My other new sister-in-law

A little while ago, I had my mumma to stay for a week and while she was here, I took her out for breakfast with the girls. Now, my girls are all lovely and they frequent this blog quite often. One of them, who I will call GG (Gong Girl), is an absolute riot. She has about 50 million friends on facebook (ok, so that might be an over-exaggeration, but there is probably about a million), she is well-travelled, she loves a drink and she LURVES a laugh. Basically, she is a great chick.

And my ma definitely thought so too. To the point where even at breakfast, she was like “I think I should introduce you to my son.” (ie. my brother, who has been mentioned in this blog before – as the brogan!) GG was getting a bit excited. (Obviously, she was thinking, “hell, if he’s half as fabulous as his sister, he must be a bit of alright!”)

I didn’t have the heart to tell GG then and there at the breakfast table, that my brother was a born-again Christian. Or that he loves musicals. Or that he likes to pretend he’s a bogan. So, I let it pass.

And my little mumma was so excited too.

I didn’t have the heart to tell mum that the next day I sent GG an email, breaking to her the cold hard facts about the brogan. But GG is undeterred. She reckons she can rustle up a bit of Catholic doctrine from her school days. And she even says that they can have a mutual love and respect from all things Andrew Lloyd Webber. Who knows, it actually might be a match made in heaven.

So, GG, if you are going to be my new sister-in-law, welcome to the family. Just so you know, the crazy brother is one of the more normal of the bunch. Leave your sanity at the door, and come on it!

Sobriety on a pub crawl

Oh what fun, I can hear you all think as you read today’s entry title. And let me tell you, it was LOADS of fun. For the first two pubs. After that, it was already getting a wee bit tedious.

It was my best mate’s b’day last week and he decided to have a pub crawl in his own honour on Saturday. K and I warned him that we wouldn’t be drinking (see a previous entry on our tee-totalling adventures), and we felt bad to be letting him down – he was, afterall, expecting us to be, true to form, the life of the party (a.k.a. “the two loosest (or drunkest) people there”). But no, we were the models of sobreity and calm as we supped on soda waters and ocassionally went a little crazy with some fresh squeezed limes.

At about pub three was when things started to slide. That was when my mate started slurring his words, his female friends started getting a bit more touchy-feely than they had been at the previous pub, and K and I could see chaos peeking through the door, wondering if it was time for it’s grand entrance. We stayed for two more pubs.

When we left, we were hugged emphatically and held close, as fond farewells were whispered in voices loud enough to be heard across the room. “I love you guys,” said our mate, as he tried to plant a kiss on K’s cheek, “thanks for staying out even though you’re not drinking. You’re the best. I love you guys.” Drunkenness had well and truly set in. It was there to stay.

And we left. We were home by 8pm. In bed by 10. And woke up the next morning at a crack of dawn, grateful that the month was almost over. Sobreity is boring. I intend to be drunk (and absoluely frickin’ hilarious) next weekend!

Happy birthday to the bestie – hope it was a cracker! x x

Carparking schemer

A few weeks ago, I put up a sign in the lift in my building asking if anyone had a carpark available that I could use. I was prepared to pay $20 a week in whatever form they wanted (EFTPOS, cash, whatevs) and was ready to rock and roll whenever they were.

A few hours after I put the sign up, I got a phone call from some dude telling me that I could park in his park for $25 a week. But my sign said $20? “Yeah, I know,” he said, “but I want $25″. Right. So, you think you deserve $25 for a car park you are currently getting nothing for, because I went to the trouble of putting up a sign. Hells still looking warm mate. No chance.

And in my ever so delicate manner, I said this, “I don’t think so mate, I’ll see if someone has one for $20 and if they don’t, I’ll get back to you, alright?”

And then my sign was pulled down. Funny, I didn’t take it down. And I know building management didn’t take it down. So I put up another one. Which was taken down soon after. My car park schemer was determined that I wasn’t going to get my $20 a week carpark. I put up 6 signs in total and I can only guess that he took down 6 signs. Muthafarker!

So I went to a different lift (our bulding is big and spreads out – there are four different lift shafts) and I put up a sign, and the very next day I got a car park. Sucked in carpark schemer. I’m only paying $20.

Laughs a plenty

K and I went and watched some comedy last night. A fundraiser was put on by lots of good comedians in support of a mutual friend of theirs who has been diagnosed with cancer. I am always up for a laugh, and even more so when it’s for a good cause.

But that wasn’t the funniest part. The funniest part was when I got home late from my personal training. This is the personal training that K has been so excited about (I quote: “the best present for a wedding ever!! A size 6 wife!”) and has been urging me to make the most of it (“but hill runs are SO good for you!”, or “you’ll feel better in a few weeks”, or, my personal favourite, “it’s good pain” – how the fark, can any pain be “good pain”?! But I’ll save this thought for another blog, at another time). Anyway, you get the idea.

So, I go to personal training, and sweat my guts out for the better part of an hour, head home, and the traffic is bad. I get home and K is sitting looking lost and forlorn saying, “We’re going to be late, and I’m hungry.” OK, I say, in my best superhero voice as I sprint to the bedroom to get changed (no time for showering – gross I know, but my man’s stomach needed saving and this blog is all about honesty). I am ready to go in 3 minutes. That is 180 seconds people. I was fast.

We race in the car over to the theatre that was having the comedy show, and traffic was even worse than it was back from PT. K was getting stressed. “I need to eat. You were late and I haven’t eaten. I’m going ot have to sit and starve for 2 hours now.”

I was trying hard to stifle the laughter (number 1 because it hurt my abs which had just received a beating, and number 2 because I can’t imagine it would have gone down too well). This was coming from the man who goes to the gym while I wait at home until 9pm to have dinner with him. It was 6.45 at night. Not exactly starvation hour, in my opinion.

Then we had the comedy of errors of finding a carpark. You know the one where every car in front of us finds a park just before we come across it. K was getting more and more frustrated. I don’t think his stomach was finding it funny.

Long story short, we found and slid into a car space that was about 10 metres away from our location. Not quite rockstar parking, but definitely rock star’s entourage parking. We got a Thai meal in as well so bellies were full. And then we laughed. Solidly for two hours. Akmal Saleh, Carl Barron, Tahir, Peter Helliar, Darren Sanders, Dave Williams and a chick whose name I don’t know but who was pretty hilarious – especially when she flopped her gut out – my belly wobbled in unison!

A good night had by all.

OUCH!!

I have been wondering about what to blog about all day. And then it hit me. Or rather I hit it. I was out running some menial errand, and on my way home thought I would go a different way into my building. Sounds simple enough and I am sure people a lot less intelligent than I have managed to get to their apartment without the physical damage my body incurred.

I entered via a different entry than normal and made my way to my life shaft… all sounds simple. Then I went to walk into my lift shaft. Through the glass window, that was obviously so clean that I didn’t notice it was there.

Now, being the callous bitch that I am, I have laughed at other’s misfortune many, many times. And I probably will again. But JESUS H CHRIST!! it hurts when you walk into a window. And having the big nose I regrettably inherited from my mother, it was the main point of impact. Blood was gushing everywhere and I was trying to catch as much of as I couldd, until I realised that I was better (and cleaner) just standing over a bin while the blood flowed from my nose, straight into it.

I’m sure I’ll be laughing about this when the pain goes away, and I’m sure I’ll get the expected “why not just pay for the nose job you always wanted, you tightarse” from all and sundry. But in the meantime, fark it hurts!! Watch out for clean windows!

The family

Caught up with K’s family tonight – his cousin has a little bubba who just turned 2 so we all gathered at their place to celebrate his cars, trains and hot, red Wiggles pyjamas. He is a serious front-runner as the cutest kid ever!

K’s sister, the afore-mentioned SIL, and his cousin, who I also lurve, J, were talking about my blog. And SIL mentioned that she didn’t think the family had frequented it enough. J reminded her that she was in the entry of the sky-jump and SIL was happy. But I thought I would suck-up a little bit more by putting in an entry just for them. To say thanks.

Thanks for making me feel so welcome in your family. And thank you both so much for being lovely, fun and generally awesome. But most of all, thank you for puttng K in his place often so that he is well aware that the chicks rule around here! It made my transition in as strong-opinioned, stubborn, domineering girlfie all the easier. Ha, ha, ha. Just kidding. Thank you both for being you.

OK, enough sucking up to the SIL and J. You both rock and I love you heaps. Thanks.

Taking the plunge..

K and his brother-in-law did a sky dive over the weekend. (And as an aside, what a glorious weekend it was here in Sydney town – 27 degrees, perfect weather – and we are still in winter!) I have to admit to being a little bit anxious. Ok, I was fretting. After all, my dearest loved one was taking it upon himself to step out of a plane at 15,000 feet connected by two little straps to some crazy nutbag who chooses to do it for a living – death is only a strong wind and a tail spin away.

You’ve probably realised by the tone of this blog entry that K didn’t actually die on Saturday afternoon as he fell from the sky, but I was pretty nervous about it. My main reason being that things have been going so well for us and you always read about couples who are just so in love, and so ridiculously happy, and so about to start the glorious rest of their lives together, that these tragic accidents happen to.. you know?

I made sure my hair and make-up were looking ok before we drove down to the ‘gong for K’s jump – after all, if K was going to die suddenly, I figured that I had better capitalise on it by launching my international journalism career by appearing on National 9 news speaking eloquently and articulately about the tragic event. He would want that.

K’s sister and I were both worried about our men taking the plunge (me more so than she, I think) so we anxiously watched them get into their jump suits and receive some brief instruction. We waited with them in the waiting room until the person in charge asked them to move outside. We both stood, expecting a reassuring hug, a tender kiss, or maybe a (tentatively last ever) “I love you” from the loves of our lives before they jumped out of a moving plane. But what did we get? That’s right. A big fat nada. K and his bro-in-law turned on their heels and walked away without even a cursory glance in our direction. Cheers dudes.

So K’s sister (who in future entries, I’ll refer to as SIL – for she’ll be my sister-in-law one day) and I took our place on a blanket in the sun and waited for the parachutes to open in the sky above. We gorged on cheese, and would have guzzled wine had I been drinking, until our men landed about 10 metres away from us. Safely, soundly. Thankfully.

My hair and make-up had all been for nothing.

Oh the pain!

I can hardly walk today. Actually, I can hardly move. My legs are sore, my arms are killing me. My upper and lower back is in pain. And I’m sure you can all guess why.. the old phenomenon of an extremely unfit person at the start of the new exercise regime!

I have a very good friend who is not only good-looking, smart, funny, you know, all the usual stuff that make men LURVE her.. but she is also extremely fit. I think fitness is her passion.. she goes to the gym 6-7 times a week. And she loves it. In the same way that I love wine, or cheese, or anything else that does the opposite to me of what her passion does to her. And I admire her. Because she doesn’t brag, or boast about how fit she is or what good shape her body is in. But she always looks good.

But back to me. So this friend agreed to do some training with me. I have been walking every day for a few months now and have dropped a bit of weight already, but wouldn’t mind reducing either the beer gut or the batwings, or preferrably both, so am going to put my love of comfort aside and allow someone to hurt me.

And hurt me she did. We did sprints, boxing, push-ups, sit-ups, dips, more boxing, more running, and more for over 45 mins.. And today, two days later, thanks to DOMS (Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness – a real anacronym used by real gym-peeps), I am in agony. It started in the middle of the night when I woke up needing to go to the toilet and realised I was too stiff and sore to move. That was true pain – the heart-breaking decision of whether to get up and ache in every part of my body (ok, not every part, admittedly my face doesn’t seem to hurt), or hold on tightly, while laying very still, and try to limit the pain to just my bladder. Alas, my bladder won out and I had to get up. The memory still makes me cry now.

And, unlike my friend who doesn’t talk about how training, I am going to let you all know that I have done it – because for a little porker like me, it is a MASSIVE achievement – and I’m not suffering alone!

Non-drinking dilemmas

Every regular reader of this blog would be aware that I am never afraid of an after work beverage, a cheeky wine in the afternoon on the weekends, a night on the turps in a seedy establishment or even a hangover that lasts for days. I love a drink, I love the social activity of drinking, and I even love being a bit tipsy (*note, I’m not saying drunk – this is a family-friendly, responsible site – kidding, I don’t give a shit about the kiddies, I just don’t like being super drunk – super-tiddly to the point of verging on super drunk maybe… but you get the idea).

So it really as a match made in heaven when I met K, surprisingly at some ungodly hour of the morning, in one of Sydney’s more notorious dens of iniquity. Let’s just say he doesn’t oft say no to an alcoholic beverage either. I will say in both of our defences that neither of us are alcoholic, or even what I would call binge drinkers.. we just both like a good time and have a hard time turning one down.

And so we come to August.. after months and months of fun-filled weekends, caused by celebrations (my moving ot Sydney, our moving in together, engagements, birthdays, weddings, the fact that we cleaned the house, you name it, we’ve celebrated it) too great to name, we have decided to take a month off. A month of no wines of an evening with dinner, no boozing in the local pub on Saturday nights, and no catching up for a beer with friends.. ever. It has been.. interesting. I don’t think either of us have found it hard. Not in the slightest actually. And we have acheived a lot. The spare room has been cleaned out, we have been walking ever day, we have studied, worked, done all sorts of things where we otherwise might have been relaxing/sleeping/snoring as a result of wee hangovers.

The problem is drawing near though. Our mate is having birthday drinks on the second-to-last day of the month.. and it’s a pub crawl (more on that later). And there is only one thing worse than not drinking on a pub crawl, and that is putting up with all the drunken fools that are on that same pub crawl. What are we to do? Stay tuned..

Facebook Farmtown

One of my lovely colleagues, S, has introduced me to, what she admitted was “the stupidest thing she has ever been addicted to”. Now, admittedly she is a wholesome lass who probably has never been addicted to heroin or ice or some other “stupid” thing.. but this thing is pretty stupid. It’s a hokey little Facebook application called “Farmtown” where you plow fields, plant seedlings, harvest the crops and sell them at the marketplace. Sounds almost as exciting as it actually is.

So, on S’s advice, I got onboard. I signed upfor my little patch of unplowed field and planted my first batch of potatoes. And I sold them. And I planted some strawberries. And I sold them. So I planted some tomatoes. And I sold them. Are you getting the idea? You use your “coin” to buy seeds in the store, but the crazy thing is that you can use REAL money to buy coin if you want to. So someone, somewhere, probably sitting in a dark corner of a poorly decorated office, is making money from this very boring, very poorly decorated application.

Anyhoo, I’m getting of the farm track. So, this terrible application. You don’t compete with anyone, you don’t really acheive anything except different levels at which you can buy new, exciting types of seeds (or trees, or even animals), actually, there is not really any reward in the game at all. It is a sign of our times – an absolute timewaster of the highest order. And someone is making (lots) money from it! And that someone isn’t me.

But enough moaning. My grape crops are ready for harvest.

Reactivating my genes?

I accompanied K to his favourite chemist over the weekend. I say it’s his favourite chemist, but in reality, I think he loves that he is their favourite customer… the women there fawn all over him – probably because he spends an exorbinant amount of money on their tier 1 product lines for men. But, hey, I’m not complaining. If my man needs product to maintain his youthful good looks and creaseless brow, so be it. It just that I am a bit of a cynic when it comes to $300 face creams. Don’t get my wrong, I’m not using the cheapest products on the market, and I definitely think moisturisers are important for everyone – especially those of us down under who spend a lot of time in the sun.. but, I’m not prepared to give more to a cosmetic company that I give to World Vision each month for my sponsor kids survival.

And those chemist girls see me coming a mile off… On Saturday, I got the standard discouraging look with a slight grimace, as the lady asked me what I was presently using on my skin. I laughed nervously, as K handed his $300 across the counter, and said, “oh, I don’t spend that much on my skin products.”

“I can tell,” came the terse response.

Right. So, I let her do a quick skin assessment (I didn’t really have a choice) and watched as she rifled around in a cupboard for hoardes and hoardes of samples. No problemo, I thought to myself as she squeezed 6 little boxes into my palm. It was when she pulled out the first sample and tried to tell me that by using it, I was going to “reactivate my genes”, that my disbelief crept in. Reactivate my genes? Can I reactivate them so that they I am now blue-eyed, instead of brown? Or maybe waif-like, rather than the German stocky genes I’ve been blessed with.

I questioned her on it (“sorry?”) and she told me ephatically again, that this moisturiser was going to re-activate my genes to make me look younger. If she had said that the moisturiser was going to plump the cells under my eyes with calf fat, I would have believed her more. But reactivating the genes, or the double helix they sit on, or even the chromosomes doesn’t sit well with me. I think the lady in the chemist, even if she was 38 with the skin of a 16 year old, was telling me porkie pies!

Banging them out (blog posts, that is.. or is it?)

“Wow!” I can hear you all saying, “she’s blogged again so soon!” I know, I know.. I’ve gotta keep you all on your toes…

My blog topic today: BABIES. So many of my friends are either in the process of churning them out, or have already popped one out recently. I saw a friend today for lunch who is onto baby number 2 and man, she was preggers! And she still has 10 weeks to go!

My bestie had a little one a few months ago. He is the cutest kid with big dimples and blonde hair and blue eyes.. who looks nothing like his Greek mother – I have no idea how she carried a kid with snow white hair in the womb when she has the biggest amount of dark brown Greek hair you have ever seen in your life. Think Effie from Acropylis Now but without the hairspray (and only without the hairpsray because it’s 2009 – in 1989, she did hairspray with aplomb).

And the mum-to-be I saw today had baby number one running around – again, a cute little girl with the most placid demeanour ever – but it doesn’t look like either parent. In fact, the mother told me, no-one is sure where she gets her brown eyes from, when no-one in the family, going back generations has brown eyes. The mother is blue-eyed.

Now, I did biology. I understand recessive and dominant genes. How does a mother with blue eyes and a father with green eyes have a baby with brown eyes? And a mother with dark brown hair, green eyes and a father with blonde hair and blue eyes – a baby with white blonde hair and hazel eyes? Hmmm. It confuses me.

Now, me and my man, are both brown eyed and brown haired – infact, K has a touch of Maori in him. So i can already imagine what our kids will look like (and no, this isn’t preparing you for any announcements!) – we will have one with blonde hair and blue eyes (because no-one in either family is blonde with blue eyes) and one will be a little Maori throw-back, replete with a chin tattoo and the tongue hanging out as though he were doing a haka at the rugby. And I will look like the hired help, nannying these two ankle-biters that look nothing like me.

Reporting in!

OMG!!! It’s been eons and eons… Anyhoo, so I have SOOOO much to blog here. For those ardent followers that have been reading my blog for a while now, you have all read about my various trials (many) and tribulations (fewer) on planet love – where the terrain is rocky and the journey strewn with hazards along the way – especially when you are walking the path with the dude I won’t even name – he who was abusive, foul and generally a not-nice guy.

Somewhere along the way, I parted ways with afore-mentioned inglourius basterd (or however they are mis-spelling it in the movies these days) and did some solo travels. Life was good, the view was clear, I was, like the Primal Scream song, movin’ on up.

And then I met K. Ahh K. Lovely, lovely K. And not only did the view get a whole lot better, but the journey much more fun – having someone who is as loose as me along for the ker-razy ride.

Anyway – enough with the bad travel analogy already.. my news is this:

K and I are engaged!!

Yay!! And life is good. The turtle is happy, the plants are all flowering in celebration, our friends and families are gorgeous. It doesn’t get much better than this!

Big love to all. And more soon. x