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A Few Lessons in Patience, Grasshopper

26 Mar

fresh olivesPatience is one of those virtues that many people aren’t born with.

I wasn’t born with it. No, siree, Bob.

I’ve been known to lose my shit in all manner of places due to a distinct lack of willingness to endure. I used to be incensed by tardiness. A friend running late was enough to make me lose my cool, but now I almost expect people to be a little late, and people cancel last minute all the time when they have kids.

Thankfully, there are many opportunities in life that force allow you to train yourself to have a greater level of patience.

1. Parenting

If you don’t learn to overcome your impatience and quick temper, your head will implode and you are in danger of becoming an alcoholic. Children will make you late, make you tired and make your house messy. Watching a baby learn to feed themselves requires the utmost patience as you watch food going up their nose, all over the floor and in their hair.
You can almost guarantee they won’t do that at 15, so be patient.

2. The Post Office at Christmas

The post office brings out the S.L.O.W. in people. Everyone fumbles for their change, takes inordinate amounts of time to write things and chat to the cashiers about the weather. I hate the festive post office so much I always swear I’m going to send my cards in July… I never do, of course.
I tend to send none at all and say they got lost in the mail. Win.

Did I say I cut them? I used the term 'I' very loosely......

Did I say I cut them? I used the term ‘I’ very loosely……

3. The female toilet queue at a music festival 

There is nothing more disheartening than waiting until the last second to leave your favorite band to hit the Port-a-loo, and finding yourself at the end of a line of ladies jiggling from foot to foot. It’s amazing how you can hold it until just as you’re about to assume the ski-hover, 5 cms from the fetid toilet seat, and then you almost pee yourself as you undo your top button.

4. Listening to your Grandfather’s stories…..again.

I don’t know about your Grandfather, and after a recent little health hiccup, I’m pleased ol’ Fred is still around to be infuriating, but he tells the same stories over and over. I try not to cut him off or fill in the blanks but it’s not easy.
I was so thrilled recently when my child flat out refused I pull his finger.
He is smarter than I was at that age.

filling the olive jar with water

5. Growing Your Own Vegetables

From little things, big veges grow, but it doesn’t happen over night. Some things are sweeter and more delectable eaten as babies (think peas, beets and carrots, and lambs) but others need to time to ripen and mature into something that can grace your plate. Daily tending, with water and kind words can be a chore at times, but with perseverance and patience you too can eat a caterpillar nibbled, oddly genital shaped, organic vegetable.

6. Rendering video

Anyone in the business of movie making will know what I mean. Watching that little blue bar slowly creeping across the screen is maddening if you’re in a rush. A deep breath and a cup of tea may not speed it up, but it will relax you. Or have a whiskey. Or a wank.

7. Waiting for your husband to do the thing he said he’d do later

If I ask him again, it’ll be nagging. Only ask every 6 months so you cannot be accused.
After a year, pay someone else to do it.

8. The person in front at the checkout requiring a price check

This only ever happens when you’re in a rush or your kid is having a Force 10 meltdown. Annoyance is only momentarily alleviated if the product requiring said price check is of a personal nature, like KY or profillactucs  prophylactics frangers.

water and olives

9. City traffic

Suckballs. ‘Nuff said.

10. Brining your own olives

I’ve never done it before, and it’s certainly not hard. After gently slicing them all, I popped them in water which we lovingly change every day for 4 weeks. After the four weeks is up, I’ll put them in brine which we change every couple of days. After about 6 weeks in total, they’ll be ready to marinate in some olive oil with lemon and chili and garlic, if we so desire. Not hard, but requires great patience, Grasshopper.

Stay tuned for Olive Brining, Part 2.

Hooking up with Our Growing Edge for the monthly link up. Come and flash your culinary adventures with us…..only 4 days until this month is closed, but next month there will be another opportunity to tend your growing edge.

Check out deets here.

our-growing-edge-banner

EssentiallyJess is my homegirl, so pop over and see what shaking at ibotville…..

Do you want a piece of me? Holsbys birthday video.

22 Mar

Some of you may know that I used to be an actress.

Now, all of you can see why I gave it up.

You may also note, I have not given up being a total idiot.

Somethings will never change.

I mean it from the bottom of my heart. Your comments, and clicks, emails and love, mean more to me than I can express.

I’m also well chuffed I stuck something out for a year.

Happy Birthday KUWTH. You’re now approaching toddlerhood.

Linking up with WithSomeGrace, to flog myself silly. Go see what Mama G is up to this week.

Whoring around this week with Flash Blog Friday, just so I can flash while I flog. Check out the FBF hostess with the mostess at Twinkle In The Eye

10 Hipster Words You Need To Be Cool

19 Mar

Due to the simple fact that I’m a fairly uncool, almost middle aged person, I realised I needed to get a little jiggy with my hipster speak.

Sadly, I think jiggy went out in early 2000 when the Fresh Prince stopped being known for music and started making in-roads as a serious actor.

I thought I’d share a few spectacular Gen Y-isms that everyone should try to absorb into their vernacular, in order to up their cool rank. Drop this shizzle and you too can sound like your finger is somewhere near the pulse, if not actually on it.

1. Amazeballs

‘That dress makes your eyes look amazeballs’

Not sure how it came about, but can you imagine if you were the first person that ever put those two words together?
His friends would have laughed their arses off at him, and then started using it as an in joke…..and then it went viral.

Would the opposite be suckballs? Should be. I love that too.

Can I start a suckballs revolution?

That would be amazeballs.

2. Rack

A rack is boobs. How someone came up with that, I’ll never know but I guess it has something to do with the top rack.
I don’t really use rack, as I’m not a boob spotter, but I do use rig for the entire kit.

‘Check out his rig’

3. Totes

‘I think he’s a douche bag’ ‘Totes’

I bloody totes love totes. You know why?

Because I’m really important and busy. So busy that using the word totally in it’s entirety is just too time consuming for me.
Using the word totes frees me up more time for Facebooking.

'Gee Burt, your rack looks totes amazeballs in that ensemble!'

‘Gee Burt, your rack looks totes amazeballs in that ensemble!’

4. Povo

‘I’d love to go see One Direction but I’m, like, povo’

I haven’t used this one, personally, but I can absolutely see the value in it.
Especially if I was, like, totally poverty stricken.

5. LOL

Laughing is so unattractive and passe. Your mouth is wide open, you can see your tonsils, you may even snort or slap your thigh. Lolling is the way forward.

No one ever peed their pants lolling.

Pissing myself lolling......(need to work on my trout pout)

Pissing myself lolling……(need to work on my trout pout)

6. Grill

‘He was all up in my grill’

Your grill is your face, or more specifically, your teeth, but for some reason I always thought it was your arse.
Your arse is your trunk.

If you have your grill in someone’s trunk, you’d better hope they’re buying you dinner.

7. My bad

‘Shit, dude, my bad’

This one is a lame arse apology.

Instead of saying sorry, and meaning it, like a normal person, this is to be used when you want to sound flippant and like you don’t really give a flying…… now, in my opinion, if you’re in a position where you should be apologising, and you’re all blasé about it, someone is totes within their rights to punch you in the face.

'Did you just say MY BAD?????'

‘Did you just say MY BAD?????’

8. Shizz or shizzle

These two can have totally different meanings.

You have ‘fo’ shizzle, my nizzle’ means for sure. WTF a nizzle is, I have no damned idea and can not find anything on the net……however, when I googled shizzle I found this, which is way funnier than anything I could ever come up with -

A word most often abused horribly by inexperienced suburban white douche-bags who wish to give themselves some falsified counterfeit form of street-cred.

Pure ghetto gold.

That said, I often also use shizzle for its other meaning. A polite form of shit i.e. I talk a lot of shizzle.
I feel like it’s code so my Nana won’t know I’ve got a mouth like a trucker.

Now I know I have a mouth like a suburban white douche-bag trucker.

My favorite kind.

9. Chillax
‘I like to chillax with a bevereeseplatter’
Brilliant. An amalgamation of two of my favorite things. Chilling and relaxing.
Obviously, amalgamating can’t be done willy-nilly as you’ll sound like a twat and no one will know what you’re talking about.
10.Whatevs
‘It’s your turn to change the baby’s nappy’ ‘Whatevs’
My personal favourite. We all know that ‘whatevering’ someone is the ultimate dismissal, but an abbreviated whatever is about a million times ruder.
Use wisely though, if said in an argument, your argue-ee is well within their rights to bust your grill.

Have you got coolisms to add to my list… help me stay cool.

I need all the help I can get.

Hooking up with totes rad EssentiallyJess cos it’s Tuesday.

Fugly Birthday Cake….how low can we go?

12 Mar hmmmmmmm?

happy birthday cakeOn the 23rd March, we will be celebrating a birthday.

Not D Man’s, although he’s turning 3 soon, nor is it Kiki’s first birthday, although that is looming also.

On the 23rd of March, 2012, I posted my first blog, after two of my dear friends cajoled me into starting a project one morning at the park.
I had been complaining of feeling like I was dying creatively, and in danger of disappearing into a waft of insignificance.

At their suggestion my initial thought was -

 ’What on Earth do I have to say?’

- And wouldn’t you know it, it would appear I have a whole lot to say.

I’m no longer dying or in fear of disappearing, and I can’t believe how fast this first year has gone. I think we could fairly safely say I’ve embraced all things blog.

I’ve made new cyber friends, had amazing exchanges of thoughts and the support I’ve received upon the interwebs has been wonderful and now I feel like it’s time to give something back.

Birthdays are great for many reasons, but none more than CAKE.

Happy Birthday, Justin......you're not a total twerp, you're just misunderstood.

Happy Birthday, Justin……you’re not a total twerp, you’re just misunderstood.

I’ve decided that I’m going to make Keeping Up With The Holsbys a birthday cake…..but it will not be like any old cake ordinaire, oh no. It won’t.

Where’s the fun in that?

I recently posted really freaky-looking cakes and meatloaves shaped like babies (don’t google Meatloaf baby, you can never un-see that) on my Facebook page, and it made me decide I was ready for a cake challenge.

Say it with a heart cake.

Say it with a heart cake.

We know I’m a croissant-making, smarty-pants, over-achiever, so let’s try a challenge of a different kind -

An inappropriate, or fugly, cake challenge.

Is a uterus cake ever appropriate?

Is a uterus cake ever appropriate?

That’s right, folks, I’m going to try my hand at cake decorating for your viewing pleasure, and you’re going to decide what I make.

I wonder if Grandma was at the baby shower?

I wonder if Grandma was at the baby shower?

There is no suggestion to weird, too gross, or too inappropriate, and the one that I deem the most hilarious, I will attempt to make, eat and blog.

I could never kill Hoot, but Hootabelle?

I could never kill Hoot, but Hootabelle?

For a little inspiration I’ve found some truly awful, and strangely awesome, baked delights.

I would serve this one in a cake potty, of course.

I would serve this one in a cake potty, of course.

Drop your suggestion on my Facebook page or in the comments, and let’s get baking!

If I find it too hard to choose I may be forced to put it to a vote, cos we’ll all democratic and shit over here in Holsbyville…..

50 shades of wrong.

50 shades of wrong.

I’m hooking up with EssentiallyJess and the ibots today…..cos it’s Tuesday and that’s how we roll.

It’s time for me to go to rehab.

26 Feb

facebook rehabI don’t know how it happened, and I’m certainly not proud.
I used to actually have a life and I think that that’s where the problem began.

When I was working in nightclubs I’d often see someone who had discovered drugs late in life. They take more than everyone else, get more bent and more ugly, and dance harder, faster, freakier on the podiums and do it more regularly than the young hipsters….well, that’s me on Facebook.

I was a late comer.

I didn’t get the point of MySpace and when everyone was banging on and on about Facebook, I just wasn’t interested. I had a life, thank you, I don’t need to be a voyeur in others’.

I am but a lemming, it would appear, for when people would show me pictures and updates from people I fancied stalking whilst never having to speak to or snicker at from the safety of my chair, I realised that perhaps there was a whole network in/out there that I hadn’t tapped into.

I’m a social person, perhaps the ‘social network’ would be something I could enjoy casually?

Enjoy casually, my arse.

I’m ashamed to say I jones for it like a crack-head and  I need to go to rehab….. or maybe just to Facebook Addicts Rehab Therapy Sessions, or FARTS as they’re more commonly known.

I remember the day I joined the revolution.

I did it on the sly whilst at work. To be more precise, I did it really blatantly because I’m a shocking piss-taker in the work place and within the hour I had a few friends.
Then those friends liked stuff, and then I liked stuff, and then…….I was hooked.

Gaining friends was like a popularity contest, and seeing as I’d never win one of those, it felt like a sudden surge in celebrity.

I would like people I didn’t even like, and read status updates that shat me to tears from small minded bigots until I got so cranky I wanted to repeatedly smash my head against the screen.

One person in particular I was forced to ‘unfriend’ when she was banging on about ‘the boat people’ one day. She was outraged that they received free cigarettes whilst her husband had to pay for his. They were probably only coming here for free durries.

WTF? Why, oh why, was this I reading this twaddle?????

So, I amputated a few people….it felt quite liberating. So I amputated a few more.

I’m not going to be all ‘Facebook is bad, mmmmkay’ because that would be the equivalent of of bashing a friend with a cricket bat, but what I do want to say is that I seriously, truly, need to monitor my usage because this shit is freakin’ addictive.

I doubt I’m alone when I say that my FOMO – Fear Of Missing Out – is at peak hysteria and I check my damn phone waaaaaaay more than truly necessary, to see what’s going on out there in LIFE while I’m in here living Groundhog Day.

With the invention of the iPhone I can check every damned thing all the time wherever I am. Problem is, I do. On the toilet, in the supermarket queue.

In my car. At the lights.

Invariably, I’m not missing anything but I just like to be reassured of the fact.

I’ve started to gauge my day by how much ‘like’ I get.  Oh my god, today I’m, like, totally hilarious/interesting or just plain rad – obviously. I know because I got the big, blue, thumb’s up from all y’all.

Today must be a good day……and I must be cool. High five, yo.

It’s not all bad. I’ve used Facebook for good also. I’ve found some great friends, old and new, and for that I thank Facebook. It truly is a nexus and I really think that little weirdo Zuckerberg might be onto something.

What I am going to do, from this moment forward, with you as my witness, is turn my phone off for two hours a day, and NEVER look at it whilst in the car.

2 hours is not a big deal, it’s 1/12 of a day, and in that time I will be solely 100% focussed on what I’m doing. Just two hours of not splitting my focus and giving a shit about who thinks what about Beyonce’s thighs, what they had for lunch, or trout pouts in the bathroom mirror.

Yeah, good plan. I really do like that….. Just going to go Facebook it.

How’s your Facebook usage? You an addict, or on top of it?

I’d like to give a super big thank you to the fantabulous Jess at EssentiallyJess for making me February’s Blogger of the Mo……and for advocating that Holsby TV gets picked up and turned into a series!

When she contacted me I panicked because I have always thought my mo was something to be ashamed of but I think the light in this picture really highlights the subtle way it accentuates my mouth.

blogger of the mo

Ikea Olympics and Lost Children. Doping highly recommended.

19 Feb

Kiki's new bedAs many of you are aware, Mister H is away for ten days overseas and I’m playing single mummy for the duration.
I’ve called reinforcements in the form a couple of stunt husbands who are doing tag teams.

My first StuntHub arrived with Lime Pannacotta and Tuille (Who the hell makes tuille? Obviously, my stunt husband is gay) and a couple of bottles of vino collapso, and I bought some bubbly to celebrate life, because life ought to be celebrated, no?

I admit freely to being a Cadburys Alcoholic (a glass and a half every day) but I rarely have more than two glasses……there is no need to divulge exactly how much was consumed but I must confess to being a tad surprised and a little impressed (and supremely dusty) as I carried the debrit (read: evidence) to the recycle bin the following morning at dawn’s crack…..because children care not for the over hung and love to wake the crusty.

StuntHub and I had set a date to hit Ikea in the morning, as I needed another bed to sleep my second Stunt Hub, Aunty Prusty. That’s not her real name, but D Man couldn’t say Krusty, which incidentally is also not her real name, but it stuck.

A Nurofen, a plate of pancakes, and a coffee the size of my head later, I was ready to worship the Norse god of affordable homewares.

Have you ever been to Ikea on the weekend?
Ooooof….Don’t do it.

With Kiki in the sling, and D Man holding my hand, the StuntHub and I plunged into the sea of people, shuffling around the grey path with their stubby little pencils, looking at storage solutions they never knew they needed.

In Ikea every man is created equal. Whether you’re a muscular, tattooed couple with kids sporting mullets, or aging lesbians with pale purple hair, once your trolley is laden with flat packs you’ve signed on for the Ikea Olympics. You’re ducking and weaving and racing your way to the finish line, stuffing packets of napkins and meatballs under your arms as you go.

D Man was perky all morning, but shortly after diving into the tidal mass, he began to eye off the furniture, and not in a Interior-Design-Prodigy kind of way.
I’d turn my back for a moment and he’d be laying down on a couch, a bed or a pile of rugs.

This was when I realised that perhaps he didn’t feel very well.

If I was ever going to win Mother of the Year, this would be where I would have turned on my heel and gone home, but once you’re on the pathway, following the little arrows projected onto the floor, there is NO GOING BACK…..you cannot swim upstream, even if you’re clutching a salmon coloured pillow.

We fought our way around as I fought the squeezing sensation somewhere deep behind my eyeballs, loading up our flatbed trolley in a warehouse full of marital issues waiting to happen. They say a couple that can assemble Ikea together is a couple for life.

A turned back and the blink of an eye later, your worst Ikea nightmare happened…..D Man was gone.
He wasn’t in Aisle 7, nor Aisle 8, nor Aisle 6.
Shit. This was going to look very bad when Mister H came home.

‘We don’t have D Man anymore, darling, but we have a new bed!’

I started to call his name, a little cranky he’d wandered off. I walked in one direction, no D Man. I walked in the other, no D Man.
So, I really started to call his name, no longer cranky but with that sickening rising panic that tasted like bile……I was the crazy lady with messy hair and terror in her eyes, stale old wine breath and baby on her hip, screaming for her lost kid in a crowded shop.

It’s funny how you never really think ‘they’re probably hiding’, you always automatically think they’ve been abducted, by some Ikea predator.
People just looked at me. Not one person offered to help.

I would have helped.

No matter how crazy the lady looked.

My heart rate was going through the roof and I started looking for a staff member to help and then StuntHub walked into my line of vision about 20 metres away, holding a pale D Man in his arms.

He’d been lying down.

On top of some flat packs.

It was time to pay for those napkins in my armpit and take this lad home.

I discovered two things on that fateful day.

Never go to Ikea on a Sunday morning with a hangover, and you don’t need a husband if you have an Allen key.

Like Kiki’s new bed?

Hooking up with the lovely EssentiallyJess, for IBOT.

A Letter from my Heart to my Bosom.

22 Jan

the girls Dear Girls,

Boobs have featured heavily in the media this week but this isn’t about that. This is a much more personal matter between you and I, and I think it’s time I addressed the issue.

We’ve had a good run with much glory, but I know you’re feeling really sensitive right now.

I know you’ve done it really tough for the last 2 months. You’ve been plagued with infections and bleeding sore bits, but I just want to take a moment to explain to you why I have not given up on you and your ability to continue to feed.

We had a pretty smooth old ride with D Man, huh? We were an awesome team. There was barely a blip in our feeding and you were seriously producing prodigious amounts of the good gear. His fat cheeks and my leaked upon shirts at awkward moments were testament to how well we worked together.

I was proud of you.

In a totally different way to which I’d been proud of you before (trussed up, poked out, hello boys kinda pride), but this was a gentle pride, that you were awesome at your job.

I knew then that the other kind of pride probably wouldn’t feature so strongly anymore, as instead of proudly pointing to the sun you kind of hung of your head a bit and bobbed about like day old, melting Jello, but that’s cool. They make cracking scaffolding these days and, with a little help we can lift and separate like the old days. You have excelled at the one true job you have…..we lose sight of your true calling in the fun bag fracas.

Many people, my doctor included, gently suggested that this issue we’ve struggled with for the last couple months was perhaps an indication that it was time to stop, to let you go into retirement, but I just want to let you know why I was so doggedly insistent to fix things, so we could just go back to the way we were.

You see, dear ladies of my chest, deep in my heart I think this will be your last tour of duty, and I don’t want it to end on bad note. I don’t want to hang up our feeding bras until we’re ready, until we ween on our own terms because we’re ready to set our little one free…..one more little inch of letting our baby go.

I know she’d be fine. Of course I know that. She scoffs her meals like it’s a pie eating contest, and her thighs could body double for the Michelin Man. She’s ready to stop if need be, but I’m not.

Not because of some stupid infection.

So, that’s why I persevered, and I totally understand why someone wouldn’t. It was shit.

And it made me blue, it made me cry……but we got through it, and now you’re better, mostly……and I can go back to being lazy and not sterilising and pumping or organising everything before leaving the house, because you’re already packed.

And you’re feeling ok.

Welcome back. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be calling on you for, but I’m happy we can decide together. You guys, Kiki and I…..all four of us.

You rock,

Me.

PS I breastfeed everywhere I go. I do not cover up, never have. Can’t be arsed.
I’ve fed in restaurants, on planes, at the beach, on trains, in carparks, parks and cafes. In cities, in the country, in Vietnam, in Germany, in Holland, in Bali, in Singapore…..in fact, anywhere I go…….I will not argue my right to do so, because it’s ridiculous.

PPS This letter is to my bosom. It does not imply for one single second that whatever happened with your bosom is anything less than perfect for you and your girls.

Viva la Bosom Buddies.

 

Hooking up with the lovely Jess over at EssentiallyJess for IBOT……

The Journey From Nappies to Undies……with a dash of bribery

3 Jan

20130103-074935.jpgIf you’re averse to poo stories, you should stop reading here, but let me at least say that this is a poo story that will have a happy ending.
Not all poo stories end so well, like that time in India that I thought it was safe to pass wind.

I’ve been very half-arsed about potty training D Man. I said I’d do it as soon as the weather warmed up, but summer was hot and cold and then raining, so we never really got consistent with pants off time.

We had a swazz on the potty here and there, and once there was an accidental nugget that even surprised him when he checked for a progress report.
Often, after a successful potty mission, he’d not want to go near the potty for days, almost freaked out by us throwing a part of him into the loo and flushing it away.

I’ve also noticed a shift in the way he feels about himself and his body.

My totally carefree little nudey angel has started to feel self-concious. It’s a bit sad.
It’s fair enough with the toilet business, no one has ever built a viewing platform in their toilet so ensure spectator comfort, but I’ve noticed his discomfort at other times too.
He’s become a bit shy about cruising around in the buff, especially if there are other people in the house, and he really, really REALLY doesn’t want his super-hot 20-year-old nanny to change his nappy.
No way, man.
He’s aware that nappies are not sexy.

I do not for one moment profess to be a parenting expert. In fact, I generally make it up as I go along and figure as long as I’m not intentionally creating neurosis in my soon-to-be adults, then I’m doing ok…….except it appears that perhaps I have unwittingly created a little ‘issue’ in my boy. I’ll get to that in a minute.

Now that D Man is T minus 5 days until DAYCARE, I decided I really needed to get serious about this potty business.

In the grand scheme of teaching little ones to use the throne, I think we’re about average for boys. D man is 2 and 8 months, and I know many boys that trained earlier, and I know many boys that trained later. I’m not fussed on what ‘everybody’ did because I knew that until now D Man hasn’t been totally ready, hence the minor success, then no luck for days.

Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is this – WE’RE WINNING!

I’d heard of people having success with bribery reward charts, so I thought I’d do us up a big old D MAN’S POTTY STICKER FABULOUSNESS chart. Points for wee wee, no points for my grammar, but he don’t care.
He gets rewarded by stickers for number 1s and when the ones add up to 5, he gets a small $2 present. When he does that 4 times through, he gets a big present.

A number 2 is an instant chocolate treat……but to be honest, we haven’t quite got there yet. There seems to be some reticence in that area. I’m not stressing but I’m finding myself singing the praises of scat (not to be confused with jazz scatting) after discovering that D Man is a bit embarrassed about the aroma of his expulsions.
We may, or may not, have made light-hearted jokes about needing a gas mask to change stinky pants, and I think our sensitive little soul is now self-conscious about something his father takes great pride in.
I tried to explain that everyone is a bit smelly, and it’s natural. I said I’m smelly, Nana is smelly and Oma is smelly too…..he earnestly looked at me is asked -

Peppa Pig?

I don’t think you all need a blow by blow breakdown of accidents, successes, stickers and presents, but I thought I’d write this in case anyone actually gives a shit that my little man is now, except for nights (anyone got advice on that?) out of nappies and in the cutest little jockey shorts you’ve ever seen.
Also, there is a possibility that you are training your little person and this post may revolutionise your life!

One kid down, one to go.

Hallefrickenlujah.

Practical Parenting Magazine’s review of the Toddler Friendly Recipes Books….. I’ve hit the big time, Ma!!!

19 Dec

magazine clipWhen Practical Parenting Magazine told me they were going to feature my books in the January 2013 issue, I was proud as punch.

It’s not easy to get a feature in a magazine, so it felt like a little early Christmas present to know that they liked my books…….and I’m not even related to anyone in the office!

They told me it was out on the 15th December so I’ve been lurking around newsagents now for four whole days. Not all day, every day, I do have a life, I mean, I need to check Facebook and stuff, but I think the local shop keeps were starting to wonder if I was casing the joint.
One time, I bought D Man a lollypop because the lady started to look at me funny, but the rest of the time I was just cruising the aisles of motorcycle porn and well, porn porn.

But then, today it was there!!

I tore into it, rustling through the pages at the back of the shop like a 15 year old boy trying to look at a girly mag. I got to the end of the magazine and nothing??????!!!!

I checked the cover once more. January? Yep. Practical Parenting? Yep.

Ok, deep breath, and check slowly…………and suddenly, before my eyes, was the magazine debut of my recipe books. Admittedly, I could have done with a magnifying glass, but it was there in full-colour, by jingo, by jove!

Allow me to share my very first proper, printed book review -

GET CREATIVE IN THE KITCHEN

Written by funny mummy (they think I’m funny!) blogger, Danielle Colley, the Toddler Friendly recipe ebooks are full of tasty and easy recipes to temp (sic) little palates, as well as some great backstories and anecdotes.
Toddler Friendly Baking and Toddler Friendly Cooking are $15 each from http://www.keepingupwiththeholsbys.com/holsby-shop

We don’t see my name in print every day, so I knew you’d all be well chuffed for me…….hell, you might even decide that it is, indeed, the perfect Christmas gift for the person who has everything…..or the person that has nothing except a kid that needs to eat.

 

Waving A Rubber Chicken At The World.

16 Dec

rubber chickenI’ve been feeling decidedly un-funny lately. I love busting out a witty, quippy blog, but lately, I’ve not had a lot of meat on my funny bone.

I’m not sure, exactly, where my mirth went.

If funny is like serotonin, perhaps the last few months of amusing posts have been the equivalent of a three-day E bender and I’m in the midst of a funny come-down?
Surely, I haven’t used it up for good, cos it would suck if I had to go through life being profoundly un-funny.
Un-funny people are widely known to be bland, and please God, give me anything but bland.

I suppose, though, that humour is quite a subjective thing.

For instance, there are a number of very popular sit-coms that I have just never been about to get my head around. Big Bang Theory is one such show.

Many people, whose sense of humour I respect and chortle at, have said it’s actually very clever and I should give it a chance.
I simply cannot see the funny. A smirk? Maybe, but it ain’t Arrested Development.

Now, that’s funny.

A Never-Nude who wears denim shorts in the shower, a frozen banana stand and a magic show with ‘The Final Countdown’ as a soundtrack?
That shit is gold………and as much as I love it, Mister H doesn’t dig it.

He doesn’t think it’s funny.

So, it kind of begs the question; What is funny?

Why does one person think one thing is hilarious and someone else just doesn’t dig it? Is it intellect? Upbringing? Culture?

I personally find humor in the unexpected and the absurd……and farts. Also, I really hate canned laughter in comedies. Being told when to laugh is suggesting that I’m stupid. That I can’t work it out on my own. Who came up with that idea, to spell it out?
Somebody unconfident with their jocular prowess, no doubt.

E.B. White once wrote that “humor can be dissected, as a frog can, but the thing dies in the process and the innards are discouraging to any but the pure scientific mind.”

You know yourself that trying to explain a joke to someone just completely kills every little element of surprise, which is the thing that holds the amusement. So, you finish explaining it to them and they go ‘Ah ha’ and generally still don’t laugh because although now they understand the joke, they don’t get it. Which was the issue in the first place.

Let’s have a look at radio, which is a bit of a hot topic at the moment.

Are prank calls funny? Well, I’d sincerely love to look down my nose and say, nooooooooo, prank calls are for chumps, but the answer there is yes. It’s not high-brow humor, but it can be side-splitting.
I can remember spending hours making prank calls as a kid…. and nearly wetting my dacks with laughter.

I once heard of one where a husband rang the radio station on air and had to answer some questions about his marriage. Then they called his wife and if her answers corresponded with her husband’s, then the lucky couple won a holiday.

The final question was ‘Where did you last have sex?’

The hubby got all embarrassed and explained that it was a bit kooky because his mother-in-law is staying with them at the moment and while she was in the shower, this very morning, they had a quicky on the kitchen table.

They called the wife and she breezed through all of the questions and then they got to the final question of their last coital encounter.

She balked. She went all awkward. She stuttered and stammered and she queried whether her husband had really told them that detail?

Her husband assured her, just tell the DJ the truth, and they were home and hosed on their tropical vacation.

She took a deep breath, and with a little giggle, she responded -

‘Up the arse’.

The DJ couldn’t speak for a full two minutes. The rumor is, he laughed so hard he thought he was having a heart attack. The couple won the holiday though. Presumably for not suing the radio station for the mortifying joke they had just become.

I can’t speak for you guys, but I think that’s pretty funny. It’s funny because it was totally unexpected…..and embarrassing.

I do find other people’s embarrassment funny……does that make me a monster?

Naaaaaah.

What of this latest 2DayFM gag?

Just in case you live in a tent it was where the DJ’s rang the English hospital that was treating Kate Middleton for chronic morning sickness and they posed as the Queen. The nurse on duty divulged personal information about the Duchess and in the subsequent shit-storm allegedly took her own life.

There is no way anyone could have known what would happen in that phone conversation, and I dare say they would have been hoping for something unexpected and/or absurd. I’m not going to pass judgement on this situation, the whole world appears to have judged them enough.

I’m sad that the DJ’s are now getting death threats. That’s hardly going to fix things.

Anyway, I feel like a lot of unfunny things have been going on lately, and I reckon I’m not far away from pulling a rubber chicken on the Universe and waving it wildly.
Life is funny.

Even many of the shit bits are funny eventually.

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