Making me laugh

It is a truth universally believed by me that the ability to laugh at yourself is the best ability there is. Life is funny and we are the funniest things in it. I get a right good crack up out of my own stupidity, gaffes or seeming inability to spell SpHinx on a daily basis. It seems science is finally cottoning onto my universal truth - if you can laugh at yourself you're apparently more cheerful and less serious (Really! The things they learn through research! It's amazing! Exclamation!).

Toushka wrote a post last Friday that perfectly showcased why laughing at yourself is the best medicine there is. Caz had a great laugh at her "mummy brain" on Saturday. Mrs Woog does it daily.

I think my mother would be breathing a sigh of relief as she reads this post (hi Mum!). When I was a youngster, I took myself very, very seriously. Very serious. I used to actually cry when my Mum encouraged me to laugh at myself, I think I thought that admitting my failures was the biggest failure of all and heaven forbid you expect me to actually draw attention to them. I was just so embarrassed to admit any kind of weakness or failing.  Like some kind of weird android.

These days I've grown up and my own humiliation is something I think is ridiculously funny. Making myself laugh is one of my favourite past times. I'm glad I grew up. I grew up, had a bloody good laugh and now spend my days encouraging a (crying) Cappers to laugh at herself. She is very, very serious... Very serious.

Can you laugh at yourself?

[Image by *Cinnamon]

Me interviewing Me

If I had to offer three pieces of advice to a girl just reaching adulthood, what would I tell them?*

This question kept me awake last night. Me interviewing Me often keeps me up and busy in the middle of the night. Do you do that too? Ask yourself questions as if you were being interviewed and the masses were hanging on your every word over their morning cuppa? Hmmmm, perhaps that's just me...

In particular, I used to be at my most witty and charming when being questioned for the 'Upfront' section of the Good Weekend and was gutted when they removed that section during one of their thoughtless makeovers. They've replaced it with 'You Do What?', which examines all the fascinating jobs lucky ducks get to do (like run Lord Howe Island) while the rest of us get to answer "yeah, I sit around on my fat arse all day typing acronyms into a computer and wondering why my life has no meaning." Hmmmm, perhaps that's also just me...

Anyway, in the spirit of Me interviewing Me, I like to revisit that old Upfront column from time to time and thought I'd share my latest (most witty and charming) answers with you. Look away now if you have a low tolerance for boredom.

My earliest memory is... driving from the Territory to Far North Queensland for Christmas. My little sister is still a baby in her moses basket on the seat between Mum and Dad upfront. My older sister and I are sitting in the back of the station wagon on a mattress, watching the brown land whizz by.

My school report usually said... "Easily distracted". Probably due to the fact that I was interviewing myself in class constantly.

My first relationship... was all in my head. Thank god.

I don't like talking about... people's dreams. If you think this is boring, imagine if I'd started this post with 'last night I dreamed I was a...'

My most treasured possession is... my creativity. Is that a possession? Probably not. Okay, I'd say my children's early artworks.

My father always told me... that Maths was logical. Such lies.

In the movie of my life, I'd be played by... some poor B-list smuck who thought the gig would be more interesting than waitering. How wrong she was.

I wish I had... the ability to hear through walls without using a glass. Not that I'd know if the glass trick works, of course. 

I wish I hadn't... eaten approximately 10,000 kilos of chocolate over my lifetime. As soon as it's swallowed, the memory is gone. It's like getting fat for nothing.**

My most humiliating moment was... probably unfolding as soon as I hit 'Publish' on this post.

My guiltiest pleasure is... see 'I wish I hadn't' above.

My last meal would be... savoured. Or probably just wolfed down like a starving mongrel dog like all my other meals, old habits and all that. Regardless, I'd be eating anything that I didn't have to cook myself.

Can you believe we're only half-way down the Upfront list? I think I'll save the other half for another post, but in the meantime, dare you to answer the same questions! Copy and paste these questions in the comment box:

My earliest memory is... 

My school report usually said...

My first relationship...

I don't like talking about... 

My most treasured possession is... 

My father always told me... 

In the movie of my life, I'd be played by... 

I wish I had...

I wish I hadn't...

My most humiliating moment was...

My guiltiest pleasure is...

My last meal would be... 

And answer away! Or do your own post and pop the URL into the comments so I can go and check out your interview.

Me interviewing Me is really rather fun! Promise!

* Today I would say: being alone is different to being lonely, get to know yourself; Marry the man who makes you feel single; Be grateful for the little things because that's where happiness can be found. But tomorrow... well, I'll have to think about that tonight!

** With kudos to my Mum, for this is her favourite expression. She rates many things as 'getting fat for nothing' - dark chocolate, blue cheese and pasta carbonara among them.

[Image found here]

The trampolining nudist

A little while ago the Tsunamis and I went for one of our 'little walks' where we just head off for a wander and talk around the neighbourhood. We were passing by one of Maxi's classmate's house and they all begged to go in for a visit. I had reservations because as much as I love a 'pop in' (I'm a country girl after all), I wasn't close to the mum and didn't know if it was appropriate. I figured we could just knock on the door and I could say 'we were just passing by and if it's not convenient we'll head straight out'.

Which is exactly what we did. But the minute she opened the door, I knew it was a mistake, she looked frazzled and caught out and not at all impressed to find us on the doorstep. I made to leave but she insisted that we come in and wouldn't hear of us going. I felt trapped by her politeness and annoyed that I hadn't thought the scenario through properly. This is the city, people, and city people just don't do the pop!

So we sat down for a cup of excruciatingly polite conversation while the children went outside onto the trampoline. Between helium-light exchanges about work and school and babies we could hear the children outside having enormous amounts of fun. Ah well, I thought, it's worth it if the kids are that happy.

Then the cry went up: "Ha, ha! Maxi's got his pants down, Maxi's got his pants down".

Oh dear, I thought. There he goes again.

Maxi-Taxi is a born naturist. Ever since he was a baby he's loved to get his kit off and let it all hang out (so to speak). He is famous for his after bath 'rudey nudey runs', which even at seven he still proudly does for Gran and Pops when they come to visit. They are thrilled, as you can imagine.

My companion looked concerned. "Did they say his pants are down?" she asked. "Underpants?"

"Oh yes, probably Maxi's alwa -" Before I could finish the sentence, she had shot out of her chair like a gun going off, the chair falling backwards and clattering to the floor with an almighty bang. She raced across the room and flung herself onto the balcony that overlooks the backyard, her face as white as a sheet. Oh my god, I thought. Did I miss something? I leapt after her at speed.

The scene below was a nudist carnival. By this stage all six children had their pants down and were jumping up and down, chanting their new favourite song, the "pants down on the trampoline" song. It was a merry sight indeed.

"Oh my god!" my companion screamed over the balcony. "Get your pants on! Get them on! Dear god, put them on!"

"Oh, come on, they're only children," I soothed. "Just having a bit of fun."

"Fun!?" she screeched. "Fun!? My daughter has been exposed to a Penis and you call it fun?"

Uh oh. She used the capital P word. Uh oh.

She turned back to the romping festival and her voice carried across the treetops all the way to China. "GET THOSE PANTS ON NOW YOU FILTHY LITTLE CHILDREN. NOW!"

Well, that was certainly the end of the "pants down on the trampoline" song. All children immediately stopped jumping. Except for the Badoo, who continued on her merry way and started to take her top off for good measure. Bless that Badoo.

"I hardly think they're 'filthy', um, that's a really strong word," I ventured, terrified of the moral indignation that was all white eyes and flaring nostrils beside me. "They're too young to know about such things."

"Not too young, never too young. My daughter needs to be Protected, can you not see that?" She glowered at me, repulsed by my lazy assessment of the situation. Her eyes shot bullets at this loose, moral-desert she found before her. "No wonder your child is Exposing Himself to his school friends!"

Whoa, Miss Nelly, I thought. But, you know, in life there are some battles that you just know will kill you so I elected to bunker down in the trenches. I resisted the urge to flash her my boobs and simply called "Get your pants on, kids. It's getting dark and we have to be getting home."

Amidst the inevitable "Oh mum, we just got heres", I bustled them over to the hedonistic freedom beyond the front door. 

"Righto," I said. "We're off. Thanks for the cup of, ah, tea."

"Oh, you're going?" she purred, all traces of righteous anger washed away by the sight of fully-clothed children. "That's such a shame. You know, we hardly ever see you. We really should get together for a family barbecue. Are you free next weekend?"

"Next weekend? Well, we do have that family Nudist Convention on," I said blithely. "But maybe the weekend after?"

Ha! Not true. I mumbled something about checking my calendar and got the hell out of Dodge. Shaken, stirred and downright offended. What the hell happened there?

Do you think children pulling their pants down on the trampoline and singing about it is morally repugnant?

Is it common practice for people to serve up a cup of righteousness along with their tea?

Is it wrong that I still laugh out loud when I recall this Perfectly bizarre moment in my life?

[Image via weheartit]

This week I'm grateful for... the laughing cry

Some days you've gotta laugh or you'd cry. I like to do both at the same time.

All week I've been mental at work. I'm making approximately fifty five decisions an hour and everyone wants a piece of me. Just so busy that my head spins.  I'm getting through it on a carefully planned schedule and good old fashioned humour. So, don't fret, I'm okay.

But this morning my work crisis went straight out the window.

The Badoo's usual Friday routine is that LOML drops her off on his way to work in the city ("Dad", as she calls him, never "Daddy" or "Dadda" as the older Tsunamis do) while I do the school run because I work from home on Fridays, but today we only had one car, so it was me.

On the school run she seemed a little quiet, she complained of a sore tummy. No, she didn't want to go to the toilet, no she wasn't feeling sick. She wasn't hot, she wasn't miserable, just 'sore'. So I decided to drive her over to Nonno's on schedule and maybe I'd still make my 9 o'clock meeting.

By the time we arrived, she was miserable and crying from the pain. She indicated that she was 'really, really sore' lower in her abdomen. I freaked out (as you do). I thought 'something she ate', I thought UTI'.

I really thought 'appendectomy'.

I gave her a hit of Panadol to help quell the pain and drove her to the medical centre. I made calls on the hands free all the way there to rearrange my busy working day. Little Badoo was crying out how much it hurt by this stage and I thought 'maybe they'll see her first since she's so little'.

I really thought 'Emergency, stat'.

By this stage, everyone in the waiting room was freting for this poor child who was obviously in incredible pain. I had already mentally rearranged the next week of my life ready for the hospital stay. A number of kind people came over to us to say that the Badoo could take their place if they were up next. I was beside myself with worry over my darling little Badoo who was by now a huddled, cuddled mess in my lap. Then she sobbed, "I need the toilet".

I raced her to the toilet, ready for the projectile vomit of blood and almost in tears because I should have taken her directly to the Emergency department for her apendectomy requiring a week's stay at the hospital.
Then she weed. And weed. And weed. And, dear god, weed some more.

When she had finished pissing Niagra Falls, she said, "I'm all better now." And smiled. And skipped back to the waiting room where the doctor came out immediately and called "The Badoo". Of course she did.

Surprisingly, there is no treatment necessary for a child needing to do a wee. The doctor humoured me by performing a tummy squeeze here and there, but with the Badoo singing nursery rhymes at the top of her voice and giggling because the doctor was 'ticking me', we both knew there wasn't really a whole lot to say.

So, this week I'm grateful for...

130. The laughing cry - those silly moments when life is just so superbly sweet and sour all at the same time that as much as you want to cry, you simply have to laugh.

131. The crying laugh - when you are laughing so hard that the tears are streaming and your laugh rattles your bones. My favourite kind of laugh.

132. Any old laugh - the more then merrier. How else are we ever going to get through it?

So, what's making you smile today? Add your I'm Grateful For post to the list below (and please, we love you, but it really does matter that your post is a Grateful one and not just a random), add the button (grab the code from my sidebar and paste it into your post) andpretty-please add a link back to me.  Then pop over to visit other bloggers who are spreading a little sunshine. 

You can also link up with our British cousins over at Michelle's Reason's To Be Cheerful and maybe make a new bloggy bud. They're doing 'new blogs to find' this week too, always fun.

[Image via weheartit]

Let's talk about toilet paper

From secretly appreciating those odd little toilet paper arrows in hotel rooms, to being faintly nauseated by the sight of a used roll*, I've always been a little bit weird about the humble toilet roll. The paper has to go over the top of the roll, it has to be white, I'm (shhhh) just not that into the recycled stuff and for the love of god, don't call it 't.p.'. In addition, I cannot enter into discussions about folding and scrunching... I just can't. And, please, take your patterns elsewhere, I cannot look.

In Africa and the Middle East and most of Asia, toilet rolls are few and far between. To be honest, those Italians aren't that big on keeping the toilet well stocked either. In all these places, I went, I saw, I walked around with an entire toilet roll in my pocket, just in case. I did. Big pockets.

99% of the time, wherever I am, I am the one to change the toilet roll. Doing a roll changeover appears to be my life's work and I'm no shirker. Nothing riles me more than seeing two mangy squares still attached to an otherwise empty roll. Seriously, what is that? Is toilet paper so laborious to change that we have to fake a full roll, just to get out of changing it? The two-sheets-left act is just so calculated, so stingy. It says a lot about a person... but what, I'm not exactly sure.

Too much?
Where do you stand (sit) on toilet paper? White? Patterned? Recycled? 

Any odd little habits you'd like to share?

* Even used rolls used as beautifully as in the Yuken Teruya artwork pictured here. Even them!

[Toilet roll tree by Yuken Teruya]

The third drawer down is on the up

Remember when I shamelessly revealed my crazy third drawer down? Well... look at it now. Yes, that's it in the pic above. Can you believe it? I am officially crowning myself (as one does) the Queen of Clutterbusting. I'm very sorry reigning Queen of Clutterbusting, wherever you are (probably working for the actual Queen or something), but I'm taking over the coveted title.

See those little cuppy things and the bigger tray things? They all snap together and you can make any combo that fits. I bought the lot for less than $20 at Howards Storage World.

Embarrassingly, the whole job took me under an hour.

I'm freeeeeeeeeeeeee!!

Of course, I am not blind to the fact that there is a lot of room on top of all those marvellous cuppy and tray thingies so PLENTY of space for throwing things in with a nonchalance that would immediately strip me of my Queen of Clutterbusting title. So, don't worry, that third drawer down will be back to utter chaos in no time. I'll give it... oh, a week.

But let me gloat for that week, okay? I'm freeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeee!!

How do you go with the clutter busting? Can you live in chaos or does it send you bonkers?

There's a frog in my pants

Last weekend I was feeling too lazy to walk up the flight of stairs to my bedroom (this happens quite regularly) so I ducked out to the clothesline to grab a fresh pair of knickers. I collected them, brought them inside, started to put them on and... out jumped a real-live frog. Ta da!

Now, I take great pride in telling people that I'm 'from the country'. It's my little differentiator amongst my city-posh friends and city-suited colleagues. I like to think it gives me a wholesome, scrubbed-faced demeanor when I'm going about my ordinary grey city life. A touch of pink about the cheeks. Me? Oh, I'm a country girl.

The truth is that while I did indeed grow up in a large country town, we lived on the decidedly un-rural main street. There was a horse over the back fence once upon a time and we found a dead chicken in our yard one year, but that was about it for us and country living. Gran and Pops still live in the same house I grew up in and the Tsunamis even refer to our visits as 'going to see Gran and Pops in the city'. So, no, not really a country girl at all.

So the frog in the pants thing was more of a problem than you might think.

It just did the one jump. More of a startled leap, really, as if he was saying 'sure, take me off the clothesline, drag me inside the house, but I am not going anywhere near that bottom'.

After the jump, he sat on the floor, looking contentedly around. A little croak saying: New digs; roomier. I've got a roof over my head, there's an ensuite. I kinda like it.

I wasn't so sure. It's one thing to have a house in the bush (in the city), quite another to share it with bonefide country-type wildlife. LOML was called for and the frog was smartly despatched out back. What on earth was he doing in a backyard that didn't have a pond? The creek is easily about 100 metres from the house, down a cliff, around a little bend, leave a trail of breadcrumbs. Oh gosh... Did somebody's prince take a wrong turn?

I'm so glad he made the detour. Unlike, say, the time a massive huntsman got caught in my hair (shudder) or the time a snake slithered its way across my verandah (eek), a frog is really quite manageable for a 'country girl' like me. I'm just glad he leaped to safety before the knickers went on!

Did you grow up the the country or the city? Do you remain true to your roots? 

And have you ever had a frog in your knickers?

[Image by Darkrose42]

Patting the elephant in the room

We all know I'm not exactly a 'subtle' sort of person. I find it extremely difficult to ignore the bleeding obvious. In fact, I am more likely to give the elephant in the room one great big cuddle rather than ignore him.

How do other people do it?

Like, the other night at the pre-school Parent Committee meeting there was a new dad there. Whilst it was lovely to see a new dad getting involved with the pre-school, when asked if he had anything to add he just went on and on and on. That's the Boring bit. The Elephant bit is that he had his eyes closed the entire time that he was waffling on. So he was speaking to about ten people in the room with his eyes closed.

I thought it was just hysterically funny and had to hide behind the Tonka Truck shelf to stop myself from laughing. Worse than that though is that no-one else in the room appeared to either notice or be phased by this bizarre public speaker.

This sort of thing happens to me all the time. Not the Sleeping-Dad-Waffling part, but the wondering why no-one else looks like they just want to leap up and say "oh for gods sake, open your eyes when you're talking, you look deranged!'.

Other recent elephants have included:

A room full of business people ignoring the fact that one of their own was crying quietly throughout the entire meeting.

- and -

A mother at school waxing lyrical about how sweet her boy is when everybody knows he is the boy who took a knife into Kindergarten last week.

I had to walk away, wide-eyed on each occasion.

So help me, please. How does everyone else seem to be able to ignore the elephant in these scenarios? How do they keep from mentioning the bizarre? How do they keep a straight face because it's all just really a bit too funny?

[Image by DecalHappy via etsy]

I used to think I could, but now I'm sure I can't!

I'm saying it... it's gotta come out sometime... here I go... I am mad for So You Think You Can Dance.

The minute I hear that boofy, doofy music start, it's my happy time. I get a drink ready. I get a project ready (currently making 150 'cake toppers' for the 2011 Kinder Welcome Lunch... how's my life?) and there I sit, contented as a firmly wrapped newborn.

Is it the dancing? Is it the athleticism? Is it the hot bods? Is it the amazing moves? The reaching?

I don't know.

I just know I love it about as much as I like dancing like nobody's watching (even when I'm pretty sure they are ALL looking at the crazy dancer going flat out doing Solid Gold moves under the disco ball - yep, that's me!).

Do you?

[Image by julia_prokhorova]

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Speaking of Dancing with Cameras (well, we were, weren't we?), my friend at Faith, Hope and a whole lotta Love needs your support in a photography competition. Click and if you love her image (as pictured above) please vote!

http://www.loveitup.com/australiasmostlovedcity/?iid=1701&source=fb_share#/Vote/1701

Loving the alphabet, revitalised

Here's a little something I fell in love with via Shanon's weekend links last week. 

n9ve's gorgeous Alphabet for typography lovers!

The Alphabet from n9ve on Vimeo.

The Tsunamis love this one!

Dealing with Difficult People #1: Newborns

Excuse me while I detour from my usual Friday post - I am starting to agree with Maxi- Taxi: "learning stuff is boring". (He will go far.)

I'm not the most tactful person in the world which is less than ideal given that I work with some of the most arrogant and annoying people on earth (see "I'm not the most tactful person..."). Ergo, I've had loads of experience picking my way through social and political minefields so I thought I'd share my top tips on Dealing with Difficult People.

I'm starting with Newborns.

I've only ever worked with three of them, but I've seen quite a few in my time and let me tell you, without exception, they are all Difficult. They're selfish, cranky, demanding.... they're mean. They cry until you're blue in the face and then they zap you with one of those windy little smiles like that's supposed to make up for weeks of sleep drip torture, poo, mastitis and vomit. Worse, that windy smile works like a charm and we fall in love with them despite their general unloveliness. Like I said, Difficult.

But, here are my top five tips for managing these pesky newcomers:

1. Handle with confidence.
Do not, under any circumstances, let them know that you don't know what you're doing. They can smell fear and they will vomit on it.  A very tight wrap administered brusquely will help immensely until you've genuinely got a handle on things. Watch your midwife to get an idea of what brusque looks like. Watch her also for tips on how to handle the newborn - watching Rugby Union can also help here.


2.  Don't play with them, they don't like it.
Don't make the mistake of thinking that newborns are capable of doing anything more exhausting than eating. Every minute you spend dangling a toy in front of their face and gooing and gagaohlalaing is ten extra minutes they will spend screaming in their cot because they are so over stimulated. I learned this the hard way with Maxi-Taxi.

For the first eight weeks, cuddle them on waking, cuddle them before you put them to bed (preferably skin on skin), but if they're not actually eating (preferably skin on skin), ensure they are lying in their cot or pram ready for sleep. Playing comes later (and never, ever ends).


3. You're a family now and forevermore
Batten down the hatches and for now just fold yourself into a little family package. Some visitors are lovely and easy and leave the home in a more relaxed state than they found it it. Most are not like that. You have more important things to do than serve drinks and tidy the house for guests. Like sleep.

It's also about keeping the overstimulation down to a manageable size. Faces are MAJOR work when you're freshly minted. Know that the more people your baby sees and is held by, the crazier he will be. Guests go home, you get left with the crank all by your lonesome.


4. Newborns cry, that's what they do.
Newborns are all different, but they have two things in common. They're all mysteriously adorable and they all cry. Maxi-Taxi was an overstimulated mess. He cried every night from 6pm until 9pm, non stop. All we could do was hold him and cry right along with him. Cappers was an angel who rarely cried but when she did it she would set car alarms off in the street. The embarrassment of her screeching when we were out in public had to be experienced to be believed. The Badoo just grizzled permanently from sun down until sun up. Grumpy was her middle name and while she rarely cried, she rarely smiled either.

Your newborn will cry too and that's okay. It's up to you whether you pick them up every time they cry. Just know that they can cry in the bed just as easily as in your arms. And they'll be crying in their bed for a lot, lot longer if they get used to crying in your arms...


5. Remember, you're a newborn too.
Be gentle and kind to both your baby and yourself. You're a newborn mum and you deserve to give yourself the same loving care that you are giving your baby. Sometimes that means co-sleeping when you didn't plan to co-sleep. It means giving a bottle when you wanted to breastfeed exclusively. It means calling your neighbour and asking them to come right over to mind Cranky Pants so you can run away.

Treat yourself as you'd like your baby to treat you. With love, with kindness, with compassion, with sleep.

And remember, above all else: This, too, shall pass.

How were your newborn days? What are your best tips to share?

___________________________________________

PS - Come flog with me come flog come flog away... 

[Image by Suse Bauer of one of her many amazing Revoluzzza monster softies!]

The language barrier

Warning: explicit language used throughout which may offend some viewers... 
Which is kinda my point...

I swear like a truckie. I won't touch the 'c-word' with gloves on and my gutter language is more of a sprinkle than a flood in my every day chatter, but I have been known to come out with statements like 'For fuck's sake, it's all just mutha fucking fucked'* during a work meeting.

You wouldn't know this about me because I don't like to swear when I'm writing. I struggle to even write 'oh my god' or 'dear lord' in case someone finds it offensive, even though I use those two expressions pretty much daily. Of course this makes me question my lacksidaisical approach to swearing in the first place, but one thing I know for certain:

It just seems to mean more when it's written down.

Take that Cee Loo Green song. You have the 'Forget You' version and then you have the 'Fuck You' version and frankly I prefer the former. Is it really necessary to have the latter? I don't think saying 'fuck' rather than 'forget' adds a single thing to the song.

I'm kind of with the censors on that one.

I get that it's 'just a word'. But I just think that whether we're dribbling f-bombs in everyday conversation or not, we really don't need to have it gilded forevermore in written expression. I think swearing is best left for chit chat (and I totally understand why some people would like it erased even there). It's just not as effective (or, on occasion, as funny) in writing. Surely when we're writing we have more time to craft a heartfelt statement that doesn't require offensive language? Surely?

Where do you stand on blue language? Does it bother you in its written form more than when it's uttered?

* Just so you know, it is actually physically paining me to write the word fuck, but I'm not hypocritical enough to say 'f-word' or 'fark' during this post as I usually might in a post... 


[Image by Gloria Rivera]

Maxabellaland: A reality check

This one's for Nicole over at Bubby Makes Three who has come up with the brilliant idea of exposing those house porn mags for pitching an impossible dream. People don't / can't live like that in real life. To prove it, we are revealing our real-life homes in all their messy, cluttered, what-the-hell-is-this-thing-and-where-can-I-stash-it glory.

Here's my kitchen which has a permanent morning-after-the-night-before feel to it. Note the carefully prepared 'old beige towel' back drop through the 'picture' window...

Note the absence of freshly baked goods in the cake stand (which is permanently out as it has no home to speak of). The rotting bananas, long past 'fresh banana bread' stage. The three pack of dummies to feed the two year old's unbreakable pack-a-day habit. The broken-down, rusty old dishwasher and resulting piles of dishes in the dish rack (miraculously washed).  The bottles of plonk resting enticingly on the ancient stove top. Numerous containers permanently housed on the dividing-half-wall that screens persnickety dinner guests from the nastiness of preparing said dinner, but still allows the host to join in the chit chat. Oh yes, the kitchen.

Now, meet my Third Drawer Down, where the real me lurks like a festering wound.  Hold your breath, we're diving in...

You will not be surprised to learn that it doesn't actually close properly.

Moving on from the hungover kitchen, down the hall is Capper's bedroom, an oasis for the creative spirit.

Capper's bedroom previously featured in a Maxabella post, but it was the other end of the room that was cunningly displayed. Editing is a beautiful thing, isn't it Home Beautiful?

Here's a close-up of that sweet, little girl desk...

And one of the 'why did I think free-access to art in the bedroom was a great idea' carpet...

... and her sagging art string which was also a great idea at the time but, unlike in the magazines, she refuses to hang just 5 themed pictures tidily in a row.

See the Doll's House and Princess Palace there? They're not faring much better...

Police are investigating the possibility of a homicidal maniac on the loose in Maxabellaland. He's already claimed two victims in the Princess Palace and it is feared that next door he has brutally stabbed Doll's House Mum to death...

... no wait, scrap that. This is a clear case of Death By Ironing After Drinking Large Pot of Tea.

Oh boy did I enjoy that anti-over-styled life moment... So, ah, what's it like at your place?

___________________________________________________________

I rewound this post at the Fibro on 1.4.2011

Clearly I can't get enough humiliation.

Stuff I like

Stuff White People Like never fails to raise a chuckle and, of course, a mirror. It amuses me that I'm so White it's not even funny (!).

Take TED (which I am obsessed with) or Banksy (whose 'work' I admire) or  Vespas (which I despair I never owned pre-Tsunamis) or Grammar (I won't shop where apostrophes aren't served). Then there's Sushi (which I have somewhat embarrassingly written a love story to here), Gentrification (rough suburb puts on make-up but you can still see the well-worn creases) and Appearing To Enjoy Classical Music (because I do... no, really).

Then, like all White People, there is the stuff that I say I'm into, but I don't really get and I don't actually like. Things like Rugby (boofs jumping on boofs), Bob Marley ( ... ), Coffee (the idea of pouring milk into brown water makes me feel a little bit sick) and Organic Food (I just don't see the point of insisting on only organic vegetables and then hoovering down a Snickers).

There are the things I think are interesting but never get around to doing like Farmers' Markets (see Organic Food above), Not Having a TV (I can't miss Wife Swap), Vintage (too much detective work and delayed gratification involved) and Marijuana (because that would be illegal).

And the things that I find genuinely perplexing: Gifted Children (because they all are, aren't they?), Double-barrelled surnames (what actually happens when two double-barrels marry each other?) Moleskine Notebooks (and over-priced branded stuff in general) and Marathons (although, of course, any day now...).

So, hey, I'm a White Person and I find it very, very amusing to poke fun at me.

Are you White? What's some of the Stuff you Like?

[Image via Paper Face, source unknown]