Archive for March, 2011

Tomorrow marks my seventh week without a functioning oven. Yes, seven weeks. Let’s count ‘em, shall we? One… two… three… oh, god, that noise you just heard was my spirit stabbing itself with a serving fork.  Either that, or my spirit stabbing my husband with a serving fork.

Here’s what happened.

My oven broke. To get really technical about it, that thingy that you have to pull out to light the thing got pulled out for good. And since the oven door was the detachable sort (not in a good way) and the knobs fell off when you looked at them sharpishly, we decided to replace the whole thing.

Unfortunately we then had to wait two weeks for some money to come in so we could afford to replace it.

But come that happy day, we marched into our local white goods store to order Our Brand New Oven. But somewhere somehow, in the middle of the ordering process, my husband changed his mind and decided we needed to consider renovating the whole kitchen before committing to one model or another.

For the record, my ability to talk renovations doesn’t extend much past the three minute mark, after which I start to glaze over and think about the bottle of wine in the fridge. If the conversation, say, wanders onto the topic of splashbacks and cupboard door handles, I start to think about the vodka bottle in the freezer. And if you tried, for example, to get me into some kind of FLOOR EMPORIUM to look at and discuss lino and carpet samples, then please be prepared to see me there swigging from the wine bottle and drinking straight from that vodka bottle with a straw at the same time. Just sayin’.

ANYWAY so I didn’t actually have to discuss renovations with him, I agreed to let my husband invite our friend C, who designs kitchens for a living, to come over and talk about them with him instead.

Within ten minutes of C arriving, I realised this was what’s officially known as a Bad Idea.  C and my husband began running about excitedly together, talking about knocking down walls and digging a three foot deep trench down the side of the house. And in one of those horror movie moments, C’s wife – who was helping me out with that bottle of wine in the fridge –  turned to me and revealed she hadn’t had running water in her kitchen or bathroom for over two years due to her husband’s own renovation project. I mean, she may as well have told me she no longer had a soul and wanted to eat my offal on toast for breakfast, such was my terror.

After C and his family left, my husband found me sobbing into my wine glass about “just wanting a fucking oven that worked”.

Luckily, my husband is a sensitive man. He saw my pain and realised it was all too much for me. He reassured me we’d just buy a replacement oven. The renovations could wait a few more years…

And then he changed his mind. Again.

Oh, he bought a new oven, all right. A good one, too. One that I am happy with – or rather, would be happy with except that it has been sitting, all warm and cozy and wrapped in plastic, cardboard and polystyrene in our garage for over a week now… while my husband has taken to one of our kitchen walls with a crowbar.

This is my kitchen now.

Extra points for spotting the almost empty bottle of vodka

And no, I didn’t see that coming, either.

The fact of the matter is I’m writing this blog post in the lounge room with the fridge next to me. The contents of my entire spice rack are currently alongside my bed just waiting for someone to make a joke about ‘spicing things up’ in the bedroom. For the record: don’t make that joke. DO NOT MAKE THAT JOKE.

But I think Tiddles McGee, all of four years old, put it best. When my husband first started pulling out the cupboards, he reportedly said  “I’m telling mummy you’re destroying the kitchen! She will think you’ve turned evil!”

Now where was that second bottle of vodka…

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I predicted two things about the recent Aussie Blogger’s Conference in Sydney.

The first was that, during my blog post reading, I would – like so many Hollywood movie protagonists before me – stop mid-sentence and run off the stage to be where I truly belonged. And no, that’s not back at home with my husband and children but rather at the pub across the road.

The second was that, with the entire room being hooked up to WiFi, I would end up on Twitter offering insightful remarks such as “Why does anyone think lemon slices in water is a good thing?” and “It’s 11AM. Is it too early to start drinking??” and perhaps even “My name badge just accidentally fell into the toilet but I’m still going to wear it. Wrong?”

(For the record, the fact it fell into the toilet pre-flush or post-flush makes no difference to me. I’d still wear it.)

As it turned out, I managed to read out my blog post (“Morning Is Broken“) without ‘epiphanating’ (that should totally be a word) and my twitter offerings were even more inane than anyone could ever imagine but it didn’t matter. There were so many people tweeting about the conference that my occasional interjections such as “The only thing I ever giveaway on my blog is my dignity. Fact.” and “@Woogsworld Stop posting pictures of my breasts on the internet!” were lost in the mêlée.

I mean, that is one of the best things about being at a blogger’s conference. Everyone – and I mean EVERYONE – is tweeting. When you pick up your iPhone, nobody – and I mean NOBODY – is saying in an accusatory tone “Are you tweeting?” as if they think they’ve just said something really amusing and you are stealing their fox spirit by broadcasting it on the interwebs. And in case you are wondering, my standard response when someone says that to me is “No, I’m checking my stocks” even though I don’t actually own any stocks and have probably just posted a remark on twitter about having just found half a donut down my bra.

So, yes, at a blogging conference, you are among kindred spirits – people with the same level of cyber-addiction as you and it feels… goooooood.

Other things I discovered that also felt goooooood:

Cyber-friends are for life and not just for Christmas… and that’s a great thing.

For example, I ended up liking cyber-friend Squiggly Rick’s so much that I became his Hot Cougar Wife for a whole evening. When I took off my tiara during the dinner-slash-dance, he asked me to put it back on. That’s when I knew it was true love. Oh, plus we developed the ‘chair line dance’ which is when you do a line dance in a chair. Admittedly, it all gets a bit Sharon Stone when you’ve rotated yourself around to the back of the chair but that’s half the fun, right?

(In the end, we had our marriage annulled because of our failure to consummate it. Turns out he’s gay. Who knew? Okay, so I did. I like a challenge, me… You can read Rick’s own account of our Britney-in-Vegas-style marriage by clicking here.)

Mark Pollard is hot!

Many of you may remember Mark from previous Not Drowning, Mothering adventures such as “An Open Letter To McCann Australia” and “Making My Own Fun. Turns out he’s as hot as Squiggly Rick is gay. So hot that I had to have my photo taken with him to serve as a reminder never to cyber-hassle advertising executives without checking out what they looked like first.

So thanks to my ill-researched efforts, he and his family are now on a witness relocation program and moving to the States, like, forever. I now have to live with the guilt about that for the rest of my life.

Nobody seemed unduly disappointed that ‘The NDM’ was, in fact, just l’il ol’ me.

Despite all my misgivings about ‘outing myself’ (see “Great Expectations“), nobody threw their drink in my face shouting “Imposter!”. Although, admittedly, someone did say “I never ever thought in a million billion years that you’d be wearing a floral dress.”

For the record, I make the floral look my bitch.

Bloggers rock!

If I thought that this statement was true before the conference, I now know it to be extra-true-with-sugar-on-top-and-a-vodka-chaser.

Oh, and look…  if anyone’s wondering, my name tag didn’t fall into the toilet in the end. It came close once or twice. And yes, I was almost tempted to throw it in myself just to have something to blog about (so dedicated to my craft as I am) but ultimately I wanted it as a keepsake of one of the Best Times Ever.

AusBlogCon 2012? In my heart, I’m already there…

Big thanks to the organisers, who tirelessly worked to put this thing together. I’m still waiting for someone to explain the ‘B-string cleavage concealer’ in the goodies bag, though. I mean, why would anyone ever want to cover up their cleavage???

EDITED TO MENTION @AnIdleDad because he’s a bit upset I didn’t marry him for the evening. Maybe next year?

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Look, I’ve been trying to write a blog post called ‘It’s A Hot-Off!’ for the past hour but I just can’t get it to work. It was all about how I told my friend MM that the Prep Mums at the school this year are apparently really hot but that I refuse to go to the Prep area because I don’t want to have to enter a ‘Hot-Off’ situation with these (allegedly) Hot Mums.

(“‘Hot-Off’ sounds kinda wrong, doesn’t it?” I said to MM.
“Yes,” MM replied. “And yet so right…”)

Anyway, ‘It’s A Hot-Off’ has now been banished to my Drafts folder along with some other never-to-be-published ‘gems’ that I can’t quite bring myself to delete because maybe, just maybe, the world will one day be ready for them.

For example:

How God Almost Got Us A Late Pass

A true story. It involved Tiddles McGee claiming he saw God in the mirror, but whether or not he was actually seeing his own reflection and thinking that he, himself, was God remains unclear to this day.

I Never Said You Could Play The Egg
A post about my total lack of rhythm when it comes to playing the egg. Or rather, the egg-shaped shaker. Yes, it’s as exciting as it sounds.

In A Post-Apocalyptic World, The Man With Cable Ties Is King
This post is actually just a title. But what a title.

John Cusack Says “John Cusack Wants Table Five And A Food Tent!”
The title pretty much sums the post up. It attempted to start the rumour that John Cusack always talks about himself in the third person and insists on having his own personal food tent to protect his meals in restaurants. No, I don’t understand why either, but while I was trying to write this post, I actually also tried googling John Cusack’s legal counsel so I knew who I’d be dealing with.

2012: The Year Of Marrying David Bowie
The story of how, in 1985, a Ouija board predicted I would one day marry David Bowie and how I, myself, have predicted that this will happen next year. Like, for real.

The Iron Latte
A post about how my husband always travels with an electric iron which he uses as a make-shift stove for his espresso pot. Again: true story. Why would I make up this shit?

Don’t Trust Anything With Eyes On The Side Of Its Head
This started off about my aversion to birds and fish but then ended up being about being about the fear of potatoes and how there is a word for the fear of potato PRODUCTS (potnonomicaphobia) but not for fear of potatoes themselves and how the lack of a formal label for this phobia probably makes people who are genuinely afraid of potatoes feel unrecognised by the medical profession and how there are probably people out there with a genuine fear of developing a phobia that doesn’t have a label and that, ironically, that fear probably doesn’t have a label either. Yes, this post was a winner.

So there you go. If you ever feel that my blog is strange or mundane, there’s the proof – THE PROOF – that it could be whole lot stranger and/or mundaner. Oh, it could also include more made-up words like mundaner. Whatevs. Just thank your lucky stars that I don’t publish everything…

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