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.