Finally, after getting up at 5.30am in Charleston, catching a 7.30am flight to Charlotte, then another to New York, then another to Seoul, then another to Sydney, then sleepwalking though the day, then going to bed at 6.30pm and sleeping for 12 hours, I’m staggering zombie-like around my own home eating toasted cheese sandwiches after swearing I was only going to eat incredibly healthy food from now on.
Forgive me, jet lag’s a bitch and then you die, so I might as well eat carbs if I crave them.
At least for a few more days.
Geez, the jet lag is terrible. It kinda felt like we had it the whole trip, actually. A lesson to middle-aged people considering short, long-haul trips: like hangovers, jetlag is way harder to recover from when you are OLD.
And, like middle-aged hangovers, middle-aged jetlag involves small people who want to play netball, Cluedo, Scrabble, imaginary games with their new Zinkies (like Squinkies but so small they come with a pair of tweezers to pick them up) and go rollerblading the minute you walk through the door.
Today is Anzac Day, Lest We Forget, so the Sprogs have also requested to make Anzac Biscuits and go to the park. Wish me luck …
Since my brain still isn’t working, I’m reblogging a very popular post from last year called: Oh, The Tits Are Getting Bigger. It was about shopping at Victoria’s Secret in Hawaii last year. (I know, I must never complain about my poverty again if I’m swanning off to America two years in a row, it’s my own stupid fault.) I didn’t have jetlag then because I caught a boat there rather than a plane. I think there’s a lot to be said for catching a boat to America … if it didn’t take so bloody long.
I went to Victoria’s Secret this trip too, but only because I’d run out of clean undies and I remembered they did a 5 for $26 deal.
Anyways, here’s last year’s effort:
“I went to Victoria’s Secret yesterday. It was fabulous. They measured me and I’ve miraculously transformed from a B cup to a D cup since the last time I bought a bra. Admittedly the last time I bought a bra was several years and eight kilos ago, but … Still quite exciting. I’ve never thought of myself as a D cup kinda gal. I’ve always been at the boyish end of the spectrum. But now that I come to think about it, my cup has runneth over in recent times. Whenever I take “The Girls” out to dinner in plunging tops, comments are made. I’m just wondering what’s sparked the growth spurt. Obviously, chubbing up has contributed, but last time I chubbed up I didn’t score a D out of it. Just to be on the safe side, I’ve only bought one 34D push-up one (perhaps not entirely necessary now I’m a D cup) on the off chance I shed boob kilos when I get back to Sydney. (Although all the candy colors of Victoria’s Secret are luring me back already.) I definitely won’t be shedding boob kilos here. Hawaiian food is too evilly good. I kicked off with my traditional first Waikiki lunch: fish tacos at Duke’s. Dinner was a Cobb salad with blue cheese dressing. Mmm-mmmm-mmmm. The hotel is fricking awesome, aside from there not being enough beds for everyone. Oops. Sprog 2 is current wedged between Nonna and Pop in their bed (good luck with that) and Sprog 1 is parked on two sofa cushions. Husband is corpsed on the fold-out sofa bed beside her, the fridge has started humming loudly and “Knock knock knocking on heaven’s door” is wafting up from the bar. So I’m off to the bathroom for yet another Unisom. I need my sleep. I’m taking Sprog 2 to Walmart tomorrow to choose a new dolly. Nonna owes her one as a birthday gift. There has been much speculation over what type to get. A crawling one? A hugging one? One that licks a green ice block and gets a green tongue (yes, it does exist). Promises be quite exhausting.”