The A to Z of Lisa

A is for Awesome, my word of the year. 

It's also for Asshats who I'm always near. 
B is for Baby, asleep like a log.

For me, time for wine and a good chance to blog.

C is for Childcare. Hooray for Monday!
The twins will play there for a part of the day.
D  is for Daddy. Can you please come home soon?
The darlings are feral. Must be that damn moon.
E  is for Energy, something I've not.
Need more time in the day to clean after my lot.
F is for fighting. That's all the kids do.
Five feral children - we'd planned for just two.
G  is for Good Grief, God Lord and Good God.
Words that escape me as I lose my wad.
H  is for Happy. For the most part it is.
It's a hectic and hellish and heavenly shiz.
I is for Ignore. Pick my battles I try.
That's crap and you know it. I rant and I cry.
J  is for Jam - man, that shit is sticky.
It's stuck in Lil's hair, now it's matted and icky.
K  is for Kalm, if you spell it with K.
But you don't and that sucks so move on I say.
L  is for Love. Despite what you think,
My kids - I do love them - they don't always stink.
M  is for Mummy, Mum, Muuuuuum, Mama, Mother.
They shout it from one end of the house to the other.
N  is for Nappies. I'm sick of this shit. 
So for two out of three kids the toilet they'll sit.
O  is for Organised - something I need.
My mind is all busy, it needs to be freed.
P is for Paint - what I have on my wall.
Along with the scribble, the boogers and all. 
Q  is for Quiet and the sleep that I crave.
No questions, no quarrels, the kids will behave.
R  is for Rhyme. I'm not a good poet.
I'm not a good writer. And this doesn't rhyme.
S  is for Swearing. I do it too much.
My kids speak like wharfies - they copy me such.
T  is for Tea. Never know what to cook
To make everyone happy and to not fucking sook. 
 U  is for Uni. I'll finish one day.
A change in career is headed my way.
V  is for Vego. My son's one of those.
If I serve him meat, he'll just turn up his nose.
W  is for Weight. It's a struggle for me.
I'm losing a bit, not enough yet to see.
X  is for X Rays. A lot we've had lately.
Not just our bodies, our wallets hurt greatly.
Y  is for Yawn. It's sleep that I need.
I'm constantly buggered from rearing my breed.
Z   is for Zoo. It's the place I call home.
I love it. I hate it. But I'll never roam.

The A to Z of Lisa, linking up with Deb and all the other amazing bloggettes at Home Life Simplified's Listmania extravaganza. Go have a look!

Leave me a message, please!!! It's so lonely here by myself.

Suburban Housewife

Sitting here on the computer, slowly getting slushy from the cheap Moscato I bought earlier when the kids were doing my head in, I'm thinking I've got all this stay-at-home-housewify thingy worked out. I figure Step One in this revelation is to drink more. How good do kids look when you've had a glass or three? Their cheeks are so mooshy, their smells are less offensive and their bickering suddenly dissolves into a light, crisp and fruity palate state of mind.

Lately (and I mean in the last 24 hours) I've come to the conclusion that there must be five types of housewife - The Liar, The Illusionist, The Magician, The Naturalist and The Beyond Care.

The Liar

These women have the perfect house, husband, kids and menus. Their houses are immaculate - not a speck of dust, dirt or urine to be found. Or so they say. Many of these model mums can be found hiding behind a keyboard updating their Facebook statuses or blogs with how wonderful their lives are. And we fall for it. And we rate our own lives on it. Their husbands cook them delicious breakfasts in bed without needing a reason, they know how to use a washing machine and a potato peeler and don't fart in their presence. Their children are clean, respectful, complete their homework the day they receive it and also don't fart in their presence. Their menus are planned a month in advance, are all natural and well presented. I have no doubt that many of these perfect mums are lying liars who are lying through their lie holes and are as reliable as a sleazy adult phone chat chick at $4.95 per minute. You believe she's a sexy blonde with big chumbawumbas because she said so. Why would she lie?

I would be The Liar in a heartbeat, if I knew none of you knew me.

The Illusionist

The Illusionist often talks about how she busted her arse at home this morning, putting things away and in their place. Yes, she has avoided telling a lie. She has been putting a packet of Tim Tams away while watching Ellen, and has put the hired cleaner in her place for not scrubbing the toilet hard enough. There are two types of Illusionist. One is embarrassed to have a cleaner and the other will proudly say it's worth every cent. You will often be asked to a Illusionist's house just after the cleaner has left. I couldn't have a cleaner. I would be manic (see the next category) and clean my shit-hole to an inch of its life so the cleaner wouldn't think I was the filthy slob with feral children that I really am. In reality though, I would really, really love a cleaner. But I feel the money I save in not having one can be spent more wisely on medication and wine. And wine makes the house sparkle.

I could happily be The Illusionist.

The Magician

The phone rings, the heart pumps, the I'm-in-the-area/coffee morning/playgroup visit will be at The Magician's house in an hour. Pacing the kitchen floor chanting fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck will not help The Magician in the long run. She needs to think quickly and creatively. What rooms will they not need to see? What crap can be stuffed in the dryer? I won't need the oven, will I? Does the toilet reveal the stains and strains of last night's Mexican meal?Strategically placed toys, ornaments and books can instantly conceal the layer of dust and crumbs from view, leaving you time to sweep the floor and push it deeper under the couch just out of sight. The Magician is sweating and racing around like a teen on speed at a music festival. A quick spritz of lavender air freshener to hide the decomposing rubbish in the bin and the recently changed nappy containing a horrendous number three from your teething baby, and you're ready to go. Then they're fucking late.

Sounds like I know what I'm talking about? Yep. I am The Magician.

The Naturalist

I met a Naturalist once. This type of housewife is organic, calm and centred. Her children could throw poo on the ceiling and she would call it self-expression. Her house is chaotic, borderline hygienic and almost odour free, as her children roam naked from the waist down and use her garden as their toilet. Her calming and welcoming approach to everything makes you not even realise you are sitting in an over-cluttered, mud-smudged, compost bin of a home. And that's strangely comforting. It is a home. You'll need to step over the toys and plates of unfinished food, and move the pile of washing to one side of the couch to sit down, but because The Naturalist isn't terribly bothered by the sight of life happening before her eyes, you're not bothered either. And you feel content knowing that your home is not much different, with or without the semi naked kids using your azaleas as a urinal. Most of us are innate Naturalists. But we impose such pressure on ourselves by reading about The Liars and knowing some Illusionists, that we become the Magicians. We need to embrace our inner Naturalist and go with the flow of raising children and running a house. 

I would like to feel the serenity of The Naturalist.

The Beyond Care

These housewives couldn't give a shit about the three month old opened milk carton on the lounge room floor, the pile of cat poo behind the TV or that you need to cover your mouth and nose when you walk in the door. If this is the impression you get from the entrance, you'd better be able to hold your bladder. The stack of old newspapers and bags of used nappies as you walk up to the front door should've been warning enough. Gee, is that the time? I just remembered something I forgot. Let's do this again real soon. At my house this time.

I sometimes feel I am heading down this path, and then my self-respect kicks in and I'm happy being The Magician.

Of course, there are just well organised people who can keep on top of the daily maintenance of a house. Their homes are tidy and sanitary. Some are sterile. But it all fits together for them. No need to be The Liar. They don't need to be The Illusionist or even The Magician. But they can simply get their shiz together in small steps everyday. Yes, I am jealous. 

What housewife are you?

Ripe for the picking

Oh.My.God. I don't feel so good. I'm as round and as red as a strawberry and if you poke me I will explode.

Little sis and I took advantage of the last few days of warmth before autumn really arrives, and hauled the Wondertwins and Baby Scarlett off to a strawberry farm for something other than the usual nose picking in the town of Main Ridge about 40 minutes from where I live. 

Some of our bounty

We have never been strawberry picking, so I wasn't sure what to expect, and stepping into the unknown with Lily and Grace can be terrifying to say the least. It crossed my mind that they might pull out entire strawberry plants, eat more than they pack into their plastic containers (try telling a 3 year old she can't eat her favourite fruit in the whole world as she picks it), be bitten by a snake or a rabbit more feral than they are, vomit all the strawberries they have gorged on during the picking frenzy all over the cafe floor, or just have one of their loud, spontaneous, unpredictable meltdowns over who the fuck knows what this time.

The drive to Main Ridge should have been simple enough. I looked at the map at home. Map? Who needs a map? Apparently we did. I was guided there by the little British man who lives in the GPS on my phone. 

"Turn right at the third exit at the roundabout. Continue for three kilometres." 

It is easy to lose yourself in his melted chocolate voice. All was going well until he announced in his suave British accent, "GPS signal lost." Very polite and strangely calming, however at this point we had no idea whether we were close to the strawberry farm or heading towards Sydney. Either way, because of his relaxing voice we merrily continue down the lonely country road in a false sense of contentment.

If it were an Aussie GPS, we'd know exactly where we stood.

"Hang a lefty at the next roundabout comin' up. Keep cruisin' for about three k's."

"Ya missed the turnoff. Now you're fucked."

"Go back ya dickhead. You're heading up Shit Creek."

"Did I say 40 minutes? I meant 60...maybe 70 minutes, tops."

"For fuck's sake. The GPS has shit itself again. Lost the bastard."

"Here y'are. Stop ya whingin'. Got ya here didn't I? Fuck."

Yes. We got there eventually. Thank you efficient satellite signal.    

Picking strawberries is a brilliant activity for three year olds. It would take them about 15 to 20 minutes to fill their tubs with deliciously ripe strawberries, the perfect amount of time to cater to their short attention spans. No time for ripping up plants, snake bites, feral bunnies or big strawberry vomit. Not yet.

 

Back to the cafe for some indulgence. So glad I'm watching what I eat. But my sister assures me that eating healthy strawberries dipped in chocolate equals negative calories. So I had a vanilla bean panna cotta with fresh strawberries and raspberries with chocolate dipping sauce and cream. And, she said, the same rule applies for calories as cheating on your partner - it's ok if you're in another postcode. She is my sister and she is smart, so I have to take her word for that.

Mini Knickerbocker Sundaes & Strawberry
and Marshmellow Kebabs with chocolate sauce.
Amazeballs!!

Scarlett looks as though she was dipped
in spaghetti & choc coated strawberries.
Strawberries dipped in chocolate sauce is baby crack. 

Love to read your comments!

Or come to where the ferals play on Facebook

Home

I am only just coming to terms with living in this dog's breakfast of a house, that I have started calling it a home. My home.

My home has been my home from the age of 1 when my parents had it built with the help of the Department of Veteran's Affairs. That's as good a handshake you'd get for serving in Vietnam back in the early 70s. My parents built it with gold glass sliding doors, wood panelling, mission brown paint work and khaki carpet, and Tim and I have only changed it in the last five years and it's still a work in progress.

It is the house I grew up in, the house we lived in as a family and then as a broken family, and the house my mum spent her last few days in.

I've come full circle and I'm raising my family in it now. But moving here with my family couldn't make it my home. It wasn't mine and it didn't feel like mine. It had gone back to being a house.

And now, after years of changing it from the house I grew up in to the home I will make for my family, I have favourite places and spaces I love. 

My computer. Oh, I lurve my computer.
Sorry Timbo, but the computer sees more of me than you do.
I also love my wine bottles I have in various places around the house.
I really do look like a drunkard.

My bed. Especially without Scarlett, but I secretly don't mind her being there.
It's the place that Mumma watches her stories and is not to be disturbed.
It is also iPad zone. And the bedroom is multifunctional -
it's a bedroom/spare room/laundry in one! Jealous?

The Wondertwins cell. It's certainly the prettiest room in the house. This is an old photo of their room as I couldn't get in there through the disaster zone to take a photo. Not that you'd be able to see their beds or floor anyway...
I like this room because it is at the far end of the house. Need I say more?

How good is it that the shine from the window hides the thick layer of dust?
And the sticky mess on the floor to the right of Scarlett's little chubby legs - can barely see it!
I love my TV and my TV loves me.
It not only has my programmes on the Foxtel storage, but it gives me respite from the Wondertwins. And, as you may have read in past posts, I really really need it. 

My kitchen. The heart of my house. Despite having desks in their bedrooms, this is where the homework gets done at the last minute, masterpieces of art are created, meals are rejected, friends gather, and mummy drinks her tequila. 

Did I say 'masterpieces'? I meant 'mess'.

My new garden in the making down the side of the house.
Grace looks like a boy taking a wizz and Lily is the shy one.

This is my new favourite place. I love having a BBQ
and sipping on a wine or four under twinkling stars.

And here ends our tour of my abode. I managed to avoid showing you the bloody battles and filth that normally makes up my home. Yay for me! 

Have a peek at other blogger's homes and favourite things at Home Life Simplified's Listmania link up. And then back to me, me, me at Cut My Milk Facebook page. I have now posted some photos of what my house looks like on a regular day, room to room. Trust me - this is therapeutic for both of us!


And please leave me a comment - good or bad - I'd love to hear from you!

The Angry Dog Blog

My poor dog, Jasper, is outside naked. Yep. Starkers from the neck to the tail. We had him shaved yesterday in a bid to make him more comfortable while he recuperates from an operation and an infestation of fleas. But while my sister and I lament on the jaw dropping account the vet left us with, we have learned so much more about our little dog lost, Jasper. And, man, are we pissed.

Jasper is a dog. Our dog. A pain-in-the-arse dog. A definitely outside only dog.

We have guestimated that Jasper is about 12 years old. He is a red heeler cross with some miscellaneous breed and should look like this:

In reality, Jasper looks like this:

About 10 years ago, when Tim and I had only two kids, we lived in a somewhat dodgy area of Melbourne's east. Despite having built a beautiful house, we lived in a crappy suburb with crappy neighbours. One of our neighbours owned a dog. Jasper.

Jass never let me photograph him on his 'lumpy' side. Diva.

       

From the outside, our neighbours were just like us - a young family starting out in a new estate. On the inside, it was different.

The young mum asked us one day if we could help her find a place for Jasper to live. She told us that Jasper needed to go far away. She told us not to tell her husband. She told us that her husband would kick Jasper, and she believed that if she stayed there with her daughter her husband would start hitting them. Jasper moved to my family home where my sister would doggy sit him until my young neighbour and her daughter found somewhere to live. That was 10 years ago. And that was the last time we saw or heard from her.

This is a few years ago when his lump started growing on his side

When Tim and I bought the family home and got out of that crappy suburb, we also gained Jasper. Jasper had issues and I had issues about having a dog with issues near my young children. But Jasper was an outside dog. A kick to his bladder made him wee where he walked, sat and stood. 

Jasper was an odd looking dog - not an ugly dog, but not a pretty dog either. He had a crooked tail, fat creases over his bum and back, crooked teeth and what looked like a goiter on his side. Over the years, the lump grew bigger but never really seemed to bother him. Our vet said it was probably a fatty mass and we could leave it. So we did.

Two weeks ago, for a totally unrelated problem, I took Jasper to the vet. I asked about the lump and as Jasper's heart was remarkably strong for his age, we decided then that we would have the lump removed. A 2 kilogram fatty mass was removed along with the cancer that was evident during the surgery.

He was given a special cone to wear to stop him biting the stitches. 

Unfortunately for Jasper, the fleas really enjoyed the time without him scratching properly and would have driven him insane with their movement. We decided that while the flea treatments were beginning to work and it was still quite hot, he could be shaved from bum to neck. Unfortunately, our record breaking Melbourne heatwave stopped that night.

This is where I get angry.

Jasper has two old wounds on his back in the form of a cross and about the size of shovel blades. He did not acquire these grooves from just doing doggy things. This old scar tissue was man-made and with considerable force. How Jasper was able to walk after that is nothing more than amazing. 

I want to find this man - my old neighbour - and show him my shovel.

My bucket list - in reverse

My Listmania exercise for this week is to write a 'Reverse Bucket List' - a list of all the awesome things I have already done - to celebrate my life. That's a very interesting task for a person with depression. In the wrong frame of mind, I will tell you that nothing interesting or awesome or successful has happened in my life, and that I am just going through the motions until the end of this perpetual nightmare. I know perfectly well that my life has been filled to the brim with wow factors, amazing experiences and personal triumphs. And when we link our blogs on Deb's Home Life Simplified website, we will all see that it is not simply moments of perfection, but more of personal bests and dreams that have come true. One person's 'normality' may be another's person's 'celebration'. 

If I EVER had my own classroom again, this would be on my door.

We spend so much of our time and energy on trying to be the best, to win, to perfect, to achieve, to travel to exotic places, to be rich, to be popular and in doing this we lose sight of all the brilliant things we do have and have done.

I still want to be rich, though.

So, here's a list of stuff I've done in my 41 years that I think were awesome moments in time and that you should think I'm awesome for achieving.

• I was one of the school captains of my primary school.

• I won the Drama Award in Year 12. I think that might be the non-academic version otherwise known as 'Student Who Consistently Brought Fruit For Recess Award'.

• I won a trip to Disneyland when I was in Year 12 (a competition on the TV show 'The Wonderful World of Disney') and despite having to take my family including my Grandma, I had an awesome time. A highlight was when my Grandma, little sister and I went to Mexico and my Grandma - bless her - wouldn't buy bottles of tequila with worms in them for me as I was a minor in the eyes of the States. She got nervous buying the alcohol and thought she was aiding and abetting a 'minor' and abandoned ship. Yes... bless her.

• I became a primary school teacher, teacher of the deaf, and started my masters degree. 

• I performed in some local theatre company's performances. I wish I could do that again. Something I thought I was really good at. Sigh.

• Won a Logie and was nominated for Best Supporting Actress in... (oh, wait, sorry that hasn't happened. Yet.)

• Moved with Tim (my boyfriend) to Shepparton in country Victoria and taught at a Deaf Facility and as a Visiting Teacher for Hearing Impaired Students across the north-east of the state.

• I married my best friend who also happens to be a spunky superhero who looks after his massive brood and works stupidly long, unrewarding hours to do so while I get my hair done, sit around drinking coffee with my friends, the house gets cleaned by a housekeeper and the children are picked up from their private schools by their nanny. Ummm, no.

• I watched my Mum die. I know that doesn't sound like an uplifting and wonderful bucket list item, but I feel that I am truly blessed to have been there in her last moments. 

• I had five amazing, beautiful, loving, funny, annoyingly feral children - who I adore more than anything I have ever known, and who I would like to strangle more than anyone I've ever known. 

• Driven across the Nullabor and back from Melbourne to Perth with two smelly obnoxious 9 and 10 year olds, two cantankerous 15 month old twins and a husband. An award would be nice.

• Driven from Melbourne to the Gold Coast and back with two smelly obnoxious 11 and 12 year olds, two cantankerous 3 year old twins, a 5 month old baby who will not be driven at night and a husband. Seriously, give me an award.

• I started a blog and a Facebook page so I could stand naked (metaphorically) in front of the world and share my life and fears.

I haven't travelled across the world, taught in a remote African village, or been part of a touring circus troupe, and it is very easy to envy everyone else's lives, but I think I'm quite happy with what I have achieved. The moments above have been melded together with hilarious friends, memorable - yet fuzzy -nights out on the vino, tears of laughter and of heart-aching sorrow, and I wouldn't have had it any other way. 

Except to have been rich. 

That would've been really really sweet.

Chin hairs & prune juice

I'm 41. I told a friend I was 42. I couldn't believe I got that wrong. How did I get that wrong? I had to work it out - ok Tim is 2 years younger, so that makes him...how old is Tim? No. Hang on. I had Campbell when I was 28...so it's 2013 now, so that makes...wait...Ella was born just before I turned 30 and now she's 11...30 plus 11 equals 41. Yep. 41. We got there...

It made me remember when I was a fresh-faced youngster. Yes kids, I was a child once, too. I didn't escape the womb as a cranky old tired 41 year old, nor was a created out of spite by some pissed off mad scientist from the waste products of all things evil and bitchy. Nooo. But I can see why you may have thought that.

When you're a kid, you know your age. My twins spontaneously announce it in supermarkets to checkout chicks or to strange men with man boobs.

I'm 3. 

I've noticed a difference in the way four of my ferals announce their age. Lily and Grace hold up three fingers and say proudly, "I'm 3." Ella will tell people that she is 11 and three quarters. Campbell adds on a year: "I'm 14." They'll go through the rite of passage of calling themselves 18 so as to be served alcohol and to be let into nightclubs. Then they'll say they're younger to get cheaper entry fees to amusement parks and movies. But once you reach 40, well, you can write off even being admitted into a swingers club. Just too damn old for that kind of funky lovin'. Obviously, they don't cater for walking frames and incontinence.

I'm not really phased about being in my 40s. I don't feel 41, whatever that's supposed to feel like. Physically, I'm feeling a little slower, but is it my age or the excess of excessive weight I'm lugging? Mentally, I'm a sharp as a tack - sharper even - I'm finding it easier to learn new things. My brain is ready for biology and physics, whereas 25 years ago I couldn't tell my arse from my head with anything scientific.

Let's hope that by pulling these feckers
out I haven't encouraged more to grow.
And, yes - they ARE from my head.

After having pulled out two enormously thick pube-like grey hairs from the top of my head and examining myself miserably in the bathroom mirror-that-tells-lies, I thought about my mum and how she never gave me all the facts of growing up. Oh, she told me briefly about (whispers) periods and growing boobs (the rest I learned from Dolly magazine in the 80's) but she never got around to telling me about the other important stuff - like what happens after our babies grow into teens and we start to get all like, totes embarrassing and old all of a sudden.

We all know that growing older is inevitable, but this is my list of things I wished my mum had told me about it. I have entitled it:

Things I Wished My Mum Told Me 

About Growing Older

We all know about the possibility of our eyesight and hearing getting weaker, our bodies slowing down and the sudden desire to eat prunes and sing along to the golden oldies of the 1980s & 90s, but I wish Mum had've mentioned some of these seriously awesome perks of ageing (un)gracefully:

• Your body will start to hurt in places that never hurt before. And what doesn't hurt will probably stop working.

• Your mind will become delusional and will think your body can handle the alcohol and exercise you were used to when you were in your 20s.

• Your eyebrows will begin to fall out and reappear on your chin. Thicker.

• Your feet will become rough and your toenails harder to cut.

• Course grey hairs will not just grow on your head. They will appear on your chin, your arms, your cheek, and with a surprising amount of speed. You will look in the mirror and suddenly they're there in all their grey pube-iness.

• You might grow skin tags anywhere the skin tags decide to grow. Don't think of ripping those bastards off. You will bleed out. Accept them. 

• You will wake up feeling hungover without actually being hungover.

• You will sneeze, cough, laugh and wee at the same time.

• Your perky little boobs may be perky now, but wait until you're older and have had kids.

• You'll sweat more than you ever imagined humanly possible. Even in winter.

• You'll Google everything, from 'my knee clicks when I bend' to 'should my wee be that colour' and other ailments that lead you to believe you are dying.

• You will think that the perfect evening is an early night in bed. Alone. With a book.

• The music you liked will be called boring and old by your kids.

• You will be called boring and old by your kids.

• You won't understand today's music but if you sing any of today's music you will be told to stop.

• You will begin to say "When I was your age..." "In my day..." and "If I spoke that way to my mother..."

• You will gain great pleasure in listening to and telling stories of recent surgeries and illnesses.

• You will understand why a hot windy Australian day is the perfect day for sweating it out washing shitloads of clothes to hang out to dry.

• You will have riveting conversations with friends about mortgages, the lack of respect from the younger generation, the price of petrol, stretch marks, bargain shopping and recipes. 

I would have laughed and laughed if my mum took me on this ageing joyride, rolled my eyes and called her old and boring, and would have thought, nah, not me. I'm so cool and awesome that I will always be this cool and awesome. And how dare you tell me C&C Music Factory and Smashing Pumpkins wouldn't be cool either. 

Not by the grey hairs on my chinny chin chin.

Teaching an old dog new tricks

There are still things I'd love to learn. Some of them are academic, some are personal, some of them are pointless. Is it too late to teach an old dog new tricks? Nah. 

I'm linking in again with Home Life Simplified's Listmania listapalooza to think about things I'd like to learn. After pondering it for a couple of minutes, I now know what I don't want to learn. I don't want to learn how to dig my own camp toilet. I don't want to learn how to milk a snake. Nor do I want to learn how to become a hillbilly hand fisher, as much as wading through muddy rivers and shoving my arm up to the shoulder in a dark underwater hole sounds appealing. I'd rather learn how to crap my dacks and have others be none the wiser.

But the things I'd like to learn, in all seriousness, are surprisingly quite a few. 

I feel the pull to continue learning. I would like to return to Melbourne Uni one day and finish my Masters Degree in Deaf Education. I would love to learn how to become an audiologist so I can return to the real world of work and adult conversation. I would love to improve my Auslan skills.

I would love to learn German, Swedish and read braille.

I would love to learn how to crochet, paint with oils and keep plants alive.

I would love to learn how to ski, to meditate, to relax and to like myself.

I want to learn how to do at least one really amazing magic trick, or to do that flippy thing with a coin across my hand and back.

I want to learn to do the cup song just like Anna Kendrick can do. She is so awesome.

Now all I need to do is learn where I'm going to find the fecking time to do these things.

So, Old Dog - what new tricks do you want to learn?

Two kilos

Dammit.

Here I am on the cover of
LA Confidential magazine.

I've been dieting for a month. A whole month! Why don't I look like Mila Kunis yet? 

In case you've stroked out and don't know, I have been battling with food addiction for the past too many years. Food is my friend, my comfort, my love. I would wake up thinking about how I have to stop eating so much only to go to the kitchen and gorge on whatever I could find, then finish off whatever was left on the kids' plates. I never got to the point of diving through rubbish bins looking for the last few fries from a McDonald's Happy Meal, but my thoughts were always consumed by food. Pardon the pun.

I've been taking the appetite suppressant Duramine for a month now. The first week was hell. Going cold turkey on Pepsi and all things sugary made me want to kill. I had headaches and apparently I was not a happy chappy to live with. Ok, I was a little difficult to be around. Alright, I was a psychopathic fucktard asshat. And I only lost two kilograms. I'd been banging my head against a wall for nothing (150 calories per hour. True.) What a waste of eight hours that was. I bet Mila Kunis never had to bang her head as much as I do to shift calories. 

And I didn't even use
Photoshop!

I know, I know, I should be really happy with two kilos. And really I am. Two kilos is a good start. It's just that a lot of people I know who have been on this wonder drug lost lots and lost it relatively quickly. Some didn't eat at all. I can't do that. I still need to eat. I need to eat because I will need to go off this medication in a few months. I need to eat to reprogram my eating behaviours and habits. I need to eat because I want my kids to see me eating. I need to look at food differently, more of a source of energy than a companion. Oh, best friend and confidant, how I miss thee. I miss our secret rendezvous in the middle of the night. I miss how you'd quietly beckon me with a breathy "eat meeeeee...." I'm so sorry Food, but our relationship was toxic. You made me believe I needed your emotional connection when all it was was physical. 

Two kilograms (or in real terms, Mila Kunis' left arm) is the baby step towards the new me. Looking like Mila Kunis is my carrot dangling out in front. And if that doesn't work, the price tag of the Duramine will certainly do the job.

*No Mila Kunises were harmed in the making of this blog.


Come bang your head on my Facebook wall & lose 150 calories per hour with me!