Showing posts with label Soccer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Soccer. Show all posts

Thursday, 26 February 2015

Soggy Sandwiches And Other Sagas

As usual I've been busy, busy, busy! Especially this week with the Oscars happening. I'm sure you spotted me on the red carpet. No? You just weren't looking hard enough. OF COURSE I was there! I dashed over on my private jet. Yes, I took my Dinner Fairy with me! Duh! OK you got me, I made that up.
As a matter of fact, I believe I would rather gauge my eyeballs out than attend this grandiose affair. It's much easier to sit at home in my leggings and t-shirt and wistfully survey all those glossy genetically blessed and surgically enhanced stars. I haven't seen one single movie that was nominated so I have no opinion about who should have won, I just watch it for the frocks. Anyway, the Oscars are like SO four days ago, so who even cares anymore?

Let's move on to more interesting topics. ME! Shut up. I'm fascinating. For instance, this week has involved packing school lunches, grocery shopping, exercising, doing crossword puzzles and listlessly flicking through TV stations.

Oh yeah, I did start a TAFE course. I've already learnt one VERY IMPORTANT thing:

Packed lunches SUCK.

No wonder I constantly fish out soggy sandwiches from the boys school bags. Bleurrrrrrgggghhhhhh.

Yes folks, it's always about the food with me. I'm still attending Weight Witches but haven't quite got my broom stick yet. Shut up.

So why I am doing a computer course when I'm already a technological GENIUS?  Well, it gets me out of the house. That's something. And maybe, just maybe I might end up getting one of those things that people do. Um....ah....oh dear... I can't even say the word.

Nope. Can't say it. But it has three letters. Starts with a J. Rhymes with 'cob'. Shudders. I haven't had one of those since....

Never mind.

One of my TAFE teachers was most encouraging, saying that she had another lady in one of her class who'd been out of the workforce for 14 years and ended up getting a job as a result of doing the course. So you never know.

But now that I've splashed all the details of my Weight Witches and TAFE all over this utterly fascinating blog you can be sure to be entertained by my EPIC FAILS.  As soon I make a public statement that I'm going to do something I'll fail. Yay me. So just pretend you didn't read this when you spot me a year from now corpulent and  unemployable. Thanks for that.

Anyway, it's all good. It's not like I'm going to end up destitute and homeless if it doesn't work out. So I figure I may as well give it a go. If it's not meant to be I've still got my Sugar Daddy, aka Mickey Blue Eyes. A much older*, wealthy**man to keep me in the this glamorous and lavish lifestyle to which  I've become accustomed.

Case in point: yesterday we finally got a plumber to fix our leaky taps, toilet and shower! Mr 10 nearly burst with excitement and pure joy at being able to do something as simple as turn a tap on and off with minimal effort. Last week involved a visit from the electrician to fix our dodgy power points which were full of ants. Guess what?

Now we can do something really avant garde:  PLUG THINGS IN! AND THEY WORK! See? I told you it was grand around here! Why on Earth would I want one of those things that start with a J anyway?

Our WiFi was also resurrected yesterday. It's been down and out as there was work being done in our street for this NBN thingamajig.  The boys reacted as if we'd won the lottery yesterday when they arrived home from school.

This Saturday is the return of the phenomenon known as Schlepping To Soccer At Stupid O' Clock. As you can see, my life is always action packed and exciting!

Anyway, must dash. Have to go and do something else that's super riveting and totally out there: Make a sandwich for lunch. At least  it won't be soggy this time. 

* He's over 50. He can get pensioners insurance. Snorts.
** Bahahahaha! He thinks he's wealthy!

Linking up for The Lounge.

Tell me, how do you stop sandwiches from going soggy?

Monday, 25 August 2014

Monday Morning Moaning

I must confess that I have NO IDEA what little mini confessions I  can confess to. I'm desperately trying to think of something and coming up as empty and blank as...well, my mind. So this could be interesting.

Or, you know, as boring as batshit. But bear with me. You know you want to. Okay, you don't really want to.  Just think of me, if you will, as that crashing, heaving bore you sometimes end up sitting next to on a plane or at any social occasion. You know the kind. The ones that want to regale you with every intricate detail of their tedious existence. Meanwhile, you sit there apparently spellbound but really suppressing the urge to scream. But you're  too nice and polite so you  smile and nod instead. Or is that just me? 

Alternatively, I guess you could just click away right now. I can't really stop you.  Hmph.  

You're still here?  Oh. I guess that means I do have to come up with  something. Hmmm, let's see....

I've got nothing.

In which case, I might as well just steal every one else's ideas be inspired by others and list the things I'm completely over. Every other bugger blogger seems to have given this a spin and I like to be cutting edge and original.  Shut up. 

The things I am COMPLETELY over, in  no particular order, are:


More specifically, getting up on a Saturday morning and schlepping out to the boys games. This involves a complicated game of tag as there are three of them, two of us and only one car.  Therefore, I confess I am somewhat elated that the season has finally come to an end. HALLELUJAH! 

Moreover, I still remain firmly convinced that my boys should really have taken up cross-dressing instead of soccer as an extra-curricular activity. I'm sure getting on some fishnets and stilettos would be so much easier than those bloody soccer socks, boots and shin pads. Nightmare. 


In particular the shows where they  de-clutter and make-over ordinary suburban homes. 
I'm always bemused by the after shots of such make-overs. The house is transformed from sheer chaos to sleek and stylish, complete with calming scented candles flickering away for added ambiance. 

Seriously?  Candles? With children?  If I lit any candles around here the house would be up in flames quicker than you could say 'insurance claim'.  Then again, I  HAVE paid the insurance. Ahem...

I'd love to challenge them to do our home. I'm sure if that Peter Walsh character took one look at our humble abode, his solution would be pretty clear cut. He would simply take out a hand grenade, detonate it, hand to me and RUN. 


I have completely failed as a parent. Tragically, my boys do not  possess their own exclusive lap-top/PS4/Ipad/Ipod and any other device I probably haven't  heard of. I'm so broke mean. How can I deprive them of such luxuries necessities?  This means they have to do the unthinkable: SHARE.  Fights and indignation ensue. 

But why don't you just set them time limits I hear you ask?  You're the boss, after all. 

GENIUS. Why didn't I think of that? Oh wait. I did. 

It goes like this:

They are given a time and happily agree with rapturous thank yous. As soon as their time is up they immediately announce to their patiently waiting brother: "It's your turn, Bro!" 

They blissfully hi-five each other while beaming and the next person takes their turn. All is sweetness and light. 

YEAH. RIGHT. In my dreams. 

In reality there are furious shriekings of:

"That's not fairrrrrrrrr!!"

"Why does HE always get to go first??!!" 

"Muuum, he's  TEASING meeeee!!"  (If one smirks at the other as they reluctantly trade places). 

This can escalate to the point where they effectively try to kill one another while Micky Blue Eyes and I issue time outs and groundings.

Ahhhhh, the serenity. I mean, insanity.....



I have been to two of these recently. Mr 5 was invited to one and then Mr 10. They are one big cacophonous wall of noise. It makes my head hurt just thinking about it. 

In spite of this, I know that when November rolls around and Mr 5 becomes Mr 6, I will dutifully book him one. This is still preferable than inviting people to our hand grenade worthy home. And infinitely preferable to me having to be the hostess to any party. I'll just make sure I have extra strength panadol with codeine on the day for the inevitable headache.

Which brings me to my next item....


Micky Blue Eyes and I must be responsible for keeping the makers  of Nurofen thriving. On any given day, one or the other or both of us have a headache. Fun times.  


Last night's blissful  slumber involved a  dream of passing an horrific car accident. I spotted a  severed  head on the road with huge pools of blood. Needless to say, I woke up feeling sick and shaken. 

I am not taking any illegal drugs, so where are these ridonkulous dreams coming from?  Perhaps I should just start a meth habit and be done with it? Except I have no idea where I would find anything like that in the classy old western suburbs of Sydney. 

That concludes my Monday morning moaning. Big sighs of relief all round. Well, I could keep going, but I'm sure we're all over crashing, heaving bores. Ahem.

Linking up forLaugh Link and I Must Confess. 

What are you completely over? 

Saturday, 28 June 2014

More Things I Know

I know that I'm sick of freezing my butt off.
I also know that when Summer finally rolls around I'll complain that I'm sick of sweating my butt off.

I know that I'm over the World Cup and soccer altogether.

I also know that this is unfortunate for me when I'm surrounded by soccer obsessed males.

I know that I was rather interested to hear that Mr 10 and 5 are both 'quiet achievers' at their parent/teacher interviews.

I know that they are both rarely quiet at home.

I know that I've been called a 'quiet achiever' many times.

However, I still don't know what I was supposed to be quietly achieving.

I know that I need to start packing for our brief road trip next week.
I know that I hate packing.

I know that as I type this ABBA's Knowing Me, Knowing You started playing in my head.

I know that this clearly confirms my sophisticated and cutting edge taste in music.

I know that I could spend the next 6 hours washing up, such is the state of my kitchen.

I know that I'd rather do almost anything BUT the afore-mentioned washing up.

I know that this is the only reason that you are being subjected to this rather scintillating post.

I know that it was a relief that the school holidays have started today.

Conversely, I also know that it was damn shame that there was no sleep-in forthcoming as we had to be at soccer early.

I know that as a result of the above I feel like I could sleep for the next decade. Instead I have to pack and prepare to go away to Port Macquarie on Monday.

I know it will be worth it when we get there.

I know that all I will want to do, once there, is read, sleep and eat.
Meanwhile, I know the boys will constantly whinge that they're bored.

I know that we haven't been to Port Macquarie for at least 10 years when Mr 12 was toddling around. Now he is about to become a teenager. Hold me.

I know that it's seriously time to log off the Internet when I'm taking a Which Little Miss Character are you? quiz. Related: apparently I am Little Miss Wise.

See, I knew I was a genius. Those quizzes are eerily accurate and sound, right?

I know that thinking I'm a genius because of a quiz probably proves the opposite. It just proves that I'll do anything to procrastinate. Little Miss Later, more like. As in: I'll get to that later.

Then again, does this prove that I am, indeed, wise? Because, as the saying goes: why do today what you can put off until tomorrow? Or something...

I know, I know, I'm just procrastinating. But you have to admit, I'm a genius at it. I know, right?

Okay, time to find one hundred more ways to procrastinate.

Maybe later.  Can you procrastinate at procrastinating? I know I probably can. There was no need to put the word probably in that sentence. Ahem.

Over and out.

Linking up with Ann at Help!! I'm Stuck! for Things I Know.

                            Are there any other ways to procrastinate?

                                   I really am a genius, aren't I?

Monday, 3 February 2014

Sport Makes Me Snooze

It is totally un-Australian (that's a word, right?) of me but all sport bores the bejesus out of me. There. I said it. I've always really wished I was the sporty type. One of those Mum's who turn up at school pick-up clad in tight Lycra looking svelte, spray tanned and smug. I think I can safely say that at age 43, it just isn't going to happen. I loathe Gyms and abhor all team sport. I am uncoordinated and uncompetitive. Considering that I had to Google the word competitive because I appear to have forgotten how to spell and apparently the synonyms for competitive are: ruthless, merciless, aggressive and fierce. I'm reasonably certain nobody has ever uttered any of those words and my name in the same sentence. It is quite clear that I was never meant to be an Olympian. Unless they ever make Cake Eating an Olympic event. Then I'm in with a shot.

I do not even enjoy watching any sport. Cricket and tennis are just the three B's to me. Meaning, bats, balls - BORING! Micky Blue Eyes, who is thoroughly addicted to all things soccer whether it's playing or spectating, cannot comprehend my antipathy toward sport. To him it's the equivalent of saying you don't like breathing.

"You didn't even like any sport when you were a kid?" he'll ask in utter bewilderment.

"No," I assure him.

"I don't understand how you could be a kid and not enjoy running around, playing sport," he stares at me as if he doesn't know me and is worried that he may have married some bizarre alien creature.

Perhaps it is something to do with being Aspergian. I gather that a great deal of us do not gravitate toward sport. I don't mind doing a bit of moderately paced basic aerobics (grapevine, anyone?) as long as it's not too complex with too many fancy moves. And as long as I don't have to wear leg warmers and a leotard. The 80's, Olivia Newton John and Jane Fonda have a lot to answer for.

I've recently taken to doing various workouts on Youtube at home. I'm weird. This way nobody has to see all my wobbly bits jiggling up and down or how hopelessly uncoordinated I am. I can wear my daggiest, most comfortable gear. It works for me. Kind of. It might work a bit better if I wasn't addicted to cake. Ahem.

As far as watching sport, the only thing I can tolerate watching is figure skating. There is music and they have pretty costumes and the moves are incredible. Although it does make me feel a bit wobbly and dizzy just watching them spinning around.

Thankfully my parents never insisted that my brother and I had to do any sports when we were growing up. I would have found it torturous. Micky Blue Eyes is most insistent that our boys should all be doing at least one sport. Mr 12 and 9 have been playing soccer for a number of years now and they seem to like it, especially Mr 12. They have also learnt to swim. I haven't learnt to suddenly become all passionate and intense about soccer even when it's my boys playing. I know. Mother Of The Year, right? The shame....

Plus, having an interest in sport would certainly be an advantage when it comes to small talk. Another thing I am simply not stellar at. Sigh. Instead, when people start discussing the tennis, cricket, footy or anything else with balls in it, I sit there and fade into the furniture. Some sporting dude apparently became Australian Of The Year and I had never even heard of him. Don't ask me to remember his name. Shut up.

On the plus side, at least I will always have a convenient cure for insomnia. I watch sport - instant snooze fest. In fact, after writing this, I already feel a Nanna nap coming on...

Oh well, that's me. UNsporty Spice. Later, dudes.

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

                                                         Is it UnAustralian to not like sport?

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.

Tuesday, 20 March 2012

Too Much Testosterone

I must confess I don't really drive very much, which was today's I Must Confess topic prompt. So, instead I am confessing that I am totally over so many 'boy' things. They may very well be 'girl' things too. Just bear with me while I totally generalise, okay?

There is too much testosterone in our house.  A bevy of boisterous boys.  Oh okay, only three.  I'm not that mad.  I do not wish for a soccer team.  Although I'm pretty sure we could have produced one if we'd kept on going.   Always full of boundless energy.  Well, except when they are lazing in front of the TV.

Master 10 sits in his favourite recliner directly in front of the television and frequently hollers for a cup of tea.  Yes, he drinks tea.  At least he does say please.   Masters 8 and 3 will loll on the lounge and I will have a moments reprieve while they are engrossed in the TV, before they inevitably start arguing over Lego or Master 8's current obsession 'Trashies'.  Don't ask.

Living in a family where I am the only female naturally means I rarely ever have free reign over the remote control.  I will always be the last person to ever lay my hands on it.  Strangely, however, I am always the first person who is queried when it goes missing.

"Have you seen the remote?" Micky Blue Eyes will bark, eyes darting around the room. 
"No, " I reply, exasperated "When would I ever have it?  You just have to look for it."  So he does.

Now,  I'm not sure if this is the general male way of looking for things or only the males at our house, but his version involves standing in the middle of the room looking around vacantly, as if he expects the thing to come flying out to him by some sort of supernatural force of ESP or something, before announcing "I can't see it."

Of course you can't dear, you haven't moved anything, I think frustratedly.  Then his eyes will wander over to the couch, and, if I happen to be sitting there, rest suspiciously on me, until he says "Are you sitting on it?"

Well, call me stupid, but somehow, I imagine that if I had something remote control sized wedged underneath my (admittedly rather large) backside, I might reasonably be expected to notice it was there.
I sigh and get up reluctantly.  Minutes later it is retrieved, usually lodged down the side or back of Master 10's recliner.  Or his Throne, as it also known.

Being a mother of three boys, there are many things that I am completely over.  Searching for the remote is one just one of them.   There are many others.  Like these:

As promised, here is my list of all the 'boy' things I am over. For the purpose of this blog, I may be generalising a little. I'm sure there are lots of girls who like some of these things too. If not, then I'm assuming it would just be something else like Barbies, or beads or Bratz dolls or whatever it is girls like these days (frankly, I have no idea) that parents of girls would be over. I, however, in no particular order, am completely over the following:


Sorry J.K. Rowling, I know you are the biggest selling author of all time (at least I think so, I'm too lazy to actually check for sure) so, while completely in awe of you, I will not be reading your books. Ever. Yes, I know she's not losing any sleep over this, considering the gazillion or so of those things she's sold, but still, I must protest somehow.

I love reading. It's just that after being forced to watch endless TV screenings of the films (despite having the full DVD set, as well) I am truly over it.


There must be 700 gazillion Lego sets in existence, each containing 700 gazillion pieces. These sets are hideously expensive. Then, once you have forked over a fortune for them, you take them home, they require hours of patience to painstakingly put them together.

Following which, they will be played with for approximately ten minutes, before being smashed and all the pieces never found again. Plus, every parent of boys (and some Lego-minded girls) knows the pain of stepping on a piece of Lego. OUCH!


My father and husband are are totally soccer obsessed. Now my boys are fast becoming so too, especially Master 10. In the tradition of the old saying "if you can't beat em, join em" I have tried to drum up an interest . This worked well for my mother, who now sits up at ridiculous hours with my father, watching Man United play.

Not so well for me, however. My eyes glaze over after only ten seconds. By 20 seconds I am considering stabbing my own eyes repeatedly with pins, just to make it more interesting. How do people get themselves so worked up over this that they actually sob if their team loses the Grand Final?

Additionally, ever since my brief crush at age 12, on Wayne Pearce evaporated, even the promise of very fit men, in very tight shorts can't seem to entice me.


And all things science fiction. May the force be with you. The force of my foot, booting you to oblivion. Incidentally, while I am on this subject, some folks develop life-long fascinations with Star Wars, Star Trek etc and seem to think that this makes them dark, mysterious and intensely interesting individuals. It does not. This fascination is just as deeply disturbing and mind-numbingly boring to somebody else as my Carpenters obsession is to you. Just sayin'.


Spiderman, Batman, Iron Man etc. How many more movies can conceivably be churned out with these characters?

A lot it seems. There are new Spiderman and Batman films hitting the screens this year. Which means my boys will want to see them. As well as wanting every toy manufactured in conjunction with them too.

On the one hand, I am happy to let them watch something that will keep them riveted for an hour or two, so that I can do something else. On the other hand, it provokes emulating behaviours. Especially in Master 3, who will revert to wanting to dress like Spiderman every time we leave the house, a habit we've only just nipped in the bud.

WWE WRESTLING: Fortunately, they seem to have lost interest in this one presently. Thankfully, as no one should ever have to endure watching this particular form of torture.

However, as you all know by now, I have my own brand of torture as retribution. My Carpenters obsession. And I will be turning it up LOUD.

 Linking up with Kirsty from My Home Truths for I Must Confess.
What are you completely 'over' at your house? Any of the above? Or is something else driving you crazy?