. I'm actually 100% ok with the idea of none of what I write being read. I am content to just tap tap tap on my laptop with a lovely Amy Adams-like narrative in my head, pretending I am interesting and holding out for the book deal. And if nothing else I'm documenting my thoughts and life so that one day Mr Magoo and any other little blessings that may come along can read about my journey while parenting him/them. And how their arrival truly changed my world.
Stay tuned!
I am a 31 year old happily married chick who four months ago today gave birth to my heart and soul, my little boy "Mr Magoo" (Not his real name ;o). I used to be a very busy and important (tongue in cheek) business analyst and sat in front of a computer all day fiddling with numbers. I now spend my days with Mr Magoo, changing nappies, producing his much adored "booby" when required, and making home for our little family. It is safe to say my life now is the absolute polar opposite from what it was. I used to be smart, highly paid and wore makeup and business attire. I am now addle brained, financially dependant and am often covered in some type of bodily fluid. I am officially the Mother formerly known as someone very very different.
And it has taken me four whole months to get to the point where I can now say that I am happy. It sounds like a bunch of complete dramatic BS, but what was once cold is now warm; what was in black and white is now in colour. I have left behind the coldness and hard arsed shittiness of the business world and have traded it for kisses, hugs and an amazing amount of love. I don't know how I ever made it through a day before Mr Magoo came along.
So here I am, ready to share myself - present and future - with.. well anyone who may want to read. I'm actually 100% ok with the idea of none of what I write being read. I am content to just tap tap tap on my laptop with a lovely Amy Adams-like narrative in my head, pretending I am interesting and holding out for the book deal. And if nothing else I'm documenting my thoughts and life so that one day Mr Magoo and any other little blessings that may come along can read about my journey while parenting him/them. And how their arrival truly changed my world.
Stay tuned!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
