The mother from hell

No milk for you!

Thu, 02 Nov 2006 00:02:52 GMT

Am on an anti-dairy kick, so 5 days without a mocha, cheese, chocolate, latte Rush, carbonara, or anything good for that matter. Instead I've survived with soy milk in my morning cocopops and cassein-free products. It's pure, living hell. This crap for another 9 days to figure out whether or not I have a dairy allergy. For some reason I have lived the last 34 years of my life blissfully unaware that I break out in hives, get bloated, and have nasty stuff coming out of my bottom whenever I consume a large amount of milk, when I say large, I mean the recommended dietary intake as advised by whomever advises the recommended dietary intake thingoes, and I'm not the sort of person that usually pays attention to the recommended dietary intake of anything unless it's some new diet fad that requires copious amounts of junk food with sugar on the side.

I did bust last night & had a big mac from the evil macca's conglomerate, but that doesn't count because everyone knows that there isn't any real food in a big mac, large coke, and fries.

Huzzah!

Tue, 12 Sep 2006 15:00:57 GMT

I'm back from 2 days of computerless oblivion. Dear, beautiful, sweet soul of a husband decided to spend the weekend brixing the computer (brixing being him breaking the computer under the guise of fixing it, of course). It just wouldn't be a proper weekend around here without unwalked dogs, grumpy cats, and bits of the computer/the telly/toaster/my fucking car in pieces all over the place with that grinning gurn staring at me in the middle of it all promising me it will *work better* when he's done with it. Bloody hell, that'll teach me to marry an avionics engineer, the bastards all think they can fix anything.

2 days of not being able to get my cuteoverload.com fix or to check out what the goons at b3ta are cooking up. 2 days sans gossip blogs or being able to scan IMDb for whats-his-face-I'm-sure-I've-seen-him-in-something-before. Argh. I tells ya, it got ugly around here, I almost had to open a book to entertain myself. Maybe this weekend he'll brix his alarm clock that scares the living shit out of me every morning at 05h55. Sigh.

Snarky mumble bums

Mon, 04 Sep 2006 14:48:52 GMT

Well, the child has now decamped to the paedo-friendly MySpace so I guess I can start blogging properly, say rude words & the such. Blog. Bloooooog. Blog blog. Gawd I hate that word, it's kinda like the sound husbandman makes when he's gotten into a bad batch of red wine. Blog. Ick.

Hello, my name is Sarah and I'm a reformed blogaholic. I blogged here & there for a while, then realised I was being a slut with my blogging & decided to deblog for a while. Life got in the way somewhat, & I'm now ready for some blog therapy. Mmmm blog therapy. My first goal is to include the word (and any variation thereof) "blog" as many times in my blog as blogissble. Blog. Righto, that's enough, I'm pissing even myself off.

Anyhoo, life, yes, did get in the way of any decent writings, although the last 10 months would have made good scribble fodder: packed in my lucrative job, got married, moved interstate to glorious Melbourne, braved chilly weather which threatened to freeze my poor nippies off. The most significant thing of late has been Saccy. I found out I was pregnant on the 4th July, by the 30th of August, just 1 week shy of the end of my first trimester, we found out that Saccy had given up the ghost at around 8 weeks. That, I have to say, sucked. A lot. No beds were available for a D&C, so was sent on my merry way for 2 days until they could *fit me in*. I'll counter anyone who reckons they had last week being their week from hell, you think you had a bad week? Miscarriage: all over my bathroom floor. I win.

We're trying to remain upbeat about it & see the positive side etc etc, we'll try again soon seeing as we now know for sure that we're fertile & hopefully I'll be sprogged up before too long.

That hasn't stopped the theories and reasons why I miscarried: The child thinks Saccy was lonely & will be back soon with a twin to keep him company in utero; husbandman reckons it was the Philip gene (Philip being the ADD overachieving brother-out-law, screaming queen who likes to fondle women's breasts when pissed). As for myself, I think Saccy thought he was too sexy for my uterus which, as I have been reliably informed by the ultrasound chica post bathroom incident, is very handsome. My ovaries are quite pretty too, I was quite excited about seeing them onscreen until I was informed that I was actually seeing part of my bowel. Hrmph. Those bloody things look like Rorschach tests anyway.

When I was 14....

Fri, 22 Apr 2005 14:02:07 GMT

...Michael Jackson was still (kinda) black
...Prince was *the* artist to be into
...I was living in New Caledonia
...Had just stopped wearing leggings & drop waisted skirts
...Had been smoking for a year
...Was failing maths
...Had a cat named Teufel
...Travelled to New Zealand every school holidays
...Started listening to New Order, Joy Division, Siouxsie and the Banshees, and The Cure
...Shaved my legs for the first time
...Had my first real girlfriend named Karin
...Started school at 7am and finished at 4.30
...Had decided never to get married and have children
...Wanted to be a musician
...Went to my auntie's wedding
...Desperately did everything I could in order to get back to Sydney
...Got drunk for the first time on half (count 'em) half a glass of vodka & orange juice

She who must be obeyed

Wed, 13 Apr 2005 13:12:40 GMT

So, what is it really like being a mother to a kid? Do you really wanna know? First you endure 42 weeks of nausea, bloating, alien-like tummy expansion, and weird food cravings...then get to spend 13 hours pushing that HUMUNGOUS head out only to be left with stretchmarks and an episiotomy that will regale dinner parties for years to come.

Then comes the fun. Technicolour horrors in nappies, unexplained crying fits, sleepless nights. Are we having fun yet? The first year is a blur of smelly baby-vomit clothes and nursing nipples. Then they learn to walk...you can cope with that, it's cute...you dutifully raise everything to above a metre lest the little gem pulls something precious down & gonk themselves on the head with it. Then they learn to talk. More joy! More cuteness with tiny gurgles of "goggy" and "mama wanna dinkies", "where's my totot?". By the time they can fit sentences together & learn choice phrases learnt from road rage mum which are cheerfully regurgitated in front of Christian in-laws, you're wondering if you can still get a refund on the little devil. I'll always remember the day when I heard the tiny voice in the back of the car intoning "mummy said FUCKIT!!!".

I lie. It's awesome. It's great being a mother to a 14 year old. Save for the fact that teenagers are supposed to be god's punishment for enjoying sex....I'm still waiting for the teenage temper tantrums & door slamming. I wait for the day she drunkenly stumbles home & vomits all over the bathroom floor (she WILL clean it herself....with her toothbrush), the day she calls me up from police station requesting bail, the day she brings home a nice clean-cut looking boy & I wrinkle my nose & ask where that nice boy with all the piercings & tattoos has gone, the day she has to come out to me as heterosexual (I'll cry tears of disappointment for not being able to participate in the proud parents float on Mardi Gras). The day she turns to me & says I'm to blame for everything that fucked up in her life, and the day she plays obnoxious loud music that makes my ears bleed. One day she'll say she doesn't need me anymore...and I hate that.

I get scared that I've passed on my insecurities to her. I'm scared that I haven't given her enough tools to cope with the big bad world. I'm scared that I'm not there enough for her. I'm scared that she might think that I don't give a crap. I'm scared that she might think I abandoned her when I (at the time, STUPIDLY) thought I was acting in her best interest. I'm scared that I act too much in *my* best interest. I'm scared I work too much. I'm scared that she might be scared.

And then I think, she has good friends, she's not afraid to speak out, she's gorgeous (takes after me, of course), she's smart, she has a killer sense of humour, and she's hit a boy in the stomach for trying to nick her chips. Yeah, I'm a proud mum.

Now that I've embarassed her enough, I have a few life lessons that I hope my experience can help her...

...Always own a pet. They will always be a mirror for your moods & will give you unconditional love. Unless, that is, you forget to feed them for half a day.
...Never do a home perm.
...Drink plenty of water and eat healthy for your main meals. This will allow you to snack on junk food during the day.
...Sing your heart out at least once a day.
...Don't be afraid to be silly. Life is hard, and sometimes it just needs a damn good sense of humour.
...Always tell those you love how you feel about them. Your friends and family are precious.
...Remember that life does hit the shits occasionally and, even if it looks like it won't let up, it eventually will. Just like a good time doesn't last forever, same can be said for the dark times.
...Trust in YOURSELF. You are the most important person in your life, and *you* make your choices.
...Your morals are your own, you make them up as you go along. If someone doesn't agree to them, tough tits to them, you know what's right for you.
...Never, ever let anyone treat you like a doormat. You're a precious gift, and people should treat you as such. If there's any inkling of abuse, be it emotional, physical or otherwise..walk away.
...Never say never. Conversely, never say forever.
...Don't be afraid to take a chance. Remember, you learn more from your mistakes than you do from your successes.
...Communicate. This means listening, as well as having your opinions & feelings heard.
...Remember where you came from. Your mum loves you and, unless you've just created Auschwitz or invaded Poland, she'll always love you, forgive you, and understand you.

....Oh, and always remember, pluck your eyebrows from under the brow. And if it looks like you've only got three hairs left, you've plucked too far (yes, I learnt that the hard way).