Anyone still out there?

Wow, nearly 3 months since I blogged.
Crazy.

LOTS to report, including the fact that my arse is still sore.

(I know that's what you've been dying to know).

We bought that business.

And I am pregnant.

So forgive me for neglecting my blog during this frantic time but I've had alternative bum creams to research.

Will be back again soon. x

Household chores. Including sex.

The lovely Mia Freedman over at MamaMia today shared a News Ltd report on reasons why women have sex, saying that for every woman expecting the earth to move, there are two with more practical motives.

It was Mia’s tweet that caught my eye: “Why do women have sex. You may be surprised”. I like surprises so headed on over to her site.

“... with 84 per cent admitting to having sex just to ensure a quiet life or to bargain for household chores. One woman said: "I have sex to relieve the boredom because it's easier than fighting. Plus it gives me something to do."

And I am surprised. Not at the reasons but that ONLY 84% said this had happened to them.

Not that I can say that I have ever had sex just for something to do – normally if I am bored and want something to do I eat too much crap, ready trashy magazines, have a bath, go for a walk, watch crap on TV or for fucks sake, even wax my fanny if I’m desperate.

But I TOTALLY get the ‘it’s easier than fighting’ gig.

Plus it’s the only 7 minutes that he is quiet. And even then he’s not completely quiet but at least I don’t have to listen to any of his stories. Not that he hasn’t tried...

And I LOVE the bargaining for chores idea! Our windows are filthy. Probably because we have lived here for 4 years and they have only been cleaned twice. But if S decided he’d clean them, well I’d fuck him for that.

Same with cleaning my car.

And cleaning the oven.

Oh God, the oven!

Crikey, there’s no stopping what I’d left him do if he cleaned the oven.

No news...

I’m struggling a bit with what to write about here at the moment.

I can’t possibly write any more about my sore bum.

Well, I could but I'd probably lose the few readers I do have.

And I can’t tell you much about what I am up to work wise because it’s still on the down low. I can tell you it's VERY exciting though.

Except for dealing with the bank. It's taking all my willpower not to send a shit in the mail to my "Relationship Manager". He should be scared because I don't have a lot of willpower (as my rapidly tightening jeans would concur).

So yeah, not much to report sorry.

You’ll just have to settle for a photo of me from a party I went to the other night.

It was a Brangalina theme.

The continuing saga of the arse cream.

Just when we all thought, me included, that I couldn’t possibly write about my arse or the gold plated arse cream any more, here I am. Sorry.

OK, so the bum cream, all $70 worth, has had a big impact but not quite big enough and I had to see a specialist bum doctor last week.

BTW, how does one become a bum doctor? Do you think kids grow up saying “when I get bigger I am going to be a bum doctor”? Is it up there with super heroes, fairy princesses and firemen? And if they do dream of it, I wonder if they have a back up choice that is equally gross like, I dunno, embalmer or dental hygienist.

I just don’t get how anyone can choose to look at arses all day. And it’s multiple too – the doctor told me that she saw about 5 or 6 cases of my condition each day. And that’s just my type of sore bum. I imagine she would see lots of patients with colon cancer, haemorrhoids and heaps of other arse complaints each day. Actually I don’t know what other arse complaints there could be but I am sure there are heaps of them and she gets to look at them too.

Oh and just so you know, I don’t need to know what the other conditions are and thanks, but I don’t need to see any photos of any conditions either so please keep your arse photos the same place as your diet pills.

Right, so the bum specialist charged me $190 to have a look at my jacksy. Now, I might have a belly to give Homer Simpson a run for his money but I don’t have a large arse so it didn’t take that long, maybe 5 minutes tops which is a pretty good hourly rate. Plus a further $40 for some different bum cream and then, get this, this takes the cake, wait for it...

$80 for some things to stick right up my arse!

And they weren’t those vibrating ball things that I’ve seen at fuck-aware parties either.

Believe me, $80 bought me no pleasure at all. Not that I personally think vibrating things up your arse would give you much pleasure anyway but whatever.

On second thoughts I can now poo without feeling like I am pooing glass so there's some pleasure in that.

But is it $80 worth of pleasure?

Some new lippy and a couple of pairs of knickers probably would have given me more.

S too.

I'm in trouble.

With some of you lot apparently for not posting for a while.

And probably also with Riley because he's about to get home from school and there is no food in the house.

Anyway here I am, just quickly checking in before I go back to the land of lawyers, accountants and commercial real estate agents as we finish off buying this business. It's an exhilarating time but super stressful as well. So, I just got back to Auckland after dashing off to Wellington with S for the weekend. We haven't seen a lot of each other lately so spent a weekend rugged up in a hotel, ordering room service and lounging around, going for stormy walks and catching up with family and friends.

We worked out we haven't been away together on our own since we went to New York 2 years ago. And while Wellington isn't quite Manhattan, we had the nicest time.

So nice I left him down there for the rest of the week.

Right, better dash and see if I can whip some afternoon tea up for my boy. I have a limp carrot, some crackers and a red onion to work with.

Oh, and I still have a sore bum but will be back later today to tell you all about that.

Bet you can't wait.

Hump Day.

It’s Wednesday today. Hump day.

Which I thought everyone knew but after my last post about making school lunches on hump day and the following conversation, it seems I need to clarify things, to S at least.

S: “You know what day it is today Livvy” Wink. Wink. Stupid grin.

O: “Wednesday?”

S: “It’s hump day!” Wink. Wink. Even stupider grin.

Um, no.

Today is hump day, as in the middle of the working week, day.

Not shag day.

Or root day.

And not even blowie day.

Just hump day.

No ham, no more.

Wednesday used to be my favourite day of the week. Not just because it is hump day but because Riley used to order sushi for his school lunch on Wednesday’s.

You see, making Riley’s lunch is, I think, one of the worst jobs that come with being his mum. Thankfully I normally only have to do it 2-3 times a week depending on when he is at his dad’s. But on the days when it’s my turn, well let’s just say that the times when we have something left over from dinner the night before that I can chuck in his lunch box, are up there in terms of most satisfying moments of all time.

Actually, I think if S. thought about it he’d work out that left over days might correlate with when he gets satisfied too.

This term though Riley has decided he hates me, I mean sushi, and now I have to fossick around the kitchen looking for something to put in his lunch box that:
1).contains some nutritional value
2).is cool - he hated it that time I gave him a Blues Clues yoghurt but seriously, how was I meant to know they were for 3 year olds?
3).isn’t completely out of a packet, and,
4).isn’t an apple, because he hates apples even more than sushi.

And now to make things even worse some nerd in a laboratory has come up with the crap that kids shouldn’t be having ham or salami in their school lunches as it can give them cancer.

And they’re not allowed peanut butter either. I understand why but peanut butter has always been a good staple sandwich filler for when you’re out of ham so really, I’m completely fucked now aren’t I?

Clearly I don’t want my child to get cancer. And I don’t want his mates to have an allergic reaction to peanut butter (well, most of them anyway). But this is a major disaster.

Just ask S: Riley can’t get no ham but S. can’t get no satisfaction.

Introducing R.

Referring to my son as R. in this blog is getting too hard (I told you I was simple) so from now on he can be referred to by his real name.

Riley.

And here he is.



He gets his looks from his father.

Three in the bed.

Last night I had a threesome.

And S wasn’t one of the three. In fact, he’s out of town for the week so I have been enjoying having the bed to myself - I can sprawl right across it and I can even put my head under the covers without risking death.

Instead it was these guys I slept with.



Although I've always been partial to a man in uniform, I’m not really sure why they were in bed with me. I vaguely recall stuffing them in the pocket of my jeans on Sunday after my nephew threw them at me, but I wasn’t wearing my jeans in bed...

But anyway, why is that guy on the left looking so angry? We’ve talked about how I don’t have a future ahead of me as a hooker, but surely I can’t be that bad to sleep with that I make you angry?

Whereas the guy on the right with the stupid grin on his face, well he’s the only guy with facial hair like that that’d I’d ever sleep with and clearly he knows it.

Although neither him or I were smiling earlier this morning when I got up to take the dog out and stood on him.

Trust me when I say there is very little that hurts more than standing barefoot on Lego. It fucking hurts.

Except maybe trying to squeeze a baby that is almost 9lb and has a head the size of a watermelon, out of your vagina. That fucking hurts too.

And when that’s happening, you wish that you really had only slept with Lego men.

Definition of embarrassment #3.

Replying via text to the electrician's missed call.

"yes, pls go ahead and order the new transformer for garden lights. Tomorrow fine for install”.

And then absent-mindedly adding two kisses at the end. xx

Definition of embarrassment #2

Getting back from a meeting with your solicitor and realising that when applying your eyeliner before the meeting, you had stopped after only one eye.

Checking in.

From a readership of 4, I have had 3 of you ask me to post more frequently. Not sure if the other of you wants this but majority rules, so here goes.

Problem is I don't have much to say. Crazy busy. (And still crazy too).

Here's a snapshot of Plumpy's life right now.



And perhaps also a snapshot of why Plumpy is, well, plumpy.

A good looking feijoa-ina.

After my last post Anonymous commented that I must be pleased I have a good looking feijoa-ina and to think of the career options.

True, I guess I am proud of how she looks - well, what I can see of her at least - but as far as career options, what exactly are they? We all know I need a job so maybe this is the break I am looking for.

I can’t be a hooker, we’ve already discussed that. And just to confirm, if the fact that I am a crap lay isn’t enough of a reason, my friend C told me that if I wasn’t prepared to go to her Tupperware party because I didn’t like playing games with strangers, then I definitely couldn’t be a hooker.

But what other options are there? Any thoughts? I’m struggling.

The only thing I can think of is a stunt double.

“Excuse me Ms Zeta-Jones, any time you don’t wanna flash your flange I’ll do it for you”.

You have such a pretty face.

People have been saying that to me all my life.

But it’s normally followed by an "if only you weren’t so fat", that is either unsaid, or said if you are my mother.

This week a very dear friend rang me to tell me that a fat ladies shop was looking for models for NZ Fashion Week and she thought I should apply.

I didn’t know whether to be flattered or fucked off.

But today it all changed. It seems it's not just my face that is pretty after all.

I was having my waxing done and was propositioned.

“We’re looking for models – are you interested?”

Dickhead of the day award.

Oh. My. God.

A Melbourne man organised his mates stag night and booked a show called ‘anal’.

And it seems he got a bit of anal himself. With an “arguably statuesque" pink, strap-on.

He then took the stripper to court and claimed she had raped him with a dildo. That was after he was on his hands and knees with his pants off.

AND after he said to her “Be gentle. Don’t do it too hard”.

It seems he had a sore bottom the next day and felt uncomfortable.

Shall I send him some of that expensive bum cream?

What a dick.

Or should I say, arse.

http://www.stuff.co.nz/world/australia/2723580/Bucks-night-stripper-not-guilty-of-raping-best-man

Plumpy clarifying things.

Dear Readers,

A few posts back (haven't worked out how to link back yet, sorry) I said I was on a diet for the 100th time and that was interesting because I had 100 kilos to lose.

Actually it's not really intesting at all is it? Sorry again.

Anyway I was exaggerating the 100 kilos thing.

Slightly.

OK, by about 80kilos.

You see I am fat but not really, really fat. Let's call me Plumpy from now on.

Right, so I'm just clearing this up because it seems that some of you didn't pick up the exaggeration and thought that I was a real Fatty Boom Ba. Such a Fatty Boom Ba that a few of you have sent me some emails offering me some hard ass diet pills.

Thanks but I don't need any pills - I just need to get off my fat ass, do some exercise and stop eating so much crap.

But if you must insist on sending me something, a box of Lindt chocolate balls will do nicely.

Cheers,
Plumpy x

Definition of embarrassment #1.

Having your new friend pop in and use the bathroom and you later realising what you'd forgotten to put away.



I hope she at least realised how expensive it was.

Status Update.

Someone I revealed this blog to yesterday commented that over the 2 months it's been around, I appear to have now dealt with some of the crap things that were going on a while back. She thought that since my later posts have been a bit lighter hearted than those at the start, that things must be a lot “better”.

That’s funny for two reasons.

One, because there is NOTHING light about me.

Except maybe my ankles. And that’s only a maybe.

And two, because I feel more depressed now than I did weeks ago.

I’m at the fattest I have been for a long time. So fat that even my fat jeans don’t fit me anymore.

I got rejected for two jobs this week.

True, I did get offered one that was much better than either of the other two, and I picked up some new consultancy work, and we are in the due diligence process for buying a well known business so I can’t really get a job anyway, but rejection is still rejection. And rejection always hurts.

S and I haven’t spoken about the baby for a few weeks so I think that means he’s forgotten it.

He thinks that means I don’t want to talk about it.

The reality is that’s all I want to talk about. How pregnant I would have been now, how excited we all would have been, what we would have called it (remember his grandmother was Fanny so we needed plenty of time to discuss it), how fat I would have been and what colour we would have painted the nursery.

Instead the nursery is now my new office. And while it’s sunny and has great light and I love working from here, every day I think about what could have been in this very room and cry (and eat) a bit more.

My friend is right in one way though - blogging has definitely been therapeutic.

And it’s kept me away from daytime TV.

But I’m still as crazy as a run-over dog.

And I definitely should still not be a hooker.

Missing Muff

There’s a fair bit of muff missing around the place at the moment.

A resident of a small Canterbury settlement, Orari, has done his bit to put the town on the map. Now for those of you not familiar with Orari (which is pretty much everyone) you need to know that this place is a tiny farming community in our South Island. There’s nothing much there except for sheep, cows and paddocks.

Anyway this guy kicked up a quite a kerfuffle a few weeks back when he asked the local authority to change the name of one of the local roads because the signs were being stolen all the time.

All because of a bit of muff.

Road that is.

http://www.stuff.co.nz/oddstuff/2611515/Muff-Road-name-change-request

And across the ditch, a Queensland family has been reunited with their dog Muffy after 9 years! http://www.stuff.co.nz/life-style/cutestuff/2705139/Family-finds-lost-dog-after-nine-years

A cute story but really, why would you call your dog Muffy? You should have just called her Vagina and got it over and done with.

And surely you'd have to ask yourself if that's why she ran away from you in the first place.

Meanwhile closer to home, S says he is also missing muff.

For the 100th time.

This week, for the 100th time in my life, I am on a diet. In only 8 weeks a group of us, couples and kids, head over to the Gold Coast for some sun, sand and shopping and let’s be honest, we all want to look hotter than each other in our swimsuits.

We’ve even got a competition going – the first to lose a stone/6.6kgs wins cash so it’s serious stuff.

So serious that one of the contestants sent sabotage biscuits to our house earlier in the week.

So serious that I just took crazy dog for a long, hilly walk for a couple of hours.

And then had a kit kat.

And a large, milky coffee.

Oops.

It’s interesting that it is the 100th time I have tried to diet because that’s about how many kilos I need to lose – 100. I’ll probably settle for 5 but will be disappointed if it’s any less than 8...actually who I am I kidding, I’ll be disappointed if it’s anything less than 15.

So far the week is going well – I weighed myself this morning and am only 1.2kgs heavier than I was on Monday.

Awesome.

Too much time on my hands.

Bravely I just shared this blog with two of my best friends.

Both of them told me I had too much time on my hands.

I guess it depends how you look at it.

I have so much time on my hands that I fill them with food far too often.

But not enough time to get them dirty by weeding the garden.

And certainly not enough time to do that job with them that S would like.

But enough to apply the $70 bum cream - which is working well BTW.

But not too much.

Time or bum cream.

Blowies.

Last Friday night some friends and I were sitting in a lovely bar, sipping wine, and talking about the men in our lives and their constant fascination with the blow job.

This Friday night I have a very sore throat, which by the way, has nothing to do with having had anything down it. But it does mean that I will not be sitting in the same bar with the same friends continuing the discussion.

Anyway, lasts week’s conversation took place after S had dropped us at the bar. J’s husband was meant to take us down but he said he’d only do it if J gave him a blow job first. She, understandably, turned him down and S volunteered.

(Actually I think he thought we’d be so grateful that we didn’t have to walk, that one or all 3 of us would offer him one as a thank you).

The waiter overheard quite a lot of our conversation and although he was trying to be discreet, I think he was hopeful that we’d take pity on him for working on a Friday night and offer him one too.

Between the 3 of us we drank 3 bottles so if he wasn’t a ginga named Charles he may have been in luck.

But anyway, none of us can believe how high up the wish list they are for each of our blokes or how they think they can be used as payment for general household chores. At K’s house apparently her husband thinks he should get a blow job just for stacking the dishwasher!

And S can be reading out the shopping list: “honey, weetbix, toothpaste... and a blow job”.

Yep, always on his mind. Like this morning when I asked him to make me a lemon drink for my sore throat and he was insistent that I needed some “protein” down there to make it better.

A huh. If I need protein I’ll poach an egg, buddy.

Or as I am pouring myself a glass of wine and I ask S sweetly “can I get you anything?” He’ll reply, “no but you can blow me”.

Yep, cos that’d be right up there for me with a glass of chardonnay and some cheese and crackers - giving S a blow job.

And he wonders why I have to drink so much.

HUGE thighs my (HUGE) arse.

One of my younger brothers is a ballroom and latin dancer. He’s very good at it but sadly, he knows it too.

Thankfully him and his ego live in a different city to me so I only really see him and our mother (and his dance partner and her mother) when there is a dancing competition on. They come with all their sequins and lycra, flaunt their stuff for a few days and then leave again.

The whole dance scene freaks me out a bit to be honest. I don’t know if it’s the fake tan glow which makes their skin more orange than an actual orange, the extremely tight and high waisted pants or the diamantes on their eyelashes – guys included – but they are scary people. The intensity and nastiness is worse than any corporate game playing I have ever encountered.

And shallow. My god. They are so shallow.

In preparation for them coming to stay I’d done some baking. (Secretly I was craving something sweet and I wanted to lick the egg beaters but I let them think the spread was in their honour).

Anyway, back to the shallowness. Over morning tea today I learned that apparently this girl, a former Miss New Zealand Universe, is FAT! With HUGE thighs!



Seriously, how fucked up is that?

At this point I wanted to get my brother, sit on him with my HUGE arse and stick said egg beaters up his nostrils.

But I didn’t.

Instead I just ate his brownie.

Baby toys.

When I was recently pregnant I subscribed to email newsletters from one of the popular baby information websites. I never got around to unsubscribing so still get the newsletters every few weeks or so.

I usually just delete them without reading them but the headline of the latest one caught my eye. “Things you really want to know during your pregnancy but are too embarrassed to ask”.

Now, I’m not sure what I was expecting to read, maybe something like ‘is it true that most woman poo while giving birth?’ or ‘will my fanny shrink back to how it was?’ but even I was shocked by what was close to top of the list...

‘Can I use sex toys when I am pregnant?’

Umm. Really?

When you’re pregnant, aren’t the only toys you think about ones that can’t be swallowed by a gummy mouth?

Or what kind of toy you can give your husband if he promises to leave you alone for the next 5 or 10 years?

Cos when I was pregnant with R, had I had a vibrator in my handbag, all I would have done with it was use it to hold up a donut shop.

She made me do it.

There’s a high profile murder trial underway in New Zealand for a moronic guy named Clayton Weatherston. He’s charged with murdering his girlfriend by stabbing her 216 times. He’s admitted killing her but is claiming she provoked him to kill her because of the emotional pain she caused him. A huh, she made you do it. Nice one Clayton.

Not only is the guy a narcissistic freak but I think he thinks he looks like Russell Crowe. For that reason alone HE deserves to be stabbed.

Seriously though, hopefully he’ll rot in jail or be stabbed himself. And surely the NZ justice system will not fail the victim and her family. Surely.

If it does though, it will open a whole can of worms for NZ and the other freaks that live here. I mean, there have been a few people provoking me lately and I have a rather well stocked knife drawer. They should all be nervous.

Starting with the guy Mark who lives at the front of our drive way. No real reason, he just annoys me. That and he wears his trousers far too short. And it’s not that he’s just started doing it as a tribute to Michael Jackson either.

Then there’s the old lady next door who has 4 lemon trees and lets the lemons fall to the ground rotting, rather than share them around. Poor R is the only one who has small enough arms to fit through the gaps in the fence to pick up the lemons. He hates doing it and each time his arm is nearly broken apparently (although I think he might be exaggerating slightly, surely it can’t hurt THAT much?) but not only do we make him do it, now our other neighbour also comes looking for him when he’s caught short making a G & T. Poor R wouldn't have to be subjected to such child abuse if the old bag shared the lemons. Is that really too much to ask of your neighbour?

And don’t get me started on my friend who has lost something amazing like 40kgs recently. Sure she may look fantastic but I don’t so that’s plenty enough reason to stab her I reckon.

On Saturday it was the Chinese person who translated the assembly instructions for the office desk S and I put together. 2 hours later we had it sorted but in the meantime there really was almost a stabbing. And a cat kicked. And a divorce.

And finally the gas appliance repair man who argued with me last week and told me I was unreasonable to expect a fire I paid $5,000 for, to last beyond 3 years before it shit itself and then for it not to be covered by warranty.

Pfft, me unreasonable?

Please.

It’s not as if I’d stab someone who pissed me off or anything.

By the way.

Best 70 bucks I've ever spent.

The cost of bum cream.

There’s a risk that this following post may be TMI sorry. It’s about poo and bums so if that grosses you out then stop reading but I think most of you will keep reading because I think we all secretly (or if you’re like me, not so secretly), find poo funny.

But what hasn’t been funny is that since having a general anaesthetic following my recent miscarriage I’ve had trouble pooing. A lot of trouble. So much trouble that that my bum has been very sore. So sore that I had to go to the doctor yesterday to get it looked at.

(S offered several times to look at my bum for me but I think the sort of cream he’d suggest to put on it probably wouldn’t have helped much).

Anyway because it wasn’t humiliating enough for me having to get my toosh looked at, my doctor was away sick and I had to get a male doctor who I had never met before to look at it. I know that you might think ‘seen one bum, seen them all’, but I dunno, I don’t think you can ever get comfortable with looking at bums. Surely it makes even the most experienced doctors a little squeamish?

And how was I meant to look at him in the eye after he’d been looking at my brown eye?

By the way, have you heard that Elle McPherson bleaches hers? Well, I’m sure she pays someone to do it for her and doesn’t get out the janola herself but yeah, apparently she likes it white.

Imagine that for a job.”So what’d you do today love?” “Oh you know, bleached a supermodels arsehole”!

Anyhoo back to my sore bum. So the doctor said it was no big deal and wrote me a prescription for some cream to fix it. Now last week I took R and his mate to the movies and it cost $25.20 for two popcorns and two drinks and I was outraged! And I have just had my gas fire fixed and the appliance repair guy was here for 20 minutes and that cost $135 for the labour only! And don’t get me started on how much a block of cheese costs these days.

But this bum cream takes the cake....it cost $70! $70! Can you believe it?

What’s the world coming to when it costs $70 to stick something up your bum?

I don’t even think you’d pay that on the street would you?

Money might not grow on trees but does chocolate?

I planted this a week ago and nothing. So it appears not.

News just in...

Jermaine Jackson's kid is called Jermajesty.

JERMAJESTY!

Oh. My. God.

Wacko is right.

Farewell Wacko Jacko.

Ok, so Michael Jackson and I have never been close but today I got a little emotional as the world said goodbye to the King of Pop.

Michael Jackson’s career provided a background to me growing up and I’ve got some great memories thanks to his music. Of having Moonwalk competitions with my brother, of hitting the dance floor to “Billie Jean” at my first school disco (still one of the most played on my iPod BTW), of trying to understand the political references to “Man in the Mirror” but not really knowing what it was about, and of knowing all the words to “Bad” off by heart.

And then there was a very awkward moment about 2 seconds after meeting S when he presented me with a CD he’d made me with one of MJ’s songs on it. I’ll let you guess which one but let’s just say he’s lucky he didn’t scare me completely off right then and there. If he had scared me away, he just wouldn’t have stopped loving me. He can't.

Yes, S was a huge fan and poor old Digby’s death was totally overshadowed by the death of the King of Pop. S doesn’t know this but one of my Big Wednesday fantasies from the $36M a few weeks back was to take S to see Michael’s London concert.

No wonder he just can’t stop loving me.

So anyway, I think Michael Jackson is a freak and did some totally stupid things but I also think he was an incredible musician and performer, and today as I watched his memorial service, like millions around the world, I cried when Paris paid tribute to her Daddy. So sad. But what a beautiful little girl she turned out to be under that blanket.

Speaking of Blanket, how cute was he? And his big brother Prince too. Didn’t they just have the shiniest hair you’ve ever seen?

Mostly I was impressed today by how for someone who had been so weird and tacky, how normal and nice the service was.

But there were a few weird and stupid things going on. Like, WHAT was Jennifer Hudson thinking wearing white? I don’t know just how pregnant she is but today it looked like that baby was due about 6 months ago.

And was Stevie Wonder taking the piss when he said “I never thought I’d see this day”?

Did those kids really have to chew gum? I hope they didn’t leave it under the seats at the stadium.

Could Lionel Richie have looked anymore bored during ‘Heal the World’?

But the final moment belongs to the gloves! Cute and touching but fucking hilarious too!

Do you reckon when the Queen dies that Prince Charles will wear her white gloves?

Skinny chicks are being ripped off!

So yesterday BFF J treated me to a day of pampering – she really does put the B in BFF! We had a perfect day.

It began with coffee and almond croissants and a gossip about a mutual moron we know: the perfect mix of bitchiness and yummy treats.

Then we had an hour massage and an hour facial each. Bliss.

We followed the pampering with goats cheese risotto balls, fries and of course chocolates too. All that was missing was the champagne but we’re trying to watch our diet so we stuck with water.

But while lying naked in the massage room I thought about how skinny chicks get ripped off. I mean, a massage costs the same whether you are fat or thin and yet clearly fatties like me need more massage oil. Same goes with the moisturiser for the facial.

So then I got thinking about where else this happens:

• On the bus – my fat arse takes up much more room than a skinny one yet we pay the same price.

• Personal trainer – when she has to lift my leg up to stretch it, she should be paid danger money for the strain it’s putting on her back but instead she’s paid the same when she’s training someone trying to put on weight.

• Swimming pool entry – clearly you can only get so many fatties in the pool at once...mind you, how many fatties actually go swimming?

• Doctor’s visits – it takes way longer for the doctor to give me a once over.

• Chain store clothing manufacturers – a dress to cover me up should really cost more than one to fit my sister who is 4 sizes smaller than me. Granted it’s been years since we wore matching clothes (the broderie anglaise dresses from 1976 come to mind) but theoretically it could happen and when it does she shouldn’t have to pay the same as me.

I’m sure there’s more but it’s close to lunchtime and I can’t stop thinking about what I am going to eat.

Another thing skinny chicks miss out on.

Dear Ms. Recruitment Consultant.

I just wanted to write and say thanks so much for the shit way you handled my application. You were really good at it. Being shit that is.

I am particularly impressed with how consistent you are. The way you never return my calls. Never. Or how you never reply to emails. Never. Consistently crap but consistent nevertheless.

And I really like when we do finally touch base and arrange a meeting, that you keep me waiting for 15 minutes in your reception. But I understand, with unemployment at an all time high in New Zealand I guess you’re really busy.

Oh and thanks heaps for pointing out to me that there is a recession going on because for a moment there I thought it was just something I had made up.

Thanks also for pointing out how marketing is often the first thing that gets cut from budgets – despite having managed large budgets for years, I had no fucking idea that was the case.

Anyway, thanks again. It was swell (like your arse in that ridiculously short skirt).

Cheers, Olivia

PS. Your card needs changing – your title is wrong. The letters o-n-s-l-t-a should be removed from the second word.

A long weekend of gratitude.

So as part of me "finding myself" during this time I am at home, apparently I am meant to take 5 minutes at the end of each day to write down what I am grateful for. I think it is meant to help me appreciate what I have more. Or at least kill 5 minutes.

I tried it for the past few days while we were away for a long weekend with S’s family.

Friday
I am grateful that we got to Napier safely after a very long 6 hour drive.

I am also grateful that despite the empty light being on from when we left Taupo (1 ½ hrs to go), that we did not run out of petrol.

I am grateful that I can’t be blamed for booking the cold accommodation.

Or for the spring in the bed that keeps digging into S’s back.

Saturday
I am grateful that all 4 children under 3 are sleeping in the next room.

And that I am not the mother of those same children.

I am grateful that wine can be served from 11.30am during family reunion lunches.

I am grateful for older children who demand your full attention right at the time your least favourite SIL starts moving towards you.

I am grateful for chardonnay.

And also pinot noir.

And at 12.30am, even shiraz.

Sunday
I am grateful for paracetamol.

And hugely grateful for steak and cheese pies.

Monday
I am grateful for elastic in the waist of my track pants.

Aarrr! A-hoy!

I told you she was crazy.

Feijoa-ina.

Vagina.

That’s the technical term but it sounds a bit clinical for the purposes of this blog (or for using mid sex I reckon) so let’s try and come up with another term I can use on here.

I generally use ‘fanny’ but since it is S’s grandmother’s name and I’d hate him to be thinking of that fanny while he was anywhere near mine and since could be confusing for all (ha!) my readers from the USA, I think I should keep trying.

My son calls it a feijoa-ina. For those of you not from NZ, a feijoa is a fruit that tastes kinda like a guava and smells like, well, a feijoa.

Not like fish or chicken.

Sometimes I call it a ‘va-jay-jay’ but I always think that I sound like I am trying to be Oprah. Although I would like to have something else in common with her other than being fat.

Pussy. That’s what S calls it but I dunno, it sounds pretty porno. During the recent miscarriage saga I overheard a conversation he had with one of his sisters, who is in her late 50’s.

“Yes, so then Livvy had a scan of her pussy...”.

Ew!

Wrong.

A friend told her daughter it was called “Madge the Vadge”. Cute when she’s 4 but when she’s 20 and telling her boyfriend it’s called Madge is kinda like having another person in the bed, don’t you think? Then again, she might like that. He certainly would.

Then there’s that word starting with c that rhymes with hunt. At the risk of offending my readers (that’s the advantage of having none I guess!) ‘hunt’ is fine as an expletive when fuck just doesn’t do it but not great for describing your vagina in every day conversation.

Snatch?

Growler?

Beaver?

Muff?

Pink bits?

Gash?

Cooch?

Box?

Beef curtains?

I have to stop, R just asked me what was so funny and I’m not explaining this to him.

Fanny it is.

Digby Dog

It’s a very sad day in our house today as we say goodbye to crazy dog #1 – Digby.

Digby was my first real pet, an Australian Terrier who always looked like he was smiling and who really wanted nothing more than to please you. Digby loved a lot and was much loved, despite at times being pretty annoying...kinda like anyone who you love a lot I guess.

When R was little “Dibby Dog” was his best friend and he wouldn’t go to sleep without a Dibby Dog story. Stopping bank jobs, rescuing drowning children, landing planes safely after the pilot had a heart attack, bringing lost children home from the forest: oh, the things that dog used to get up to!

When I split up with R’s dad Digby was my constant companion during a time of sadness and loneliness. He slept at the foot of my bed, followed me around and made me get off my arse and go for a walk when I would rather have drowned my sorrows in bottles of cheap sauvignon blanc. He was there for the good times, the sad times and the silly times (Digby, I’m sorry for the time we had too many wines and spray painted your hair blue like the rest of us). A good old mate.

Once S came along almost 5 years ago Digby moved a lot of his love from me to S. He loved S so much and it was mutual. Forget babies and separation anxiety, Digby could give any of them a run for their money and when his beloved S was away, Digby cried and cried until he returned. Even when S was just in the toilet with the door shut having a crap, Digby cried outside wanting to be let in. Goodness knows why he’d want to go in there. Actually thinking about it now maybe what made him cry was the smell seeping out from under the door - it’s made me cry before.

Digby has had a pretty good life and on reflection he’s lucky to have made it until he was 11. He’s escaped from home so many times and lord knows how many times he has just about been run over, especially in recent years when his eyesight has nearly gone as has his hearing. Last year he and his crazy dog sister both ate rat poison and ended up needing a blood transfusion from a golden retriever. I swear Digby retrieved balls like never before after that!

Digby leaves behind crazy dog #2, Milly, and boy, is she going to miss (annoying) him. So will Scout, our family cat that Milly is always chasing but who Digby so loyally protected by straddling Milly and humping her until Scout got away safely. A cunning manoeuvre. I blame the Australian in him.

RIP Digby Dog xxx

After the wax.

Nancy had finished her thing, my thing was still throbbing (and bleeding in parts I swear) and then Rina came in the room to do her thing.

My tinting.

Eye brows & lashes that is, not anything Doris had been near.

“So Olivia, did you enjoy your wax?”

“Excuse me?”

“Was that good?”

WTF?

Who ENJOYS getting their va-jay-jay waxed?

Lost & Found.

The prefix to this entry is that 6 weeks ago I had a missed miscarriage at 9 weeks. It was a hugely traumatic time, including a d & c, and made worse by S being out of town while the diagnosis and subsequent operation happened. It was a much wanted pregnancy and we’d been hoping to give R a sibling for a very long time. Hopefully it is the saddest thing I ever have to go through.

But amongst the sadness there has been some very funny moments.

I found out on the Thursday that the baby had died but couldn’t get the operation to remove it until the following Wednesday in the public health system. Wednesday! Unnecessary cruelness as far as I was concerned. Not surprisingly I opted to have it done privately and began the process of making this happen. Unfortunately my specialist was away at a conference, as was his colleague, so my midwife called to tell me she had one further doctor in mind but she was off to a birth and couldn’t let me know if he could do it until the following morning.

What followed was an extremely stressful night, alone at home without S and on orders that if I started to bleed heavily I needed to get myself to the emergency department immediately. What does ‘bleed heavily’ actually mean FFS?

Anyway the next morning I received a call from a foreign sounding man who claimed to be “Dr. Saddam Hussein” (note, not his real name but you get the idea) and if I wanted he could do the operation. He just needed to “find” an operating theatre and an anaesthetist! WTF? Find them. Umm. Where exactly? It sounded like he was going to finish his shift driving the taxi, round up his mates from the kebab shop and get jiggy with it in my uterus.

As it turned out Dr Hussein was the loveliest man, who is almost as much a Kiwi as I am, and I couldn’t have wished for a more kind and considerate doctor. In fact, we loved him so much that we have signed him up as our preferred obstetrician for the next time we get pregnant.

During a very stressful and sad time, Dr. Hussein and his mates provided some good relief. Especially when I arrived at the hospital and an olive skinned man was outside in a skivvy and polyester tracksuit, with black business shoes and a cell phone, carrying a briefcase!

I still don’t know who that guy was but someone needs to help him get dressed each morning.

Today was another funny moment post miscarriage. After yesterday’s mammoth effort tending to weeds I thought it was time I dealt with the bikini line. It is after all another of those things I tend to suck at (refer entry number 1 for more info).

I hate it. I just can’t get over the fact that someone has their head this close (holds up thumb and index finger 1cm apart) from my va-jay-jay and start breaking out in a sweat. Not to mention that it hurts like hell.

So at 9am this morning I rocked up to the beautician’s to get it dealt with. Early for a Sunday morning I know but 9am was deliberately chosen so I was at my “freshest”. Fresh or not, imagine actually choosing to look at that. And on God’s day too.

So Nancy (why Asian people choose English names that no English person would willingly choose is beyond me) started her business and then said to me “had you recently had babies”?

I still can’t work out what exactly she could she see of my va-jay- jay that I can’t, that led her to say this.

“Umm, no”.

Awkward silence. (Except for the screams that I let out every 10 seconds she pulled the fucking wax).

“But, I recently lost a baby”.

Silence. You could almost hear Nancy’s brain working trying to translate what I had said.

“You lost your baby?”

More silence.

“Where?”

Awkward silence.

“Keep looking Nancy and you might just find it”.

Progress.

A gorgeous winter day. It seems I might not suck at weeding the garden after all.



And I still shouldn't be a hooker.

Starting out.

So, here I am. Unemployed, overweight and sad, possibly even depressed (because isn’t depression the new black?), and starting a blog. I’m not really sure what it’s about but given I am so full of joy and positivity (or is that sarcasm) I’m sure people will want to read it. Or not. But who cares, it’s something to do and it might keep me away from daytime TV and it might just help me work out what I really want to do with my life. Or it might confirm how crazy I actually am and end up in some sort of intervention.

So, who am I and how did I get to this place?

Only a year or so ago I was at the top of my game, award winning even. It was marketing I played and I loved it. Anyway there were some changes at the place of play and I left to take some time out for a while. I didn’t pick the market to turn to shit and for me to still be at home 10 months later, hating every second of it but I simply thought I’d have a few months off to enjoy the summer and pick and choose what I did next. Oops, got that a bit wrong.

I live in a cold house. So cold sometimes it’s warmer to sit outside with a beanie and coat on and chase the sun around the back lawn. I think being cold is one of the worst things you can experience. That and being so fat your jeans curl down over your stomach.

I think from now on I might call the house ‘the fridge’. That’s how cold it is.

You would have thought I could have used the time at home to get fit and lose some weight. I did for a while but that got too boring and so I got fat again. I’ve been fat for most of my life so maybe fat is what I want to be or else I would do something about it. That’s what my therapist would say anyway. Not that I have a therapist anymore – last year she said I wasn’t crazy enough to need her anymore. Hah! If she could see me now...

I live with my 9 year old son (R) and my boyfriend (S). I guess I should say partner because that’s what grown-ups who live together are, right? But I think it sounds stupid or gay even. Not that I have a problem with gays - although I would if S was a secret one – but he’s my boyfriend until he becomes my husband, which he might one day. R lives with us half the time and half with his dad, his dad’s partner (she can be a partner, that’s different) and her son who lives there half the time too. We’re complicated but we all like each other – Dr Phil would be proud.

We also have two dogs that drive me fucking insane. Actually I was probably insane long before the dogs came along but they certainly don’t help me on the sanity front. One is really old, smells a lot (I think his stomach is rotting) and is now deaf and half blind. To prove just how crazy I am, it was my idea to get the second dog. That’s when I thought puppies were cute. But there’s nothing cute about finding a dog turd beside your bed when you finally pull yourself out of it. Mind you, when you live in a fridge, sometimes it is nice for your feet to be warm.

I’ve not been shopping for 9 months. 9 months I tell you! I used to think nothing of dropping 5 or 6 hundred dollars on a piece of clothing. Looking for happiness in the bottom of a shopping bag and all that. It didn’t work, I just ended up with a huge credit card bill, huge tax bill because I spent what I should be saving for tax, and a huge belly from all the coffee and cake that was needed to refuel me on my splurges and also just cake that I ate because I wanted/needed/craved it. Sometimes I even bought things without trying them on, just because I wanted to experience the pleasure of buying that particular thing. I have a lot of those things hanging in my wardrobe, still with tags on, waiting for me to fit them. They could be waiting for some time. There’s no pleasure in that.

Today I ate 4 mint-slice biscuits for breakfast. Then I put my jeans on and my thighs felt like sausages bursting from their cases. Do you think there is a correlation?

So, here I am unemployed, overweight and sad, and although I’m not smart like brainy, I have a lot of common sense (most of the time, lets ignore the credit cards and tax bills for now) and can see through bullshit. So, not really intellectually smart but smart enough to have been to university and got a couple of degrees. (Although sometimes I dream that I haven’t really got them and wake up and think I am going to be found out any day now that I have been faking it for all these years). Smart but unemployed – there’s a recession going on and I chose that time to ‘take a break’? Not the smartest thing to do. Still, there are lots of people around who have jobs who are even less smart than me, stupid even and that annoys the shit out of me, especially when all they seem good at is talking themselves up and believing in themselves. That’s what I suck at. That and keeping my bikini area waxed but that’s probably TMI.

Right, so I need to get better at believing in myself apparently and if I do that then things will start happening for me. Putting it out there and all that stuff from the secret (which by the way, seems like the worst kept secret in the world to me). I’m really lucky that my boyfriend S is a secret kind of guy. He’s super positive and uber-happy and I need him and his happiness around me or else I would be completely loopy. As opposed to just a wee bit like I am now.

I just looked at my hands typing this and they are blue. That’s how cold the fridge is.

So, back to believing in myself. These are the things I think I am good at
• Eating
• Listening to my friends problems
• Buying presents
• Decorating or knowing what looks good in a house
• Cooking
• Being a mum - mostly I think R would agree except for when I am ‘the meanest mother in the world’ but that’s not too often, especially now I don’t work.

And these are the things I think I really suck at:
• Dieting
• Keeping the house clean & tidy
• Sex – terribly self conscious all the weigh (oops, spelt that wrong, shows you how much I think I about being fat) way through it so just want it over and done with
• Managing money
• Walking the dogs
• Weeding the garden
• Keeping in touch with old friends and family

I need to find something to do that will earn me money and that I am good at. Based on the list above I don’t think I should become a hooker.

Hmm. I also think I am really good at coming up with new ideas. Although, I am struggling to come up with what I can do so maybe I’m not so flash at that after all. Anyway I need to work it out quickly because I’m broke. Really broke. So broke in fact that I shouldn’t ever buy coffee again and certainly shouldn’t buy both coffee and sushi for lunch like I did today. It’s just that it’s cold and the coffee cup warmed my hands up.

Maybe I shouldn’t be working at all and should use this time to try and address my craziness issue. But am I REALLY crazy? Many of you reading this (assuming there’s more of you than just my boyfriend and my sister) probably think that I am but aren’t I just doing what most of you don’t do, that is, say or in this case, write, what I am thinking? Come on, are you telling me you’ve never had the urge to stab a colleague in a meeting with a pen? Or when you are at a work morning tea shout, never wanted to pick the cake knife up and throw it straight in the chest of the pain in the arse office administrator? It's not just me, I know of at least one other person who has. She’s my BFF (J) and she’s not mad. Much.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter whether I am crazy or not, I’m going to keep writing. I’m not sure what the purpose of this is or if it helps me in my “I’m not mad” case but it’s been fun and I didn’t even yell at the dogs once during writing it.

So, what do you think? Maybe not funny, but not crazy either, right?