Showing posts with label Exercise. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Exercise. Show all posts

Saturday, 7 July 2018

10 Things That Make Me Happy #FridayReflections

Hello again!  It's time for another groovy list type post! YAY! Well, I'm certainly excited. Because I'm listing ten things that make me happy. And that makes me...happy!

Because let's face it, there are many times in this gig called life when you feel flat, despondent, dejected, forlorn and just plain old blah. Shut up. Blah is totally a word.

Well, it's definitely a feeling anyway. I guess that's why I call it the blahs. Elton John can call it the blues. I can't stop him. But I'm sticking with the blahs. YOU can't stop ME. So ner.

It's important to have strategies in place to lift those blahs and hopefully feel better.

Here's ten things that make me happy whenever I have the blahs. I am challenging myself to not mention cakies whatsoever. Sure, they make me happy. Temporarily. Until I come down from my sugar high. And realise how frightfully fat I am. Sigh.

Plus I need to remind myself that there are plenty of other things out there that can help. And just back the hell away from the comfort eating. Seriously, Nesski.

Side note: my current Facebook profile picture is a photo of cakes with a 'So in love' frame. Told you. I need help.

Back to my list.


  1. Exercise. Unfortunately the feeling better bit comes after the actual exercise itself. So rude. However, it's always worth it. With this in mind, I made myself move this morning by doing some brisk aerobics. Then I ate a cupcake. DOH. See? Seriously. Need. Help. 
  2. Writing/blogging. It's quite therapeutic. With the added benefit that when I'm tapping or scribbling away I can't shovel food into my gob. That's something.
  3. Getting out of the house. Even a trip to the library counts. I hope. Because I rarely go anywhere else. Oops. Note to self: get out more. 
  4. Patting my dog. This is usually done in conjunction with singing ridiculous made-up-as-I-go ditties to her. Such as this: "Cookie, the amazing dog! Cookie, the amazing dog! Cookie, the amazing dog! She's an amazing dog!" Meanwhile, Cookie looks at me like a I'm a lunatic. But so long as the lunatic keeps patting her she'll tolerate it.
  5. Cuddles/playing Uno with Mr 9. Despite his issues with losing, we still have fun. Always. 
  6. Watching something funny. My current favourite is DVDS of The Golden Girls. Admittedly some of the jokes haven't worn well, but overall I still love it. And I can always laugh at the 1980s fashion. That hasn't worn well either. Tee hee.
  7. Sing. Badly. See above. Lately (besides made up ditties to my dog) it's the soundtrack of Hello Dolly on rotation in my head. Who cares how bad you sound if makes you feel better? Well, perhaps my family. But I put up with their noise, so we're even.
  8. Reading. Books and reading have always been my happy place. Hence my many trips to the library. It's fortunate that such a simple thing can give me contentment. I'm happier with a bargain book from an op shop than extravagant designer shoes or handbags. Winning! 😁
  9. Dressing up a bit and putting some lipstick on. I'm fairly low maintenance these days in regards to grooming. But sometimes it's fun to pretend you're one of the Golden Girls and get your shoulder pads/earrings and a bit of lippy on. I now have the required silver hair without even trying. Just call me Dorothy/Rose/Blanche/Sophia. 
  10. All of the above things work really well for a passing case of the blahs, but sometimes things get a bit more grim and I require professional help. Talking to a good counselor or psychologist really helps. Even though it's HARD. Well, it is for me. I don't talk. But sometimes I have to force myself. Just like exercise. 

Bonus things that make me happy: Notebooks and pens, listening to music, cups of tea, or a glass of wine. It's the simple things, really. Don't you think?

Anyway, that concludes my list.

Now I'm off to watch The Golden Girls. Which begins by singing the theme song. Badly. 

"Thank you for being a frieeend..."

Linking up for Friday Reflections. 

Do you call it the blahs or blues?

What makes you happy?

Friday, 18 November 2016

Taking Stock

Hello, gorgeous people! It's me again, popping up here whenever I feel like it! I accidentally typed 'pooping', but I changed it. Although that probably works, considering the general quality of posts here...

Related: I've finally done something I should have done YEARS ago. I signed up to do
 Blog With Pip and Blog Magic in a special two for one deal! 

Anyway, our week two assignment was this 'taking stock' thingy that I've seen around on lots of blogs.  

Too easy!  

On with the show....

Drum roll please!

Making : Everything super awkward. It's a special gift of mine!
Cooking : Dinner. Because the dinner fairy never shows up. Rude.
Drinking : Tea! Always tea. Even though it's warming up. 
Reading: Last Woman Hanged by Caroline Overington. Gruesome, but fascinating! 
Wanting: Equilibrium.
Looking: Like Kath from Kath n' Kim with my nanna curls. Noice. 

Playing: Eye spy with Mr 8. 
Deciding: Where and when to go on holidays. It will NOT be Dubbo. 
Wishing: I wasn't so anxious.
Enjoying: Getting black into exercise. Slowwwwwly. But getting there!

Waiting: For the kettle to boil. Helps if you plug it in I have discovered.  
Liking: Peace and quiet. I don't currently have any. But I would like it.
Wondering: Why I can't think of anything I'm wondering about right now, but at midnight when I should be sleeping, my mind will swirl with ALL THE THINGS.
Loving: My family. 
Pondering: See wondering.
Considering: What new template to put on this here blog. Well, in actual fact I did apply a new template (did anyone notice...?). Then I realised it doesn't look any different when viewed in mobile. Damn. So now I'm considering changing it again...  Decisions, decisions.  I am not good at them. Sigh. 
Watching: The Wrong Girl, Rosehaven and Please Like Me. 

Hoping: We get to go on that holiday. 
Marvelling: That I'm still relatively sane after the year I've had. OK, it's debatable...
Needing: Exercise! 
Smelling: Oranges.  
Wearing: My classy K-Mart attire. Be very jealous. 
Following: Um. I'm not a follower, I'm a... erm...

Not a leader either. Details.
Hmm, I dunno, haven't looked at Twatter in a while. Oh! But I signed up for Instagram, so hit me with your handles on there so I can follow YOU! 
Noticing: That time is on fast forward while I'd like to be on pause. 
Knowing: I am actually looking forward to Christmas instead of being all bah humbug! I know, right?! I don't even know who I am anymore. 
Thinking: Too much. Especially at midnight. See: Wondering and Pondering

Feeling: Blah, then brilliant. Then bored, then ebullient. Then bleak. And brilliant again. I'm a moody bitch. 
Admiring: My parents. They celebrated their 50th anniversary last week!
Sorting: Clothes. 
Buying: Birthday, anniversary and Christmas presents. 
Getting: Fat. Okay, fattER. Ahem. 

Bookmarking:  Um. Nothing comes to mind...
Disliking: Headaches. I had one for two days this week. Gah. 
Opening: My mouth. To eat too much food... See: Getting.
Giggling: At the cute things Mr 8 says.  
Snacking: On all those delicious summer fruits. The only good thing about summer. Nectarines and mangoes FTW! 
Coveting: Chocolate and cakies. What else? See: Opening and Getting
Wishing: That 2016 wasn't quite so WEIRD. 

Helping: Hmmmm. I tried to 'help' Mr 15 with an assessment. All I can say is I'm glad I'm not in high school anymore... 
Hearing: My stomach grumbling. Apparently it's lunch time. It always comes back to food with me, doesn't it? Oh dear. 

And that is me 'taking stock' on this fine day!

Wish me luck with the rest of the course(s). I need it! 

Linking up with Bloggers & Bacon for Archive Love.

What have you been opening and getting? Um, perhaps I should rephrase that...

How are you 'taking stock'? 

Friday, 21 October 2016

21 Random Facts About Me

1. My parents named me Vanessa after seeing Vanessa Redgrave in the movie Camelot. Almost everyone calls me Ness, except my parents and Mick who stuck with the Vanessa thing. 
2. My hair used to be straight but now it's curly because I had chemo. Sigh. 
3. My favourite drink is tea.
4. I can't wear perfume. It gives me headaches. 
5. I didn't learn to drive until I was 36. 
6. When adulting seems too hard I often fantasize about being a dog. I draw the line at becoming a Furry, though. It'd be too hot in summer. 

Image credit:

7. I'm struggling to get back into exercise post breast cancer. 
8. I almost never listen to the radio.
9. I prefer showers to baths.
10. I love reading but don't understand how people can read in the bath.
11. As a child I was scared of elevators and escalators. And boats, and heights and cockroaches. And people. Nothing much has changed. Ahem. 
12. I didn't realise I was pregnant the first time until around 26 weeks (approximately six months).
13. To my right there is a tall bookcase and a smaller one. Both are filled with books. Well, I did say they were random facts. 
14. I am trying to de-clutter my home. But it's not hoarding if it's books, right? (See above). 
15. I am terrible at multi-tasking. Except when I'm blogging, Facebooking, drinking wine and eating all the food simultaneously. I SMASH that. 
16. My middle name is Faye. Which sounds like an old lady name in 2016. Totally goes with my nanna curls. Winning! 
17. I don't think I'm interesting enough to make it to 21 facts. Thinking, thinking, thinking...
18. I've never had a sister or a daughter . Never will. Interesting. (I do have two wonderful sister-in-laws). 
19. I live in the same suburb I was born in 45 years ago. 
20. I'm super untidy but I can't stand having sticky or wet hands. Weird.
21. I am currently sipping a cup of tea. See point number 3. I am NOT eating cake with it. I am very sad and wistful about this. And I'm not even skinny yet! RUDE. 

There you have it. 21 totally random facts about me. You're welcome! 

Linking up for Friday Reflections. 

Are there any interesting random facts about you? 

Monday, 10 August 2015

Making Mondays Marvellous

Hello Monday, you marvellous creature! It's the start of another week and there is so much to look forward to!

But Mondays suck, I hear you exclaim. That is one way of looking at it. However, I am here to argue that the much maligned Monday has much to offer.

  • Every body knows that Monday is usually the day that you start diets. Which means that by around lunch time (or morning tea time) you can look forward to eating your body weight in ALL THE FOOD and abruptly ending the Monday diet madness. Or is that just me? 

  • It's often a public holiday. 

  • It makes you appreciate Fridays even more. 

  • It's the only day of the week that starts with an M, making it unique. 

  • There are lots of famous songs inspired by Mondays: I Don't Like Mondays, Manic Monday, Rainy Days And Mondays (always get me down...) The fact that they are all negative songs is COMPLETELY IRRELEVANT. 

  • Lots of restaurants offer kids eat free deals on Mondays. Since you've already screwed your diet at lunch time, you might as well  forget about cooking and go for it. 

  • You can plan all the things you have to do this week and start ticking them off. Alternatively, you can just tick of the days until the weekend.

  • You may have a favourite television show which airs on a Monday. I'm not even sure which shows are on on Mondays. What am I like? 

  • If Home And Away or Neighbours ended on a cliffhanger on Friday you have all the pent up anticipation of the next episode to look forward to. Surprisingly I don't watch either show. Come to think of it, I don't really watch any shows. Weird.

  • The BEST reason of all that Monday ROCKS: It's usually the day I share a new post here on Nessville!!!!!

Admit it, it's the only reason you wake up, right? 

Anyway, lets get down to my exciting list of things that are happening in the land of Nessville this week:


Most likely I will get out of bed.  If you are reading this then I have managed it. I will certainly look at Facebook. I will post this blog. It's my gift to the world. Just to make your Monday so much better. You're welcome. 


Mickey Blue Eye's birthday is on Tuesday! This of course means one thing: CAKE!!

I also have a doctor's appointment on Tuesday. I had a routine blood test done last Wednesday. This is just for a check-up for my cholesterol and sugar levels as well as my thyroid. So I'm going back to see how it went. I'm quietly optimistic that it's all good. I haven't received any phone calls. Last time I had a blood test, my GP rang me immediately the next day to tell my that my sugar levels were a concern and I had to have a Glucose Tolerance Test. So far, no phone calls this time around. That has to be a good thing, doesn't it? This Weight Witches thing may be paying off after all. Oh my stars! 


I will probably stare into space vacantly after exercising vigorously. At which point I will come to the conclusion that since I just exercised and it still must be some one's birthday somewhere, I can justify having yet more leftover birthday cake. Winning! 


I will probably have a cup of tea. Actually several cups of tea. I always do. 


I have my monthly weigh-in at Weight Witches. SUCH a glamorous life I lead. At this point I've scheduled in some sulking when all my cake-eating catches up with me. Following this brief period of sulking, I've then scheduled a firm kick up the bum to myself to make myself get back on track. As soon as I figure out how to become a contortionist....

I suppose I could get Mickey Blue Eyes to kick me up the bum. Otherwise, I'll kick HIM up the bum. I mean, it was HIS birthday cake! It's totally his fault that I ate cake! Come to think of it, my Mum and Mr 14 also had birthdays in this past month. More cake! Therefore, it's totally my family's fault for FORCING me to eat ALL THE CAKE. SO rude. 


Two out of three boys have soccer. I'm sure it will be as thrilling as last Saturday when Mr 6 informed me "We lost 7 - nil, but I scored TWO GOALS!!" 

Not exactly sure how that works. I think he inherited his logic from me. So proud. 


On Sunday I will be sleeping in. There are no other exciting plans. What could be more exciting than sleeping in? 

This will conclude an action-packed week. Just in time for another marvellous Monday! Can't wait... Can you? 

Linking up for I Must Confess,  Open Slather and Mummy Mondays. 

Monday, 7 July 2014

I Won't Last A Day Without...

There are certain things that I would I find terribly difficult to give up. Such as:

My Family

Okay, there are certain days when I do wish I could be all by myself. Except I'd be belting out Carpenters songs instead of Celine Dion. But in reality, I couldn't live without my family. They are my suit of armour against the World. Whenever I'm feeling awkward and alien like (which is often) I can remind myself that:

a) As Dr Phil says: You wouldn't worry about what others thought of you if you knew how seldom they did, and
b) I have Micky Blue eyes and my boys who love and accept me.

The Internet

Some days I am scrolling down my Facebook feed (or typing another pointless blog post- ahem) and wondering why I bother. Still, I can't seem to hit the deactivate button. It's a sickness really. Sigh.


I tried quit sugar last year. It was the longest five minutes of my life. BOOM TISH. Seriously though, I did only last about five minutes. More recently I started the Get Healthy Programme, except I seemed to think it was the Get Diabetes programme. I have ended up delaying this for a while and am starting again soon. Hopefully I'll last for at least ten minutes this time. Shut up.

Karen Carpenter/Carpenters addiction/obsession

This fascination, which began at the tender age of 11, has only intensified with the arrival of the internet, making it even more impossible to hit that Facebook Deactivate Button, thereby quitting all of the fan groups and pages I belong to. Don't ask. I've lost count. But at least the fact that there are so many groups proves that I'm not alone in my weirdness.

Quiet Time

As much as I love my family, I do need time alone as well.  This is particularly precious due to it's rarity. I have been forced to give this up to a degree. But I'll still grab the smallest opportunity whenever I can. In fact, on our current holiday, when faced with the choice of joining my family for a stroll on the beach or staying in the apartment alone with the lap-top, I chose the latter. I justified this by reasoning that I spent plenty of time doing stuff with them every other day. And the sand. All that sand, everywhere, six months later. *Shudders*.

Cups Of Tea

I only drink one coffee a day. And about a billion or so cups of tea. I think I was weaned with a tea bag. Okay, not quite, but I did start drinking it at a young age and am absolutely addicted. The tea bag must be left in, thank you very much. I know, it's disgusting. Especially since tea bags were EVIL when I was growing up. We always had proper leaf tea in a pot. But I'm lazy, so tea bags it is now.


 For me, the highlight of our family road trips involves stopping off at any available Op Shops and loading up on bargain books. This is approached with the same fervency and desperation that a heroin addict would reserve for getting their next fix. I. MUST. HAVE. BOOKS. I probably should purchase a Kindle at some point and bring myself into the 21st Century, however I’m sure I still wouldn’t be able to resist those road trip Op Shop crawls. They're much better than Pub crawls in my opinion.


This is one I struggle with. I can easily be lazy and give it up, but my physical and mental health suffers if I let it slide. So I force myself to do sweaty aerobics on most days. I do this for the endorphins, not to become svelte and super fit with a rippling six-pack and buns of steel. I prefer buns with cream, actually. Ahem. Which is why I'll never have the former.


I've only recently come to the conclusion that writing is kind of similar to exercise for me.  I may not be the best, most eloquent writer, just as I am not the most agile, fit athlete, but I usually feel better when I do it. Even if it's just scribbling nonsense purely for my own amusement or boring you all with this blog, I need to do it. As I've mentioned I can be lazy, so sometimes I have to force myself, just like the exercise. When I do, I feel better. The end. So, I guess you're all stuck with me. You're welcome.

And there you have it. The stuff I would find hard to give up. Now I'm off to read books and drink tea.  Oh alright, I'll exercise instead. Hmph.

Linking up (late, as usual)  for Laugh Link and also for I Must Confess.

What would you find hard to give up?

Tuesday, 18 February 2014

Sweating As A Skill

This week’s I Must Confess topic is confessing to any skills or talents I may have. I must admit that when I read this topic I was rather dismayed. I don’t have any skills or talents, I thought forlornly, as weepy violin music swelled in the background. What the hell will I write? I am a great big vacuum of mediocrity. Not exactly truly great or truly terrible at anything.  Oh wait….

I am worse than terrible at many things. In fact, I could write a comprehensive bullet point list of  The Things I’m Terrible At. Because what is a blog post without the ubiquitous bullet list?

Things I’m Terrible At

  • Sport – particularly team sports or anything with balls in it *shudders*.
  • Small talk – or, you know, just talking. Period.
  • Maths – the thought of doing any of those Sudoku things is terrifying.
  • Cooking – unless toast counts as cooking. It does right? Ahem. Truthfully, this is possibly a talent I could develop, especially cooking cakies. The problem with this is that it would lead to the eating of the cooked cakies, something I need to less of, not more of, so I figure it’s better to avoid the temptation.
  • Sewing – when I did Textiles, or whatever  it’s called, in Year 7, I sewed my own finger. Enough said.
  • Art – I really can’t paint or draw. Well, I can – stick figures. This is totally my brother’s fault. He stole all the artistic genes instead of leaving some for me. Hmph.
  • Music – can’t play any instrument. From time to time I have had the delusion fanciful notion that I may be able to sing a little if I’d ever learnt to sing in my own comfortable range instead of attempting to channel Karen Carpenter. Impossible. Since I can never sing in front of people regardless, clearly Adele and Susan Boyle have nothing to fear from this bogan.
  • Dancing – Two left feet. No co-ordination or sense of rhythm AT ALL. Awkward and self-conscious as fuck. Forget it.
  • Craft – however, craft is evil so I’m terribly distressed by this one.
  • Acting – I’m never destined to win an Academy Award. It may be a Asperger’s thing but my face is usually blank and expressionless no matter what emotion I may be feeling internally. Meryl Streep can rest assured – her job is safe. 

 After completing that woeful list I’m feeling a tad despondent. There must be something I’m good at. Maybe I just don’t know what it is because I rarely try doing new things. Using ‘rarely’ in the sense of ‘never’.  All the cool people seem to be into crochet these days. I’ve thought about giving it a go. This thought usually lasts about 2.3 seconds. 

In order to finish this post with at least a shred of dignity I’m going to claim one dubious thing as a ‘talent’ or ‘skill’. For the last few weeks I’ve exercised every single day. I’ve done so without any expensive gym membership or personal trainer. Take THAT Michelle Bridges. I’ve just dutifully put on a DVD (okay, at least one of them featured Michelle Bridges) or a Youtube clip and became sweaty.

That’s something, right? Shut up. I’m saying it is. So ner!

Linking up with Kirsty from My Home Truths for I Must Confess.

                                             What are your skills or talents?

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? 

Sunday, 7 October 2012

Bumps To Baby Part Two

This week's Lounge topic is adult temper tantrums, so I am linking this old post about the time I slapped my own mother. I know. Shameful. I blame hormones. Ahem.

It seems like the years of trying to have a baby are now the Wilderness Years or the Forgotten Years. I'm trying hard to remember them and I seem to have blocked quite a bit of it out. Weird.

After receiving the devastating news that IVF was our only chance of a baby, we put off making a decision for a while.  I wasn't sure if I could face another Linda Blair/Exorcist experience.

I remember having some rather irrational thoughts.  I thought Micky Blue Eyes should leave me and find someone else.  After all, the problem was with my plumbing, not his. 

Then, a friend of Mick's suggested we visit a naturopath.  This had worked out well for them and they were currently expecting after having seen her for a few months.  I was horrified and indignant. How dare these people come along with their hippy drippy new age theories that were not going to work for me. The professor dude had said IVF was my only chance. However, Mick was keen on the idea, so, I reluctantly agreed.

Next thing you know we were both swallowing some hideous herbal concotions, taking vitamins and eating healthy.  I was charting my temperatures to predict ovulation.  All to no avail.  We trotted backwards and forwards to the naturopath and persisted for a good year. Nothing. 

At this point, she informed us.  "I'm sorry, it should have worked by now. You might have to do IVF."  Gee, thanks.

Proving how desperate we were by this stage, however, we decided to try another hippy drippy  alternative treatment. We went to a Reflexologist. And no, I can't explain what they are, or do, even though I've been to one. There seemed to be a lot of tapping involved. The woman tapped away while Mick I gave each other pointed looks. We never went back.

Around this time, I started to read as much info on this pesky PCOS thing as I could find.  The thing that seemed to come up a lot in all the literature was that exercising was of extreme importance in managing the condition.

So I gritted my teeth and started to exercise.  I kept on exercising, even though I thought I might explode and die from the effort.  I did aerobics like a possessed woman. I sweated buckets. It sucked. Still, I woke up the next day and did it again.  Then a funny thing happened.  I started to like it. I hardly ever missed a day. 

I had a body like Denise Austin. Well not really, but I
did used to have hair like that...
Then, an even funnier thing happened.  The girl who'd been absolutely hopeless at anything sporty or physical, and was a total unco-ordinated klutz suddenly found herself becoming *gasp* an Exercise Addict. I LOVED it.  I knew all the annoying things Denise Austin would say on the tapes before she said them, I was so familiar with them.

"If you rest you rust!"

"If you don't move it, you lose it!"

Oh, and apparently I was always 'doing great!' and a 'champion' though I'm not sure how she knew that.

Not surprisingly, with all this exercising and eating healthy stuff, I dropped a few kilos.  Funny about that. Eat less. Move more. Lose weight. Hmm, not exactly rocket science. I'll never understand  why mother nature or whomever couldn't work it out so lazing about eating cakies could have the same effect. Hmph.

I also went back to doing some casual library work and secured a 12 month position with a law firm in the city. If I was never going to have a baby, I may as well work, I reasoned.

My 30th birthday rolled around. I went out and celebrated with friends, where I whined about not being able to have a baby with other friends in a similar circumstance. Not a particularly classy thing to do, when you are already, in fact, well and truly, up the duff. But, I swear to God. I seriously had NO IDEA. 

A month or two later, still firmly in the grip of Exercise Addiction, I attended a friend's hen's night. I wondered why my clothes were becoming too tight. And why I felt extremely ill after only a few drinks.

Additionally, all the energy I was now used to having from my Exercise Addiction seemed to have deserted me and I found it a herculean task to simply put one foot in front of the other. My boobs were permanently sore and my periods had disappeared.

All common symptoms of PCOS according to all the info on it I'd been reading.  It couldn't be anything else.  I'd tried for years to become pregnant. Even fertility drugs didn't work and the professor dude said IVF was my only chance.

So, when my poor mother had the audicity to gently suggest that perhaps I might be pregnant, I turned into a shrieking, shouty, insane woman, who slapped her own mother in the face (sorry Mum)  and sunk onto the floor in a sobbing heap.

Upon hearing this, Micky Blue Eyes had had quite enough of my moodiness. I suspect I was rather unpleasant to live with really. (Sorry, Micky) He made me go with Mum to the doctor's the very next day.

At the doctors surgery, he had me lie on the bed and examined me. My belly suddenly looked ridiculously huge compared to the rest of me, when I lay down.

 "It looks like you're pregnant," he told me. It was like he was saying: "It looks like an alien has invaded your body and presently will burst out of your torso, like Sigourney Weaver in ALIEN" for all the sense it made to me. No way, I wasn't pregnant. "But  you better have an ultra sound to make sure."

A few hours later I went in for an ultra-sound. The examiner squirted the gel on my suddenly ridiculously huge belly and started prodding me and saying nonsensical things in her Asian accent. I thought it sounded something like 'oh yes, there's the head, and the arms..." What?! It really was an alien?!

  "I'm pregnant??!!" I finally managed to gasp. The woman looked completely startled. "Yes, yes! Pregnant, 26 weeks! You didn't know?"

All I could do was laugh and cry hysterically at the same time, while the Asian lady kept repeating "26 week! And didn't know! Ha ha ha ha!" I'd like to think she was laughing with me, but I suspect she wasn't. She also mentioned the baby was a boy without asking if I wanted to know, which was slightly inconsiderate.

Still laughing and crying, hysterically, I finally went out and told my ecstatic Mum she was becoming a Granny again in only a few months! Then, I rang Mick.

"Hello Dad," I said, when he answered.
"No, no it's Mick, " he said "you haven't rang  your father."
"I know!" I replied.

We all went out for dinner that night to celebrate. It felt better than winning lotto.  Well, I've never actually won lotto, so if that could be arranged so I can tell for sure, I probably wouldn't mind.

Lotus flower: pretty, but not helpful during Child birth
3 months or so later our son (now Master 11) was born, but I won't describe the birth. If I did, I would end up sounding like one of those awful hippy drippy new agers who just use the power of positive thinking while imagining their uterus opening up like a lotus flower. Ugh. Hate them. After all, epidurals were invented for a reason, right?

But I never had one. Or any pain relief, for that matter. Yep, that's right. I was TERRIFIED of child birth and I aced it. After a 3 month pregnancy. You can hate me if you want. Okay, I'm shutting up now.

Hang on. One more thing. Obviously I have 3 boys now. All conceived naturally. So, the Professor dude was wrong. That, or I just finally figured out what caused it...

Right, I'm off to dig out those Denise Austin tapes to see if I can become addicted to exercise again, instead of cakies.  After all, if  you rest you rust.

Linking up with The Lounge which is being hosted this week by Robomum.

What was your worst adult temper tantrum?

Saturday, 14 April 2012

The Three B's

Sport and I do not mix.  I associate all sport with the three B's, ie. Bats, Balls, BOOORRRRING.  It all started in year 4 at primary school, when I had this appalling teacher who forced us to play endless games of volley ball.  Endless for me meant any number greater than zero.

I simply detested it.  I had a dread of the ball coming near me and would flinch and move away instead of diving in and hitting it like you're supposed to.  I never noticed the ball was headed my way until it was right on top of me, as I was already tuned out anyway.  Unlike other kids who looked forward to sport as a means of escaping formal lessons, I dreaded it like most people dread root canal.

  Of course I was always the last person standing there that nobody wanted when team captains had to choose people during sport at school.  You couldn't really blame anyone for not wanting me on their team.  I was completely inept and uninterested. The frequent jibe I heard was always: "You're supposed to hit the ball!"

On one occasion I do remember becoming annoyed when somebody yelled at me yet again during sport at school and shouting back something really forceful like "Oh, shut up!" That actually  was forceful for me, as I think it was the only two words I uttered through all of high school. "Come here young lady!" the teacher announced sternly.  I trudged over sullenly, preparing for reprimand.  "Congratulations," he announced instead "that's the first time you've ever stood up for yourself." It was probably the last too. Oh well.

Unfortunately for me, becoming a mother of three boys hasn't lessened my antipathy for all things sport like.  I still have zero interest.  I haven't even made an appearance at Master 8 or 10's soccer as yet this year.  The season has just started, so I expect I will eventually, at which point the following will happen:
  • My eyes will glaze over in approximately ten seconds , even when it's my own child playing.
  • When an occasion pops up where we have to go in opposite directions to take both boys to a soccer match at the same time at different parks,  Mick will then ask me detailed questions about the game, such as which team mates were there, who scored the goals and who, in fact, won, and I will have no idea, because after glazing over after ten seconds, I was then tuned out for the entire game.
  • All the other parents at the game will be overly concerned with their child's team winning and their child actually scoring a goal, screaming at them insanely throughout the match.  All I will be concerned about is if there is coffee available at the kiosk, and when it will be over so that I can go home.
  • When I get there I will have to rely on Master 8 or 10 to locate their team mates because I'm still not entirely sure who they are or what they look like, even near the end of the season, because I've been so tuned out.
  • I can't ever really remember the actual name of the teams they play for.  Is it Under 9 Dolphins or Wombats? It's some sort of an animal, I know that much. Can't remember which one though.
  • Canteen duties will traumatise me.  This requires me to do all of the things I am hopeless at, at once.  Dealing with people face to face, remembering stuff and adding up numbers all at the same time.  Too scary. Was it one sausage sandwich and two cans of coke? Or one can of coke and two sausage sandwiches?  And then I will proceed to add it all up wrong, either giving the delighted person a free drink or the peeved person the incorrect change.  Consequently, I think I've only done canteen duty a grand total of once. 
Then, in addition to all of that, if the entire season isn't tedious enough, you have the end of year presentation.  This is when you are required to sit through several hours in an auditorium, hearing multiple long-winded, dull speeches about what a great year it's been and politely clapping for every other child clopping up to the stage to get their trophy while completely bored out of your mind, when all you are interested in is your kid getting their trophy and getting the hell out of there and having lunch and a drink or two. Because frankly you need one after having to sit through such mind-numbing boredom.  Or maybe that's just me. 

Sadly though, the joke is on me.  The truth is that because of my tendency to be a sooky la la stresshead I desperately need to exercise. I also need to burn off all the cakies and crap I eat, but I have given up on this presently as this would require completing a triathlon daily.  And then I still may not have burned enough calories.  But I still need those endorphins.  So what do I do?

 I can't do team sports.  Don't even talk to me about Gyms. I have attempted to go to them in the past  when I came to this conclusion. I hate them with a passion.

The queueing up for machines, the doof doof music, the overly polite, patronisingly fake staff who are only interested in getting you to sign up for a hellishly expensive membership.  The posturing people giving you pitying looks at your Best & Less purchased sport wear.  No thanks.

So I exercise at home.  By myself.  Where nobody can see what an uncoordinated klutz I am.  Wearing an attractive ensemble of leggings, one of Mick's t-shirts and joggers with holes in them.  Huffing, puffing, sweating, face red as a beetroot.

Which reminds me.  I suppose I had better go it do it.  Soon.  Oh, okay, now.

Monday, 2 April 2012

A Day In The Life Of A Mad Boganville Housewife Part Two

As promised here is Part Two of the gripping saga that is my life.  Read on for drama, suspense and intruige.


Micky Blue Eyes has now returned and I am booted from the computer.  What to do now?   There are several truck loads of washing to be put away.  This strikes me as tedious, so I flick the tv on for entertainment while folding. 

First channel.  Infomercial about funeral plans. Too depressing, as I realise I don't really wish to plan for my death.

 Flick to the next channel.  Infomercial about miracle weight loss programme and exercise gadget.  Too depressing, as I realise I desperately need to lose weight. 

Flick to the next channel.  Infomercial about some wonder mop that will make mopping effortless, leaving all floors gleaming.  Too depressing, as I realise that the highlight of my day may involve mopping my filthy floors.  And there will nothing remotely wonderous about it.

Sighing, I switch off the tv.  Haphazardly, I start folding clothes.  On closer scrutiny it appears that most of them require a hideous process known as ironing.  This strikes me as tedious, so I convince myself the crumpled look is in and put them away as they are.

Then, I survey the living room.  There are toys everywhere.  In order to vacuum/mop I will need to clear approximately 20 tonnes of clutter.  Bugger that.   I procrastinate by making another cup of tea. 

Mick is still working away on the computer.  He starts talking to me about something Accountant-like as the kettle boils.  I try to not to look bored.  I retreat into the bedroom with my tea.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I flip through my biography on Karen Carpenter for the millionth time and zone out.  Seems like only ten minutes go by but possibly an hour later, I glance up and catch sight of myself in the mirrored wardrobe.  I have a disgusting roll of belly flab, thunder thighs and a humongous double chin.  I am horrified.

Grimly, I pull on my holy joggers (as in they have holes in them, not as in they are sacred) and put on an exercise dvd. Within minutes, several pert, patronising aerobics instructors are beaming at me from the tv screen, looking scarily fit and promising me I too will have rock hard abs, buns of steel and melt away pounds if I work out with them.  So I do.

I begin the warm up, marching valiantly.  This is okay, I think, happily.  The pace picks up.  I start sweating.  The scary women bounce along effortlessly.  "You're doing great!" she shouts.  Why don't I feel so great?

"Time for some push ups!"  she announces as cheerfully as I would announce "Time to sit down with a cup of tea and a cakie!"
"Drop and give me twenty!"   Bugger that.  I jog on the spot instead.  I puff and pant.  Bugger that.  I march on the spot instead. 

Scary Woman bounces back up again.  "Now, go and get your Fanny Lifter. " she says.

My what??

"Position yourself over the Fanny Lifter."  Ummmm...okaay.  It appears to be some kind of bench/step thingy.  I improvise and do the squats without one.  Then we are huffing and puffing again.

There are several more references to the Fanny Lifter, which strikes me as a completely ludicrous name for an exercise gadget, so I am too busy laughing to exercise properly.  I improvise as best I can for several more minutes, before giving up and skipping to the cool down section.  At least I have managed to break a sweat, I tell myself, as well as make my head pound in earnest.

I swallow some painkillers and head for the shower.  Once there, I recoil in revulsion at the state and smell of the bathroom.  Might have to pull out the tub of Gumption first.  I half-heartedly give it a once over, then take a shower.  That done, my stomach growls.  Lunch time.

I then proceed to sabotage all my exercise effort by making Mick and I ham and cheese toasties. Then guiltily gobble a biscuit or other sweet treat with a cup of tea after the sandwich. 

There are several truck loads of washing up to be done.  This strikes me as tedious, so I dart back to the computer as Mick has disappeared outside for a few minutes.  I check my Facebook again. Yep, I am still a crashing, heaving bore compared to everyone else.

Mick comes back inside armed with yet another giant basket of washing from the line that I eye wearily.  He comments on the glorious weather and how it just makes him want to jump in the car and drive to Darwin. I try not to look alarmed.

Dismally, I do the dishes, wondering what to have for dinner.  I get the chops out.  Seemingly only 15 minutes have gone by but it is already time to get the boys. I set of to get Master 3 while Mick goes to get the other two.  This is the true highlight of the day, for when Master 3 sees me he his little face lights up, he runs to me joyfully, and I scoop him up in a big bear hug.  We head home.

Mick and the boys are back.  "Hi Mum," says Master 8, looking around dubiously "what did you do today?"

"Muuuum!" Master 10 shouts, already in his recliner/throne. "Can you make me a cup of tea?"

Stay tuned for Part Three, the stunning conclusion.  Coming soon.