Thursday, 29 August 2013

The Nerdiest Girl In The School


TIME: 1983

PLACE: Boganville High School, the main quadrangle.


 Picture it.  A time when raging cases of TES were everywhere, (Tragic Eighties Syndrome). Bad perms, bubble skirts and Duran Duran....

  Noise and activity flurried all around me.  Shouts and laughter that didn't include me, pierced their way into my consciousness, as I sat all alone at the edge of the quad. I wasn't part of any of it, but a spectator, silently sitting there, alone, reflecting on my tragic life as a nerd-girl.

A group of girls appeared in front of me, all of them laughing, sharing jokes with the kind of effortless rapport that was alien to me.  I felt them looking my way.  I tried not to notice, tried not to care.  Just then, one of them broke away from the group, approaching me.

Squirming uncomfortably on my seat, I looked towards her hopefully.  "Hi, how are you?" she edged nearer, smiling. I mumbled something incoherent.  Staring at me quite innocently she asked: "I was just you shave your legs?"

It must be noted that, I did not, in fact, shave my legs.  A situation that, at a mere 12 years of age, did not bother me in the slightest. (Come to think of it, doesn't bother me in the slightest at age 42 either.  In fact, I might have to get Mick to run the lawn mower over them presently, as they are so hairy.) But I digress.

However, since it seemed to bother the other girls at school, I figured I'd ask my mum if I could begin.
Me, with all my friends, aged 12

"No," she replied "you're too young.  Once you start doing all that, you never stop.  You've still got plenty of time."  At this point, I imagine any other girl would have decided to completely ignore their mum, sneak into the bathroom, pinch a razor and do the deed anyway.  Not this tragic nerd-girl and Miss Goody Two Shoes.

I trudged back to school, legs still hairy, book in bag.  Books were my major companion at recess and lunch.  Another example of my tragic nerdiness.  I'd chosen books over flesh and blood friends. Here's how it happened.

I used to have something resembling a friendship with another girl in primary school.  I use the term friendship loosely.  It consisted mainly of her bossing and patronising me, like the time she convinced me to go to Jazz Ballet with her just so that she could then condescendingly tell this uncoordinated klutz that if I tried really hard I might be as good as her next year.  In all fairness to her, no amount of trying or practising would have ever made me good at any form of dancing!

I put up with Miss Patronising, or Pat as I shall call her, the type of person who might patronise God himself, because I simply didn't have any other friends - other than imaginary ones, and I figured being patronised and condescended to was preferable to spending every minute of school life achingly lonely and friendless.

Anyway, during 6th grade, she unceremoniously dumped me as a friend, steadfastly ignoring me and leaving me in the dust for a cooler group.  Consequently, when she rang me during the Christmas holidays, shortly before starting high school, I possibly should have been on guard.  Instead I scurried over like a timid mouse after any crumbs.

I suspect we might have had the Barbies out at one stage.  As we were about to start high school, you might expect Barbies dolls to have been a bit lame at this point, but I continued playing with them unperturbed.  Pat, on the other hand, was clearly worried, as she began to give me disdainful looks as her lecture began. 


"You know, you have to act tough in high school," she began, importantly "otherwise you'll have no friends."

 I carried on dressing Barbie, oblivious to the seriousness of her tone. "But don't worry," she added "I'll still hang around with you, as long as you stop reading books."


I gaped. Stop reading books? Wouldn't it be easier to just stop breathing?  Did she mean all books, or just Enid Blyton books? I mean, I kind of knew that I was getting to old for my frequent trips up the magic faraway tree.  A place where I seem to have permanently remained.  Off with the pixies. 

There was NO WAY I could stop reading books.  The thing was impossible.  Consequently the 'friendship' was over.  Gloomily, I trudged home, wondering where all the 'kindred spirits' from my beloved 'Anne' books were.

It wasn't long before Pat was surrounded by friends at High School, while I sat there. Alone. Reading a book.  So I guess she was right. Sigh.  Books will always be my best friend.

To make matters worse, just as I was about to start high school, Karen Carpenter died. Right when I was in the throes of becoming a major fan. I was heartbroken. Of course nobody, least of all the other girls at school, understood my sorrow. Liking the Carpenters went hand in had with reading books and not having a boyfriend. At barely 12 years old. Imagine. Spinsterhood here I come.

 I had been dreading starting high school. Boganville High School was considered to be the roughest school for "under privileged" kids in Sydney's western suburbs. For months I had been hearing horror stories about how the older kids grabbed the year seven kids and flushed their heads in the toilet by way of "initiating" them. Naturally, if you happened to be shy, quiet, liked reading and listening to the Carpenters it could make you a prime candidate for such treatment. I crept around the school playground with my head down, terrified that some sinister bunch of hoodlums would attack me at any moment and drag me into the toilets. Nobody even noticed me. After a week had passed I finally relaxed, realising that maybe some of these horror stories had been exaggerated somewhat.

One morning at recess, I proceeded to read my latest book in my usual position, not far from where the canteen was situated, when I happened to hear a conversation taking place only a few yards away.  Pat was leading it, my ex so-called 'best friend' from primary school. They were discussing Karen Carpenters death which was news at the time.  Pat was saying "Yes, its really sad because they were husband and wife (??!!) and they'd only just gotten married (??!!) and they'd just started out in their musical career.

Normally I was the quietest person on earth, but I couldn''t let that pass.

"That's wrong," I said, surprising them. They hadn't even realised I was there. I went on to inform them that Karen and Richard were NOT husband and wife, but brother and sister and not only that, they had been around for some time and had a lot of hits. Of course, I expected them to be interested and grateful that I had volunteered the information but instead Pat just gave me a withering look along with the rest of them and said "Oh really?" just as if she might have said "Big deal".    

Year 10 formal, circa 1986. I was
already stunningly gorgeous and
talented. So ner.

However, it was while at High School that I began the transformation from a mega nerd from Hell to the person I am today:  a mega nerd bogan from Hell a talented writer and gorgeous, smokin' hawt fox. Observe. I became a published author. Sort of. Kind of. Not really. Oh okay, it was only in the school magazine, but that counts, right? This is the blinding piece of sheer brilliance I wrote at only age 15. A fictional story that I wrote. Read it and weep:


Out here in the country, where everything is fresh and beautiful, it's difficult to believe that all the violence and crime you read about in the newspapers everyday really happens. The air is crisp and clean and the trees stand tall and majestic against the backdrop of a clear blue sky. Kookaburras laugh loudly from their perches and the smell of eucalyptus is heavy in the air.

We had chosen the perfect spot for our holiday, a quiet little cottage in the midst of the country. The mysterious guy my sister was heartbroken over was sure to be forgotten here. Mum was already looking cheerful - and me? Well, I was just trying to rid myself of this strange eerie feeling. A premonition of something awful about to happen. What could possibly  happen out here where the people are greener than the grass?

I walked slowly, admiring the scenery. My mind was racing. What was this feeling? I tried to ignore it, but something told me I was living each day, waiting. For what, I didn't know. But I was soon to find out.

Jessica flew past me on horseback. Horse riding was  her passion, but I stuck to bikes. Even though we were sisters and looked alike, our personalities were entirely different. Jessica was adventurous, daring and very naive. She had just been hurt recently by some guy my mother and I had never even met. I watched her slowly gallop into the distance and settled down under a tree to enjoy the sunshine.

Glancing around, I searched for someone, but there was nobody. I had the odd feeling that someone was watching me. It had been happening on and off all day and it was beginning to give me the creeps. There's no one here, I told myself, determined to shake off this feeling of gloom. But it was there.

And it was still there moments later when I looked up and saw Jessica's horse galloping towards me, but no sign of Jessica. Panic gripped me, my mind full of horrifying visions of Jessica lying wounded from where she had fallen off the horse. Not thinking of the stupidity of my actions, I hurried in the direction from where the horse had come.

It was only when I was lost in a maze of trees that I berated myself fiercely. "Jessica! Where are you?" I called loudly. No answer. And no wonder. I stopped short in utter disbelief. For there she lay at my feet. Not wounded, but dead! There were no words to describe my emotions at that moment. My common sense told me that she couldn't have been killed just by falling from a horse.

"Jessica! Oh my God!" Tears were streaming down my face as I dropped to my knees beside my sister's still body. There was the unmistakable sign that a knife had been used to slit her throat. Somebody had killed her and that somebody was still lurking around waiting to kill me too.

I heard  the foot steps at that moment and turned rising to my feet. There he was. I was face to face with my sister's killer. He wasn't menacing at all. Just an ordinary looking guy. But he held a knife in his right hand.

"Hello, Anne." He knew my name. "Yes, I know you, your sister's told me all about you." He answered my unasked question.

"But she's dead now and I'm going to kill you, too." He stated it calmly, as if it were something he did everyday.

"No!" I fled past him before he could move. Just a moment ago I had found my sister dead. It was all a dream, it had to be a dream, I thought as I ran and ran. I knew he was right behind me.

It's amazing how fast you can run when you're afraid. I raced into the cottage, yelling to my mother, I rushed to slam the door, but he was stronger than me and pushed his way in, grabbing me.

My mother screamed, spotting the knife. He held me in a vice like grip, moving the knife towards my throat. He was bereft of reason, only wanting to kill, destruct.  He didn't seem to realise that my mother was there, quickly phoning the police. But we had to do something fast before I was dead.

Using all my strength, I kicked him hard in the shins and ran from his arms. He dropped the knife in my escape and I grabbed it quickly. He looked around the room as if he didn't know where he was. Then suddenly he fell to his knees, crying.

He was still there crying when the police arrived. A crazy man, familiar with drugs and the guy my sister had been heartbroken over. He was taken away in the back of a police car. We never saw him again. Never wanted to either.

My mother coped well with the funeral, but we both went to pieces afterwards. My sister was only eighteen and she was dead. Dead through the insanity of a very sick man. I realised that I would never forget what happened, but life had to go on and somehow I would face it.


Needless to say, I'm still painfully woeful highly skillful writer, as this boring as batshit bogan blog proves. It's also comforting to know, that thirty years later, I haven't matured beyond the age of twelve. After all, being a grown up is totally over rated. 

Linking up with Rachel at The Very Inappropriate Blog for The Lounge.


                                 What do you remember about your teenage years?


Thursday, 15 August 2013


Those lovely ladies known as the Lounge Lizards apparently want to know what I’m passionate about. Well, duh, as if it isn’t obvious.


From a young age I was always known for two traits. My unrelenting drive and passion. For cake. Or chocolate. This has propelled me to the dizzying heights (who wouldn’t be dizzy, with all that sugar in your system) I’ve reached today,  as a professional Fatty Boombah Bogan.

This was emphasised to me by an anecdote related to me by my mother of the time when I was around the tender age of three, or perhaps four, who knows. You expect me to remember back that far? I can’t remember five minutes ago!

Anyway, evidently Mum had taken me out shopping and paused to have a coffee. However, I had other ideas.  I kept repeatedly asking for “Something nice,” emphasising the word ‘nice’ with a posh little plum in my mouth.  This refrain went on for several minutes, while Mum attempted to enjoy her coffee.
She tried to ignore my demands. Undaunted, I continued my efforts.

“Mummy, can I please have something nice?”
Finally, after another five minutes or so of my constant nagging heartfelt pleas, Mum eventually threw me a sachet of sugar.

“Here,” she said, exasperated “have this!”
My little three year old eyes fell on it. With a tone dripping in condescension and derision I  scathingly declared:


I was cute once. And I wanted something 'nice', not
a sugar sachet! HMPH.

How dare anyone thwart me from having my desired and much sought after slice of cake! CAKE, I say, not a silly old sugar sachet!

In between my frequent cakie consumption, I could be found curled up with a book, my other passion. Sometimes I traded the book for our dachshund dog, Samantha. I tried to smuggle Samantha into bed with me once. When Sammy went to doggy heaven, along came Penny and Skippa.  I was devoted to those dogs. The fact that I never had to actually clean up their crap probably added to their appeal. Penny and Skippa went on to have pups. In an essay written for school about my life, I remarked that I’d never seen anything cuter than those puppies ‘not even a human baby’.  Clearly I needed to get out more. Or all that sugar was affecting my brain. Or both. Regardless, I was besotted with books, dogs and cakies.  Not to mention chocolate.
Me with my mullet perm and Skippa, circa 1985. Classy.

My passion for baked goods and all things chocolatey, continued on in my teens when I proceeded to take the old ‘Mars a day’ slogan quite literally. I devoured a Mars Bar every single day after school, while remaining annoyingly slim. Annoying to others, I’m sure. Annoying to me now, knowing that this phenomenon will remain firmly back in 1985, along with mullet perms and bubble skirts.  The latter two can stay there. However, I want my fourteen year old metabolism back, thank you very much. Hmph.

Perhaps continuing with the syrupy sweet theme, I also developed a deep and abiding love for Carpenters music at around age 11 which has continued onto this day. This is yet another lifelong passion.  Ironically, Karen Carpenter died from an eating disorder shortly after I fell passionately in love with her voice and music. This meant I was now passionate about cakies – and the World’s most famous anorexic, something only I could achieve. So ner. After all, while others worried about trying to save the whales or the ozone layer, SOMEBODY had to focus on the important issues. What could be more important than cake and Carpenters? Don't answer that...

Then, one day, years later, there came an epoch in my life.  A ‘bend in the road’ as ‘Anne’ would say.  I was unable to become pregnant and it appeared that a little bit of weight loss might help the situation. Surprisingly, I was able to develop a new passion, a very unexpected one. Exercise.

It worked, and one by one, babies came along. With each subsequent baby my passion for exercise waxed and waned. Meanwhile, my devotion to cakies and chocolate continued unabated.  After all, I could have given them up, too, but I’m no quitter, as they say. Whoever ‘they’ are.

My singular determination and unremitting pursuit of all things sugary is what has shaped me into the person I am today. An overweight bogan with high cholesterol who knows the words to every Carpenters song. Not many people can boast about that.  Shut up.

Not to be beaten, I am now determined to reclaim my long lost passion for exercise. After all these years it appears that my love affair with cakies and chocolate must now tragically come to an end. It’s not me, it’s them. While I have passionately loved them, it appears that they do not love me. Cue hysterical sobbing.

It turns out that there is one thing that I am truly passionate about.  Yes, even above and beyond cakies and Carpenters. Three things, actually.  Three of the most important people in my life.  My gorgeous boys. I love them passionately. For them, I will give up (or cut back, anyway- ahem) on cakies. I will even move my rather large arse and break a sweat everyday, until it becomes slightly less large.  I will do it because I passionately desire to be around for a hell of a long time, to see them grow up and possibly even be a Grandma one day. 

And if I do live to be 80, then I'm eating cake EVERY SINGLE DAY until I die from a diabetic coma. You can't stop me.  

Linking up with Slapdash Mama Sarah for The Lounge.

Also linking with Cathy from The Camera Chronicles for Flashback Friday.

                                                           What are YOU passionate about? 

Friday, 9 August 2013

Long Lost Letters And Other Lame Stuff

There was a time, approximately a billion years ago, (or you know, at least twenty, which often feels like the same thing) when I used to write SO MANY letters. Not surprisingly, I had dozens of admirers and received truck loads of love letters each week. It was hard to have to break so many hearts with polite and poetic little epistles detailing why we couldn't be together, but I had to do it.

I loved  making up stuff, you see. Like most of the above paragraph. Ahem. No, sadly, there were no admirers. Not one. Hmph. I still don't get it. I mean, I was clearly such a fetching teenager. Observe.

How did all the boys resist
such mulleted loveliness?

 Needless to say, I then blossomed into a smoking hawt twenty something. My hawtness was just totally OFF THE SCALE. No wonder the boys stayed away in droves. It was just too overwhelming. Clearly. Behold the photographic evidence:

Hawt, Hawt HAWT. Erm..NOT.

So, in order to keep myself busy while hordes of males secretly lusted after me, but were too intimidated to approach me, I had to have a hobby. Naturally, I chose an exceptionally cool one. Pen-pals. I've always been cutting edge.

Remember those days? Snail mail. Now the only snail mail I receive is bills and junk mail. Which I find considerably rude. However, if I wish for any alternative correspondence I shall have to think about how I operated in the past. Scribbling away with an actual pen on paper and putting it in an envelope and posting it. Except I won't. Because I've become shockingly lazy. I'll just blog about it instead. Because it's fascinating, obviously, like everything about me.

Last week my parents called in and my Mum had brought with her a bag full to the brim of old letters, cards and an old school report that had belonged to me.  I was able to spend the afternoon having a lovely little trip down memory lane sorting through it all.  After this heart warming foray into the past, I came to following conclusions:

Some things change. Such as, 'friends' who promised to be so FOREVER. Turns out they weren't even a friend's arsehole. Just the arsehole bit. Period. Good riddance.

Some things NEVER change. This was confirmed by a comment on the old school report which said:

Vanessa displays no interest in craft.

At least I am consistent in some things. I have consistently  maintained a stunning lack of interest in craft for the past 30 years. Which is, quite clearly, something to be proud of.

I also had at least three international  pen-pals. Two from Germany and one from Italy. I wrote to these girls for quite a number of years because they were NICE. Unlike that horrible bitch I wrote to once out of the pen-pals section of Smash Hits magazine, who, for some inexplicable reason, must not have been impressed with my heartfelt confession that in addition to Madonna and INXS I also loved The Carpenters and Barbra Streisand. What is wrong with these people who can't handle my hawtness and exquisite taste?

Anyway, I wrote to my German pen-pals, Steffi and Gudrun, and my Italian one Anna Maria for years. One by one, we all eventually got married and slowly stopped writing to each other. In short, I became a slack arsed bitch and lost contact with them. Oops.

In addition to my pen-pals, I also wrote to a couple of the above arseholian 'friends' and several relatives. I loved writing letters.  Eventually I met Micky Blue Eyes and I may have even written him a soppy letter or two. He never replied. But he didn't run away shrieking either, which, when I think about it now, could have been a distinct possibility.

He did, however, manage to bestow upon me the odd post card or jokey card, with a 'Take it easy, Love Mick' scrawled on the bottom of it. No wonder I was swept away with such romantic gestures. Makes you all warm and fuzzy, doesn't it? Or nauseous and queasy? Or something.

I also finally discovered where I get my genius for poetry from, after coming across a corny charming poem my Mum had written for me in an old birthday card. Thanks, Mum! For writing that poem and also passing on your GENIUS. People will understand our greatness one of these days. Maybe. It could happen. Shut up.

Among the cards was this one, pictured below,  for my 21st birthday, from some old colleagues I worked with at the time. It cracked me up. I do love a good lobster meal.

Incidentally, I also came across an old pay slip from those heady old days when I was temping for Library Locums. Apparently I was earning an astronomical $12.98 per hour! This kind of explains why I am now living a life of luxury in Boganville. I was always destined for great things.

Here I am living it up in luxury with a
lovely lobster dinner. And a
bad bowel hair cut...

Fast forward to today and here I am still being AWESOME. I now don't write any letters. I write this brilliant boring as batshit blog instead, for which I earn - absolutely nothing! So ner.

Linking up with Cathy from The Camera Chronicles for Flashback Friday.

Did you ever have any pen-pals? Do you ever use snail mail these days?

Monday, 5 August 2013

Scardey Cat Bogan

Today I had to go and be a pin cushion. I had a Glucose Tolerance Test. No big deal, right? We  all have to have them when we are up the duff. Compared to pushing a baby out it's NOTHING.

So why do I get all wobbly about it? Yes, I must confess, I am big chicken shit, scaredy cat when it comes to all things of a medical nature. I do not like blood or needles AT ALL.  The only way I can go about such a thing is to try to pretend it's not happening and look away. But my nerves are far too obvious and I'll usually get a patronising "Oh somebody doesn't like needles, do they?" type of comment from the pathology staffer who is about to jab me with the said needle. The fact that I am, of course, acting like the equivalent of a five year old and probably deserve their derision is entirely irrelevant. And they never give me a smiley stamp afterwards either. Hmph.
This isn't scary at all...*faints*

Hard to believe I spent months being jabbed with fertility drugs years ago and being poked and prodded in my quest to have a baby. I must have wanted sprogs very badly.

All of this leads me to the obvious conclusion that I need to:

a) grow up
b) grow some balls
c) grow some extra balls in case I lose the first ones, or
d) all of the above.

Might be d, I reckon. It's a tough one.

Spending two hours at a pathology place is somewhat depressing. A room full, of disgruntled, bored people, some of whom are ill and/or in wheel chairs. I realise I'm lucky because whatever the result of the test, I'll be able to do something about it. So I know I should get over being a sook and deal with it. Giving up cakies is not a big deal. Frankly, after having that revolting sugary drink they give you as part of the test, I'm not sure I want anything sweet EVER AGAIN. Or at least until tomorrow.

As well as being a big scaredy cat about all things medical, this week I've also been a gigantic sentimental sook. We had to go to Mr 12's High School interview. As we went over our paper work and what we had to take, I suddenly noticed that I still had baby photos of him on the wall. I do tend to procrastinate from updating things around here. And just procrastinate in general. But let's talk about that later. Boom Tish!

 Anyway, he certainly isn't a baby anymore. Realising this, I just lost it and started bawling. Yes, I'm a tad slow at coming to this stunning conclusion. I have to also confess that just as I have a hard time coping with medical issues, I also have a hard time dealing with change. My 'baby' is going to high school, my other 'baby' is starting kindergarten and I am officially middle aged as I begin the slow descent into old age and all the medical things that pop up with it. Possible Type 2 Diabetes. Yay.

All the things that I thought were years off are starting to become a reality. I used to think about Mr 12 going to high school and Micky Blue Eyes turning 50 and they were still far off into the future. Now they are a reality.  Really happening.

It's all good really. I just like getting myself all worked up and worried over nothing for no reason. Like the whole giving up cake thing. Gawd, my life is just FASCINATING. Why don't I just vomit it all over the Internet? Oh wait....

All of this can only lead me to the obvious conclusion that I need to:

a) get a hobby
b) get out more
c) get a life, or
d) all of the above

I think I'm going with option d. So excuse me while I proceed to go and get a life. Or something.

Linking up for I Must Confess, which is being hosted this week by Emily from  Have A Laugh On Me.

                                   Can you tell me where to go to get a life? Or just where to 

Thursday, 1 August 2013

The Best Thing I've Ever Done

What is the best thing I've ever done?  I have NO IDEA.  Ask me what I've never done. That would be easier to answer. The list of things I've never done and will never do is rather long and detailed. The list of things I will never do if I live to be a hundred and one, even longer.

I've never:

  • Travelled to far away, exotic places, unless you count Dubbo. And I certainly don't.
  • Had a thriving, successful career, or even any sort of average job that I've been remotely good at.
  • Made a five year plan. Or even a five minute one.
  • Known what I wanted to do when I grow up. Still don't.
  • Made friends easily and consequently had millions of the things coming out of my arse. Or, you know, I've just never had millions of friends. Forget about the arse thing.
  • Been adventurous. I've never wanted to do anything heart racing such as bridge climbs, white water rafting or bungee jumping. I'm a two feet planted firmly on the ground kind of girl. 
  • Been the owner of one of those sleek and blindingly white homes seen in magazines and on the telly.
  • Been stylish, elegant and effortlessly chic. Instead I've always be the one wearing too much eye make-up and a dodgy, at home dye job teamed with bargain, sales rack clothes from not very classy stores. 
  • Been one of those competitive 'Tiger' Mums, bragging about my kids  and how brilliant they are to anyone and everyone.
  • Been competitive, period. I can't win the race, because I'm never in it.
Anyway, I could go on for days with this list. Instead I'm supposed to be telling you the best thing  that I've actually DONE.  The truth is, I really don't know. Or maybe I do. It's just that it's not the things I think I should have acheived.

I will never have a home that looks like THIS.

I've stumbled through life, feeling like an alien. Along the way I managed to have the odd job, (even if I thought I was never very good at any of them), make a few friends, get married and pop out a few sprogs. Nothing remarkable. Nothing remarkable at all. Seemingly.

Also, before all of that I managed to survive through several years of infertility. The fact that I ended up conceiving at all was all because of the shit I did to help myself. Actually exercising like a demon and being *gasp*, healthy. Then, after we had our first two boys, Micky Blue Eyes was diagnosed with bowel cancer. Surprisingly, that wasn't very much fun. Okay, not surprisingly, but we got through it. Just when we had picked ourselves back up of the floor from that little shock, we had another shock. I was up the duff again. But this pregnancy ended in tragedy, when I lost the little man at 19 weeks, and, to make matters worse, still had to go through birthing him. That was actually the WORST thing I've ever done. I'm  supposed to be telling you the BEST thing. I'm getting to that. I think. I hope. Maybe. Whatever. You've probably stopped reading by now, anyway. Sigh.

I think the point I am trying to make is that sometimes the best thing you can do, the biggest achievement, is to survive all the worst things. Does that even make sense?

I've survived all of the above and am still relatively sane (okay, it's debatable), as well as bumbling along through life without the diagnosis of Asperger's until I was 40. Did I mention that? That was a fairly big deal for me and a gigantic yawn for everyone else. Which is what this post is turning into.  Sorry!

Plus, the fact that I've survived all of this and went on to become a Professional Bogan, boring everyone with this bogan themed blog is quite a stunning achievement in itself. Whether it's stunning in a good way or bad way- well, draw your own conclusions. I think you know what mine is. I'm a very proud bogan blogger. So ner.

Now I am also facing one of my biggest challenges yet. Potentially giving up cakies. I know. Heartbreaking. If I survive this, it could possibly be my biggest achievement to date. I am having a Glucose Tolerance Test on Monday. I get to carb load for the next few days before finding out if my cakie addiction has caught up with me. This should be interesting. Or boring as batshit, really. Stay tuned. Or tune out. Or whatever.

Linking up with The Lounge. which is being hosted by Tegan from Musings Of The Misguided.

What is the best thing you've ever done? It may not be what you think...