the end was just the beginning
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... Continue Reading →
I've found my new vocation: Santa sack stuffer. I reckon I've outdone myself this year. Twenty-six gifts for each Sprog. Some tiny, some cheap, some practical, some dodgy, some edible, some adorable. The Sprogs will wake any minute and I know they'll be stoked. I think I might go professional next year. Perfect job - six months on, six... Continue Reading →
Russell never thinks Trisha will expose his infidelity to his wife. Even after he shags her for two years, then stops returning her calls. He ignores the email she sends, demanding an explanation. This unceremonious dumping makes Trisha angry, really angry. She wants revenge. She waits for her moment and she strikes ... I've been catching up on some reading while I've been sick. In between... Continue Reading →
Hangover? Check. Flu? Check. Four kids? Check. Heavy rain? Check. Visit to Luna Park? Check ... Not my ideal running sheet for a fun day out. But I'd promised the Sprogs (and their cousin and Sprog 1's best friend), so I struggled out of bed and went. Not that staying in bed was an option with the cleaners due at 10am. I... Continue Reading →
And this time it's not the cuddly toy variety from the science store. An insidious lurgy has been stalking me for days. I woke up on Tuesday feeling a bit off. Sore throat, zero energy. Tidying up the house for the inaugural School Mums & Retrenched Dads Christmas Gathering was a blast. I tried killing the germs with a cheap champagne tasting session (important not... Continue Reading →
I've lost the Sprogs' Santa sacks. Well, that's not entirely true. I know approximately where they are. They're in the attic. Somewhere. There's a door in our walk-in wardrobe that leads to the attic. I like to open the door, throw things in, shut the door and, voila, the house is tidy. Once a year, Husband sneezes and swears and restores order... Continue Reading →
I signed up to Twitter on Sunday. My inner-Luddite had been resisting, but a friend talked me into it. I've already learned some valuable lessons. Like not to tweet while inebriated. And if you do, don't mention the words "anal bleaching". It may seem funny at the time, but you'll wake to discover you have followers with certain interests. These... Continue Reading →
I like to hide in my ensuite. I read magazines, fantasise over Boystown Lottery brochures and take long showers. Sprog 2 - aka The Mummy Homing Pigeon - has a sixth sense about when I'm trying to escape my familial obligations. I was in the shower yesterday when I heard her special method for opening the ensuite door - pulling it shut before opening... Continue Reading →
Always eager to shift blame, I've decided my middle-aged spread is the Sprogs' fault. Accommodating their 4.3kg and 4.1kg fetuses was the first transgression. They were so big they had to be surgically removed, which prevented any form of exercise beyond a miserable hobble when each was born. And my skin afterwards ... loose, very loose. (Though fortunately not in... Continue Reading →
When it comes to people in need, the less fortunate or the next round at the pub - sometimes all three at once - Husband throws money around like confetti. It's my excuse (to myself) for being a tight arse. Someone has to show restraint or we'll end up being the ones needing help. I keep that firmly in... Continue Reading →
housegoeshome 