Festive squatting

Christmas was supposed to be in my sister’s backyard. But we went to someone else’s place instead. They weren’t there. It was fantastic*. We lounged around on their outdoor setting, used their cutlery and plates, filled their fridge with grog, filled their wheelie bin with prawn heads, splashed around in their pool. It was like having a holiday house for free. Husband found the pool very seductive, he spent hours in there. I think I might be in with a chance to get one after all. Best Christmas present ever! Actually, I was pretty spoilt this year. Sprog 1 remembered I’d admired a dress in the window of a local shop and took Husband to buy it for me. It fits perfectly. Hides the belly blubber. Shows off the boobs (I’ll miss them when they shrink along with the belly on my new-fangled, better-not-fail New Year diet). I also got my very own iPad for remote blogging, with a keyboard because I hate that new-fangled touch-screen nonsense. Husband had it specially engraved: “To my darling wife. Christmas 2011”. Awwwwww. Husband’s also graciously agreed to give me his 3G SIM this week, because I’m off to Newcastle with the Sprogs and I might die if I can’t blog while I’m gone. It’s extra big of him because he’s been muttering lately about my blogging addiction. He’s annoyed about having to read how I’m feeling rather than hearing it from me. (He’s also nervous everyone will think he’s been cheating on me after reading Al’s Christmas Message. I’d like to assure the world that so wasn’t the subtext.) I’ll agree, there’s an outside chance my blog has become my therapy. I ditched the psychologist months ago and I’m getting along just fine without her. But it might be more about distance from my former working life than anything else. Either way, after six months, 139ish blog posts (lost count) and many bottles of wine, I’m finally emerging from the black hole. There was a minor setback recently – it’s scary how easily a tiny hiccup can drag you back – but I got straight back on the horse again (well, after a week or so of moping). I’m looking to the New Year with excitement, not trepidation. I have no job prospects on the horizon, and I occasionally wonder whether that’s a good thing or bad thing. But it’s not keeping me awake at night. I might be thisclose to contentment. Well, apart from the no-pool thing. And the fat thing. Oh, and a vague desire to get the new Neil Finn album, Pyjama Party, Pyjama Club, something like that.

TONIGHT’S MENU: Boxing Day with Husband’s side of the family. Everyone’s Christmas leftovers, I’d imagine. Must eat sensibly. The heartburn was brutal last night. Was it the bacon and egg sandwich and pancakes for breakfast, the duck nibbles, the prawn nibbles, the tuna nibbles, the prawns, the pudding, the ice-cream, the 1.25 litres of Diet Coke (little Chrissie pressie to myself), the four glasses of champagne, the three glasses of white wine or the leftover slow-roasted lamb for supper? I wonder…       

* Lara, it would have been so nice different ways if you’d been there with us, I swear.

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