my oldest vice.

So after a bunch of unexpected fainting spells last week, or rather, to sound more dramatic and accurate; me losing consciousness for undisclosed periods of time, I have been bed-bound and nannied for the past week and a half. Originally, my Dexter vice was gonna be good enough to get me through this, but I finished the last season and the new one doesn’t air in America until the end of the year. So whilst doing some random Tumblring, I stumbled upon something Daria related, had a fit of nostalgia and then made it my mission to find the entire series streamed online. Thanks to a darling little Russian site that I will link to at request (I’m scared of it getting too much traffic in case it’s suddenly jerked away from my grubby little claws before I can complete it) I have now been reacquainted with this little gem and therefore am going to get it out of my system with what I do best when I’m unwell; MAKING LISTS OF THINGS.

We’ve been through a lot together, TV and I, and now I shall reflect on his brilliance with the 10 best episodes/scenes from Daria (in no particular order). This is also in response to people who ask me which series they should start next, because our generation no longer watches TV per se, we watch TV on DVD. Nothing like the instant gratification of the MTV generation. (Wow, that was almost so poignant that it could be lyrics from an indie band with an animal name in its title.) Even if you’ve seen Daria before, it’s worth a revisit, and here are some classics to jog yer memory. If I’m still sick next week, we tackle movies! Because I am a visual soul, I shall accompany each with PICKCHURS. Or video. Whichever results in less Googling lest I take my own screen caps (and or life). Actually, screw it. Squint your eyes and try to remember real hard.

• Episode: It Happened One Nut
• Synopsis: Whilst Quinn loses a boa constrictor working at the pet store, Daria and dimwitted quarterback Kevin get employed at a nut store in the mall. As part of their job description, they must deliver the same speech every time a customer approaches. Kevin has trouble remembering his lines and screws them up repetitively.
• Quote: Brittany – “Do you think he’s smiling at you because he wants to? He’s not, you know. They’re making him.”

• Episode: The Teachings of Don Jake
• Synopsis: Jane and Trent are sent to represent their parents at a Lane family reunion, which they eventually ditch. The Morgendorffer family are out camping when Quinn, Jake and Helen all eat some wild berries that cause them to hallucinate, and leave Daria alone to deal with the situation.
• Quote: Quinn – “You know, the glitter berries! The ones that fill your mouth with beautiful sparkling glitter when you bite into them!”

• Episode: Dye! Dye! My Darling
• Synopsis: Jane talks Daria into helping her transform herself into her latest painting, by dyeing her hair for her in tiger stripes. Daria botches the hair terribly and Jane accuses Daria of sabotaging her to steal Tom.
• Quote: Jodie – “She had some big surprise she was going to unveil today. She kept talking about the lady or the tiger.” Daria – “Um, the tiger turned out to be more of a penguin with eczema.”

• Episode: Legends of The Mall
• Synopsis: Various characters start telling urban legends; The Fashion Club tells Quinn one about a popular girl (played by Sandi) who loses so much weight that her bones rattle, Trent tells one to Jake and Daria about ‘Metalmouth’ (played by Mr DeMartino) who picks up radio frequencies on his homemade metal dentures, and Jane tells one about a smart girl (played by Daria) who ends up cemented into her family’s bomb shelter.
• Quote: Jake – “Come on! Darn! Move! You’re a car! That’s what you do, that’s all you do! Now do it!”

• Episode: Road Worrier
• Synopsis: Jane and Daria tag along with Mystik Spiral to Alternapalooza so that Daria can try get closer to Jane’s brother, Trent. After Daria being stung by a bee, sitting on a sandwich, breaking her glasses and having to pee in the woods, the car breaks down and they miss the entire show.
• Quote: Tiffany – “Why are we going to Alternapalooza? Ugh. Isn’t that for girls who don’t shave?”

• Episode: A Tree Grows In Lawndale
• Synopsis: After crashing his motorbike into the Tommy Sherman Memorial Tree, Kevin can no longer play football. Lawndale becomes stigmatised as a loser town once the team starts losing due to loss of their star quarterback, and everyone starts to feel the effects. Kevin becomes a motivational speaker on safety for elementary school students, and Brittany believes the girls toilets are inhabited by the ghost of Tommy Sherman.
• Quote: Daria – “You know, if you break up Brittany’s attempt at thought, it looks like a Mystik Spiral song.” Jane – “Armpits have feelings, but not for me. Now what do I do with lips empty?” Are you sure you don’t wanna replace ‘lips’ with ‘skull’?”

• Episode: Murder, She Snored
• Synopsis: The entire football team gets an A on a test, and Mr DeMartino suspects Kevin of cheating and threatens to flunk the entire class. Daria has a long in depth Charlie’s Angels inspired dream about Kevin’s murder.
• Quote: Stacy – “My holster is so pre-Glock.”

• Episode: The F Word (Fail)
• Synopsis: Mr O’Neill sets the class the task of picking something they’ll fail at. Brittany becomes unpopular by talking about current issues, Mack tries to teach Kevin about government, Jodie tries to get time off during the summer, Kevin gets kicked off the football team, and Jane tries an experiment in dressing conventionally, landing her a cheerleading audition.
• Quote: Brittany – “Hey, um, did you know that, umm, there are more bio-rhythmical weapons than ever in the rain forests of Afghanistan and they blow up if you wear the wrong clothes?”

• Episode: Mart of Darkness
• Synopsis: Tom accidentally eats Jane’s art supplies – gummi bears – so she and Daria head out to a new super sized warehouse supermarket, Pay Day. Mr. DeMartino develops a dependency for the free sample Cheez Logs, Brittany and Kevin forget why they’re even there, and the Fashion Club find themselves face to face with “plain” looking moisturiser bottles – in bulk.
• Quote: “A vision of Christ in a half-eaten candy bar? Talk about “My Sweet Lord!” The Immaculate Confection, next on Sick, Sad World.”

• Episode: Life in the Past Lane
• Synopsis: Jane meets 1950’s enthusiast Nathan at a stationary store and starts dating him and dressing retro, despite Daria and Tom’s disapproval. Upchuck starts up his own magician show and captures the attention of Stacy.
• Quote: Nathan – “That’s a swinging look you’ve put together, Daria. Catholic School Girl meets Kings Road London, circa eighty-three.”
  

my newest vice.

I; the eternal anti-jock, have become a gym junkie. Or rather, I would be one if I weren’t such a tight-ass with my money. I’ve instead become one of those people that the rest of us hate – the ones that jog along suburban streets at 5pm in their tight lycra Dri-Fit pants and stupid iPod arm holsters. Hi, my name is Nikki, and yes, I am a endorphin junkie.

I think the cause for this came when I realised that my self imposed Fat Camp wasn’t doing anything. I could ignore the scales, pretend the Wii Fit didn’t exist, and get depressed and stay on Skype ’til 4am eating Cheezels. Don’t get me wrong — this is a fabulous existence if you can manage it whilst carrying on a real semblance of a daytime life. I was not doing this, friends. I was getting fatter and increasingly more sallow, and even my desperation fat-hiding clothes (oh, thank you, Spanx) were not doing their job properly anymore. So I started on the sit-up wagon. I usually do this hardcore for about three days before getting insanely bored with the entire effort. In a very “Hyperbole And A Half” (Google it) way, my approach to any sort of difficult chore is “I did it once, can’t I just stop doing it for 3 weeks now?” I apply this to everything, not just exercise. “I cleaned the dishes YESTERDAY! JEEZUS!” And of course, my kitchen looks like shit a lot. You can imagine what my pathetically worked out body looks like after 4 days of sit-ups. No-fuck-ing-differ-ent than previously.

So, to come to the point. Patches of sit-ups weren’t working. And even if I had obsessively done 100 every night, after a while, it became apparent that I didn’t just have a specific overweight area as previously thought – my entire body is overweight. In an attempt to shock my heart out of its 50-years-too-early coma, I decided one day to see what would happen if I walked. And I realised that I liked being outside, with just me and my headphones. And eventually, over time, I started actually jogging. Then running. Sure, my boobs bounce and hurt, and I mostly only go full speed when I’m alone on the track because I look like a flailing octopus trying to escape the zombies – but it makes me buzz and feel like I’ve accomplished something. If I’d known earlier that your body makes its OWN drugs, I would have become a junkie a long time ago!

My first run involved me wearing my 3/4 maternity tights, my Nike high tops (not at all designed for running) and a fairly horrible New York Yankees hooded vest. I’m not overly vain by any means – I’ll go to Safeway in peroxide stained jammies – but this was not a good look for anyone. Not even Miranda Kerr could pull this shit off. So now I blaze down the trail in my grey Dri-Fit leggings, Nikes swooshes emblazoned on every spare inch of me. My new LunarGlide sneakers have a slot for my Nike+/iPod sensor to speak to my wrist-watch, telling me when the fuck to sit down and stop proving to the world that I’m a hard-ass. I drop in the park and pump out push-ups and sit-ups only to bust out another 3 miles. Melbourne; I am the white Cathy Freeman, hear me roar!

But all this is trivial; I realised whilst running that it is the music that makes me push myself. The first time I really ran – and I mean ran – I was listening to Underworld or something… no, it was “Easy” by Faith No More, and I thought I was running, but apparently when I actually paid attention, I was barely walking. My body moves to the pace of the music. This is probably the same for everyone, but as a fairly stagnant non-runner, I had never really realised this until it happened to me. And now, I present to you, my latest work in progress: BUILD THE ULTIMATE SPORTY MP3 PLAYLIST.

• Pretty much anything with an awesome bass-line by Jay-Z is amazing for running. He is my homestretch guy. When I think my blisters are going to start bleeding all over my Nikes and that I can never walk again, I put on 99 Problems or On To The Next One and I am up that hill like nobody’s business.
• Dr Dre. Yes, I generally listen to Snoop and Dre ironically, but he makes me into a huge indestructible black man from Compton with a big motherfuckin’ chip on my shoulder and a Glock with your name on it. The Watcher, Let’s Get High, Some LA Niggaz and Fuck You (I enjoy running and singing “I just wanna fuck bad bitches” very loudly) are my faves. I will include 2Pac’s California Love in this category, because it’s the same category of tacky wigga love. (As I told a black guy on the streets of Melbourne who was mocking me; “I’m blacker than you”.)
• You Make My Dreams Come True by Hall and Oates. Cheesy as fuck, but it’s upbeat, makes me happy and it has a good pace to run to. Also in this category of 80’s revival beats; Sussudio by Phil Collins. I am Patrick Bateman when I listen to this.
• The Prodigy are another band that make me pump it. Come on, as if you don’t imagine yourself as one of Charlie’s Angels every time you hear Firestarter? Smack My Bitch Up, Girls and Spitfire are among my favourites. All great paced.
• I generally have low regard for The Wu-Tang Clan, (I do however like RZA and GZA) but regardless of my ghetto dismissal of Wu, I have a soft spot for Gravel Pit. Pretty trashy, terrible music video, but has a good hypnotic rhythm and not totally heinous rapping.
• I have to find some Ludacris that works for me. He is amazingly craptastic, and I wish to be deceived that he is amazing. I’m always quite pleased with myself when I start liking things that I know are either incredibly lame or poorly done. Well, that’s not entirely fair. He’s not a bad rapper, he’s just part of an incredibly shallow and ugly mainstream cycle of misogynistic rap that makes me wanna tear out my ovaries. Then again, I do run along singing “All these niggas and all these hoes in here, somebody here gon’ fuck…”
• Everything by Big Boi and OutKast is pretty amazing. That said, I am probably the biggest (white) OutKast groupie ever. BOB (Bombs Over Baghdad) is my choice, if you can go full speed to the entire song, you are a machine and I wish to reproduce with you.
• The only thing I love more than Daft Punk (which I find it hard to run to) is PRINCE. I can’t help it, the man just gets me in my centre and turns me to honey. My opinion with Prince is that you either embrace the cheese and just love it, or you are repelled and need to vomit. I feel a little vom-alicious when I hear his slow lovey songs like I Love U In Me or Let’s Have A Baby, but in general I feel that he has written simultaneously some of the best, cheesiest, sexiest and catchiest songs of all time. I could list favourites here for the un-Prince-familiar, but instead I will say that I am disappointed that I can’t really run to any Prince songs; they just don’t work. The Time, however (Prince’s side project) have a lovely little ditty called 777-9311 that fills the categories of best, cheesiest, sexiest, catchiest and run-worthy. And even if I find that it lags a little, there’s nothing like a brisk walk for 8 minutes and 4 seconds to get your breath back.
• If Prince has a yin to his yang, it is Mike Patton. He is my sex god in all the ways that Prince cannot be. All my favourites of his projects (Fantomas, Faith No More, Lovage, Peeping Tom, Faith No More, Tomahawk) are in their own way, a form of sublime bliss, and he has the best vocal range of any man anywhere ever – I defy you to find someone more versatile! I find it hard to find any of my immediate Patton favourites that work for running, but Tomahawk’s God Hates A Coward is good for when I need to slowly jog up a hill and feel like I’m making bad-ass mammoth progress up Mt. Kosciuszko when I’m actually just being a pussy. Other Patton projects that work for running? The following Faith No More hits; The Gentle Art of Making Enemies, Last Cup of Sorrow, A Small Victory, and Midlife Crisis.
• The Chemical Brothers work in the same way that The Prodigy does; it makes you feel like an extra in an adidas commercial and let’s be honest – that is awesome. (For the same phenomena, see also; Justice.) Push the Button is a pretty underrated album, and I find The Boxer is a great song to work out to, as well as The Big Jump.
• Back in the ghetto, much love goes to Busta Rhymes. He is a pinnacle of ridicule, but I love me some Busta; the speed of his rapping alone pushes me to run faster. Gimme Some More, Light Yo’ Ass On Fire (Pharrell love!) and Break Ya Neck (hopefully not literally) are my favourites to run to.
• Last but certainly not least – the song that always makes me wanna hit the pavement; Roots Manuva’s Witness (One Hope). And when I’m really not feeling it, I sing WITNESS THE FITNESS at the top of my lungs (or inside my head) and instantly I laugh and think I’m awesome. (Trust me, this helps.)

I’m sure I’ll think of more in the coming weeks (I usually randomly think of something whilst running or I find an amazing treasure on YouTube.) I cross-posted this pretty much every website that I have an account to, but again, feel free to suggest any of YOUR favourites.

For those who remember when my blogging was…

For those who remember when my blogging was actually meant to be a recording experiment of the things my children did and said instead of complaining via a virtual forum; I’m heading back to that, and what better way than to segregate my dark from my light! You can find all my favourite quotes from Beatrix (and in time, when she comes out with some, Indiana too) @

shitmykidsays.wordpress.com

All scheduled Nikki-related boredom that is too long for Twitter and not important enough for Facebook, check back here!

fat camp.

No, not really, but I’m tempted to make t-shirts to make myself commit. I’m gonna lose 10 kilos before January and get down to 68kg. I even have that hateful scale system in the Nintendo’s Wii Fit board tracking me and my current weight and my goal period so someone makes me feel guilty and bad if I start eating Pringles or being a slack-arse. It may be a digital someone, but anything’s better than letting ME be in charge of the scales. It needs to be a traumatic experience so I’ll take it seriously. If there was software to make the Nintendo swear at me, I’d hack it. That said, I’m not just jumping up and down on my balance board. I walk regularly as it is and plan to kick that into a bit more of an aggressive gear, and I’m doing sit-ups twice a day. I don’t wanna become an exercise weirdo or a gym junkie or get fucking “toned”, I just want one area of my body to not be there anymore: the empty baby house.

It’s not that I think I’m hideous or that I *need* to be skinny because of society pressure or whatever the fuck – Hell, I’ve never even liked being thin. I’d rather have a few curves when it comes to the end of the day. I have big boobs – I always will, and I need something to balance it out. But it’s gotten to the point where buying clothes is distressing me, and nothing I own fits anymore and really, I own a lot of nice things that I spent a lot of money on! I don’t wanna throw them away only to have to wear clothes from the middle-aged section of Target. Where I am right now, I am in the last size of the “normal” sizes (I’m a 16, I’m not ashamed to tell you!) and I had trouble buying a bra when I was a size 12 because of my chest size, so it’s now a task that involves swearing and tears and flesh-toned granny bras to get to the 6th letter of the alphabet. Extra weight means extra weight everywhere. It’s starting to get dire.

I don’t care if I can never wear a bikini again, or that I have stretchmarks and cellulite, or if my arse keeps all my baby weight, or if my arms are soft rather than ripped. I’d mostly like to slouch less, wear jeans again, and stop having to put props on my lap when I sit on the train because of my baby-belly. Okay, let’s be honest; my baby-belly that I never worked on that is now a baby-belly full of “easy” food. I’m an emotional eater; I eat when I’m upset. I’m an entertainment eater; I eat when I’m bored. And I’m a lazy eater; I eat unhealthily and at incorrect times. And yes, I could do what I’ve been doing for the past 5 years, saying “Mothers are supposed to be squishy” or “I have a woman’s body now” which are all really hiding the real issue – it’s fine if that’s how you really feel about yourself and you’re comfortable, but I’m not. I turn the lights off when I take my clothes off around my partner! I have no-touch zones because they make me self-conscious. That’s a sign that something isn’t right.

And you’re probably reading this thinking, “who the fuck cares?” Well, yeah. I don’t expect everyone to tune into fucking online episodes of Nikki as The Biggest Loser, but maybe if I write this down (I will not delete, I will not delete) it will make it more concrete and I will dedicate myself to changing my lifestyle and my habits.

I don’t think I’m the first mother to say this, but I’m really starting to not only just get tired of dealing with my teething baby, but I don’t enjoy her. On any level. This is causing me to feel like the world’s worst parent, that in the 15 minutes per day that she’s actually enjoyable in the past week, I just tell her to go away and leave me be, or I find something like the dishes to do and plonk her for some stress-free minutes in front of Sesame Street. She wakes about an average of 12 times a night, (last night it was 3 times and that was a great night) and she is fired up and inconsolable. I am exhausted, and part of me is irrationally angry at a very small person who is going through a shitty time that makes her violent, sore, tired, sick and gives her the world’s most god-awful runny shit. So why can’t I suck it up and be a grown-up and just feel sympathy for her?
Don’t get me wrong, a big part of me feels bad because I want to make this better for her and I can’t. The other part of me is angry because three days ago I fell down the stairs and fucked up my back, and I *still* have to endure her crap, regardless of being too sore to bend or pick her up 90% of the day and being tranked out of my mind on muscle relaxants. Kids don’t understand when a parent is unwell or hurt, and they’re not meant to. My job is to be here for her, and I am. Maybe part of me is also angry in that when situations like this happen, I feel pretty down and alone not having an actual partner that I feel like I can ask for help or support or to give me a bit of respite. I feel like if it’s my weekend with Indi (uh, but when isn’t it?) that I need to shut up and suck up my problems, regardless of how bad or upset or injured or sick I feel, because somehow my co-parent missing out on having a beer with his friends or me interrupting his having some time to himself seems worse to me than the fact that I’m having a generally bullshit time.
I guess the point I’m vaguely getting to is that it’s perfectly natural and normal to want your own space for a few minutes to regroup and gain sanity. It’s okay to get over it and cry or get angry because you’re exhausted and stressed – it doesn’t mean that I don’t love my children. I need to accept these feelings as normal and just move on or put her in the cot to scream while I have a shower and pretend she doesn’t exist for 10 minutes. I need to stop thinking it’s a sign that I’m not cut out for this or that I’m a tremendous arsehole, because I know those things aren’t true deep down.
This week I am not feeling it! I am angry! I am sore! I will own it and not be ashamed! Fuck you, teething!

Edit – we have discovered that on top of all this, she has an inner ear infection and a cold. Now some things make sense…

oops, i did it again

I could blather for a million posts about how amazingly good it was to get away and the awesome time that we had, but the truth of it is that it is now overshadowed by me feeling like yet again, I have gone out on a limb without realising that I’m out there by myself. I have photos, but I’m fairly certain that if I post them I’ll fly into an uncontrollable rage, and I’m trying very hard to keep everything together right now.

He assured me while we were there that it was amazing and he felt very spoiled and lucky, and he genuinely seemed to be having a good time – but now that we’re home in the real world, perhaps it’s become too much. Perhaps it lead to an near all-night conversation in which everyone involved cried. Perhaps I’ve been eating chocolate ever since and probably weigh 7 extra kilos on top of the 20 that I’m supposed to be losing. He said if he’d known about the “surprise” beforehand, he would have said not to bother. That it was too much, that he wasn’t ready for something like that. Jesus. How can I have misinterpreted a situation so badly? The worst part is that I let something like this greatly define my self worth. Please don’t get me wrong, I don’t do generous things just because I want to get them back. I honestly get joy out of seeing people’s faces when I bestow either a gift or something I’ve made or a surprise I’ve organised upon them. That’s enough for me in itself. But when it gets to the point that you start to feel like maybe that crazy stalker sending her underpants to Michael Jackson and you’re not only not getting any reciprocation but inducing this kind of facial expression that can only be likened to the following emoticon :S, then you probably have a slight situation on your hands.

And the real kicker is that I don’t really see anything wrong with the way I am affectionate. I don’t feel like I should have to or need to change. I’m not going completely insane and overboard with the jewellery or putting myself into financial debt. I don’t go out on missions to find gifts, if I see things, I sometimes buy them. Fuck, when did being generous start to make me feel bad? Maybe when I had the sudden realisation that yes, I may finally have slipped into insanity, because I’m having a relationship with myself. In my head. I have constructed something that is simply not there with a participant that is obviously unwilling. Maybe I’m putting an overly dramatic spin on it. There is love from his end, but it’s not the kind I require. It’s like the love you have for a sad old faithful dog or your sister – it’s not the kind of love that makes you want to stay with someone, or that makes you think about them when they’re not there. I don’t see myself as demanding or bossy, but realistically I am still a person, and after a certain amount of time there’s some things that become less like “wants” and more like “needs”, if nothing but for the sake of my own self-worth. I don’t like having to depend on someone else for that, it’s fickle and inconvenient, but there it is.

Sometimes I wish I’d stayed a virgin until I found some nice, boring loser to marry. Sex and love and everything around it confuses and ruins everything. I wish I didn’t know any of these feelings. I wish I was naive and lonely instead of whatever it is that I am now, because sometimes my heart hurts so badly that I honestly can’t imagine ever feeling happy again. If you’re in a shitty relationship or a shitty situation that isn’t working for you, why is it so impossible to pull the plug? All I want is to be content and not feel bad. I’m not getting what I need here, so why am I clinging to it? Love is ridiculous. It should be a basic self defense mechanism that you don’t love what is bad for you.

I sound awful. He isn’t a bad person, but it’s getting clearer and clearer as events transpire and time goes on that he has issues with me that may never go away. I had 2 babies without his permission and took away some of his life choices. He isn’t over that and I’m not sure how to get past that. He’s ashamed to tell his family about me because he thinks they’ll be disappointed. That’s not my perception, that’s a direct quote. He’s also disappointed, because he thinks he’s doing a bad thing by being with me.

I guess I must have missed the period where it became obvious that I was such a bad person that people’s parents would actually be angry at their children if they dated me. It doesn’t make me feel like a good or decent person to hear these responses to me. I feel like maybe all this work I’ve done in therapy to change myself was for nothing, because my good deeds go unnoticed, unreported, and there is still the idea that I am a bad, horrible seed that is no good. I am a dirty little secret and I that’s how I feel. Dirty and repellent.

I probably sound like a victim and I’m not surprised if you want to kick me in the balls while reading this. Yes, I did this to myself, and yes, I have the power to end it. I can only liken my feelings to that of discovering a rare, endangered creature that will disappear forever if I leave it behind – I am completely torn between finding something balanced and healthy and good for me, and staying with this creature that produces feelings in me that I can not describe, lest I burst into tears. I don’t have words for what I feel for this individual. I have integrated him so deeply into my life and my soul that I literally feel lost without knowing that he’s part of it. The times I have tried to move on have rendered me useless for weeks and months unending. I don’t want to become a pathetic zombie and show my girls that this is how you deal with situations, because I’m ashamed of myself when I act that way. I want things to be better but I’m not ready to give up. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to give up. It would take a lot to get me to decide that this was completely toxic, because there’s so much that just fits completely like a laser-cut puzzle. We have so many sames and we finish each others sentences and we’re on the same wave length. We’ve grown from teenagers into adults together. We’ve raised two little girls. And like my children, I love him unconditionally, even when he’s driving me to the point of insanity. I cannot turn it off. He is in my head and my heart, and he is part of my family – not the family I was born into, but the family I have made for myself. The kind that holds more weight, because this – unlike your bloodline – is something you have chosen for yourself.

I probably need to stop typing this. Don’t be surprised if I delete this post in a few hours, days, weeks. It depresses me to think that I keep letting this happen to myself over and over in the hopes that it will change – for my sake, for his sake, especially for the girls’ sake. I don’t want to give up hope but I want to stop hurting myself. I want to be able to be resilient and patient. I am neither of these things, and perhaps more than anything, even more than acquiring his love, these are the things I really need.

surprise!

So, I’ve been hesitant to put too much of a hint online about what I’m doing for my pre-Father’s Day surprise for my honey, mostly because I’m scared he’ll see it and it’ll blow the surprise, but I’m fairly confident that he doesn’t know Twitter or WordPress exist, and I have to blab it somewhere!

I’ve booked us a deluxe suite at The Blackman for just the two of us, which is the newest of the Art Series Hotels that are scattered around the inner suburbs of Melbourne. Each hotel is designed to a theme around the works of an artist – The Cullen (Adam Cullen), The Olsen (John Olsen) and The Blackman (Charles Blackman) respectively, and houses their paintings in each room. Having seen the exterior of The Cullen and being quite impressed that it wasn’t just another annoying beige businessman shithole, when I saw that The Blackman was having fairly reasonable opening rates and a lot of the decor was hot pink (!) I decided to be a little bit cheeky and just book it without telling anyone. He has no idea where we’re going, only that he is to arrive at my house at 2pm and to bring clean underwear. I think this has added a layer of horror and anticipation at exactly what the fuck we’re doing and what I’m going to do to him, because he knows whatever it is, it’s expensive. At this stage he has it narrowed down to either copious high-class drugs or skydiving; both involving clean underwear due to soiled pants!

Mostly, more than anything, I’m enjoying the idea of just being able to relax with him, without worrying about tantrums or stinky nappies or the girls waking us up at 5am. I have a loose idea that we’ll probably go shopping or to some galleries in the afternoon, get some dinner somewhere, maybe some beers… the only thing I have really “planned” is heading off to Red Bennies (South Yarra) to see Lilikoi Kaos perform her unique brand of circus cabaret, because it’s near our hotel and it’s only 10 bucks. That said, I’m flexible and don’t really care if we sit in the hotel suite for 18 hours! Then the next day on Father’s Day, we’re taking the girls to Melbourne Zoo for a picnic. It should be good fun, here’s hoping the weather improves though or we’ll be picnicking on the floor of the aquarium! I’ll post some photos once we get home, because I act like a Japanese tourist when I go anywhere… Oh, did I mention that this hotel is 5-star? Go on, feel what I want you to feel; jealous!

♫ “Heartbreaker” – MSTRKRFT and John Legend

found love letters

Whenever I feel sad, lonely or angry (or content and filled with love), I look at murals from http://www.aloveletterforyou.com/ and they always make me feel full and happy and like the world is generally a beautiful place. That, and it makes me cry. (Sentiment and typography all at once, it’s my dream world.) These ones are my particular favourites right now, I feel they sum up my current mind state. I defy you to check it out and not find something that touches or speaks to you, artistically or otherwise.

♫ “My Friend Richard” – Muscles

no!

I haven’t forgotten you, little blog, just nothing is new. No new house (fuck!) and no big events.

Indi has a few new words, “duck, all gone, cat”. Seeing “Scott Pilgrim V The World” twice has made me hate my newly brunette hair and I’m dyeing bright tufts of pink and blue tonight (alas, I found no green). That’s about as exciting as it’s gotten! I am working on a nice (albeit expensive) surprise for Ross for Father’s Day, so I’ll be back with that, and photos. Very soon. I promise!

movin on up

So I could lacquer this post with “I’m a big girl!” slogans and throw in some shit about my destiny and adulthood, but really, I’m mostly lookin’ for a new place to live because I’m worried that me and my girls are going to give my mother a heartattack soon, and realistically, the woman deserves her own space. If you can’t get it by your mid fifties, there’s a slight cause for concern. It will be more than a huge adjustment, and yes, the first feeling that the entire scenario makes me think is “LONELY”, but I think it will be a very great and important step on the road to becoming IndependentMe! – who seems to be dwindling a bit as of late. I feel a bit like I’m living the existence of a stunted adolescence, and that doesn’t really make me feel like a good person, let alone a role model for two little girls who I am the sculptor of.

Luckily, this afternoon, we’re going around the corner to check out a little apartment above a shop on the main road. It is less than a 5 minute walk from my current residence, it is 2 bedrooms and a lot closer to the railway line than we currently are. It is also still remarkably close to Bea’s future primary school, and I think if I can keep most of the day care and schooling plans that I had concreted, then it will seem like much less of an uproot and mindfuck to have to move all of a sudden.

This isn’t to say, however, that we are being kicked onto the street. Not at all. And this isn’t to say that we will definitely secure the property. My rental history has been pretty poor in the regard that not many are willing to rent to someone with no actual job (even though my income is much more regular and secure than most people of my age group) and who has a mohawked picture on their KeyPass (ID) that looks like Marilyn Manson’s child-bride on steroids. I consider myself a pretty responsible, quiet, motherly tenant; and it sucks a little bit that I’m fairly certain that they just throw my application straight into the bin as soon as they see my concession card number. Sigh! I’m hoping that this place is such a hole that I’m the only one that shows up – and that it’s a hole in the quaint, Brunswickian way that I can cute up and deal with – not a hole in the rotting staircase sort of a way…