Day 147

DON'T BOTHER ME NOW! I'M ON MY TRUPPPEEEEEEZE......

Day 146

Do you remember how I thought I was this great dog whisperer person? Well I now believe I am a possum whisperer. At least I did … until my whisper turned to a yell.

We have a possum around our suburban home and we nurture and welcome it. It has come down our chimney (not during winter when the fireplace is lit luckily) and graced our cream curtains with its sooty paws and it has feasted on our tomato patch and it has eaten fruit from our bowls and even dived head first into our range hood vent on the roof where it has been rescued from time to time by Derek. Last night it visited with either a mate or a baby (we can’t work out which) and I declared I was the Steve Irwin of the marsupial world and decided to feed it by hand. I went out to the tree with some cut up apple and offered my treasure for the magic one. He/she didn’t run away as it has done in the past, and as I was inches from it, it reached down to sample my snack. How cool is that! The apple dropped and I apologised. Don’t worry I said, I have another! I was so into the David Attenborough moment and I didn’t want to fail. I offered up more apple and snap! it grabbed it with its chompers … only to once again lose the apple to the dirt below and leave us in another apple-less moment of awkwardness. As I offered the final piece it dived in (not wanting to miss out for a third time apparently) grabbing my finger with both claws to secure it’s dinner, and took a massive bite of both the apple and my finger. That’s where the whispering ended and the screaming began ….

I screamed, it grunted, and we both ran in opposite directions – me crying, it hissing … and both of us feeling very unsatisfied. As I type this my right index finger is throbbing with a piercing on both sides (and claw scratches in between) and blood gushing through the Bandaid. Do I need to get stitches? I am too afraid to look. Do I need a rabies shot? No, I live in Australia. Will I be feeding more possums? Well …. I don’t know … I’m a slow learner.

When I was 10 years old I tried to feed a possum a scotch finger biscuit and the exact same thing happened. You think I would have learned my lesson the first time around. Apparently not! 30 years later all I have done is improved the diet of the Australian native – from scotch finger fingers to apple flavoured fingers. Trying to touch type with one digit gushing blood is not really working for me. It’s messing up the keyboard and sending little slivers of pain up my hand. I think my time as a possum whisperer is done and I can now finally mark that waiver-esque experience from my list. Once I stop crying and can type with a full set of 10 fingers again …. I may get back to you. But right now my pride and finger hurt too much. Hospital run anyone?

Day 145

Mum is absolutely NOT adhering to her "life without feet". Her feet are bound and strapped like a Geisha (which is interesting because she actually dressed as a Geisha for my 40th party) and it is my understanding that she should really stay off them for the majority of the day, but given she can't sit still for longer than it takes to eat a meal she is pushing the "life without feet" boundaries and spending the majority of her time on them! What will this do to her flippers in the long run? Is she doing them damage or is she perhaps toughening them up and getting them in good working order again? Another of those deep fried conundrums. Something that only time will tell ...

In the meantime (when I am not telling her to stay off her feet) I am giving her little projects to do. Yes, I am making good use of my ol' mum. Before you start yelling at me, they are sitting down projects ... for the most part ... I'm not parading her around on her stumps. The current project is to help make Tahlia's calisthenics solo costume. Tahlia's solo comps start in 4 weeks and we have to make a razzle dazzle leotardy thing in the line with her coaches vision that is pink and black and gold. It is strapless (although not really ... we need some sort of "invisible" strappy thingos to actually keep it up) and it has a tie at the back with much of the back cut out and a huge bow on her bum. Oh and sequins. Lets not forget those bloody sequins. Not easy when you have gloriously wonderful acrylics. Long nails and sequins do not get along very well and create many "fascinating" moments. Now the new conundrum is do we buy a flesh coloured leotard and sew all the other colours onto it, or do we build it from scratch. And if we build it from scratch how do you make it stretchy so that she can perform in it (with her forward walk-overs and back bends and other stretchy flexy stuff). You see? That is the worry of Mummy's the world over. How to make your freakin kids costumes. Surely I can pay someone. Anyone? Oh yeah, don't panic, I've got Mum. Ok, ok. Just a momentary lapse of reasonable conscious thought ... I'm back on track now. We are off to scout the dance shops to see what we can find.

Day 144

"Hey, what's the big idea? Yo, Mika. I said, sucking too hard on your lollipop, hey, love's gonna get you down ..."

Are you sucking too hard on your lollipop? I think I might be. According to Mika and his Lollilop lyrics (which just happens to be the ring tone on my mobile) love will get you down. I guess it might, but that is not what lollipop sucking is doing to me ... if by sucking too hard on your lollipop we are talking about doing too much, or burning the candle at both ends, or trying too hard, or just being sulky because things aren't going your way ... then yes, I may be sucking too hard on my lollipop. But then again, it is only 5.20am and I am tired and physically hurting from two rounds of cheerleading this week, my bike riding expedition on Tuesday (I still have bike bum), and that crick in my neck/shoulder region, and I now have to head to boot camp. So I feel a little fragile and if someone doesn't give me a lollipop soon I may resort to sucking my thumb. Mummy?!! Where are you Mummy?!? I definitely feel like sitting on the couch and sucking on a lollipop with a blankie over my head while this carnival ride continues without me.

I don't want to got, please don't make me go.

Sigh. Alright. I'll bloody go ....

This being fit and fabulous at 40 is really starting to suck!! (on your lollipop ........)


A few hours later:

Life doesn't seem quite as sucky at the respectable hour of 8.00am. I have done my fitness for the day and survived, and I am back to drinking my tea from the Believe mug (and I have even taken my thumb out of my mouth). Off to school again today for another day of TA work to fill in some time before I head to a business networking function this evening. No lollipop sucking allowed there ...

Day 143

I am drinking from my orange summery cup today - I refer to it as my "every day's a sunny day" mug. It makes me happy. Plus it is colour coordinated with my skirt. I am wearing orange ... colour coordinating your clothes with your crokery is important you know ...

I was going to spend my morning taking care of business and doing some research on new success training techniques, but instead I am off to the school to be a teaches aid! My first paid gig. What is this all about? Well, given I spend so much time at the school cheerleading, and given I was volunteering in the class rooms anyway, and given business isn't exactly bringing in an executive level wage right now, and since I am not yet on the publicity trail for my fabulously successful children's books (no, not published yet, just being positive), I figured it might be worthwhile putting my name down to be available for teachers assistant relief work. I did the application, had the interview, got a thumbs up and attended some little information system, and BINGO, I'm in (apparently). Should I attend a course or something?!

This morning as I sipped my tea from my sunny daze cup I got a 7.00am phone call asking me to come on board. At first I was thinking, who the hell would call me at 7.00am?!? Luckily I answered the phone with my professional "I'm so pleased you are calling" voice instead of my "who the hell would be calling at this time?" voice. So there you have it! Today I step out of my comfort zone and join the ranks of the teachers. Well, the teachers aid.

I am not sure how it will all go on the days I have back to back clients, and book tours, and conferences to attend (where I am the key note speaker), and Oprah to meet, but today it is working for me so let's do it.

You see, the power of the mugs!! Every day is a sunny day ...

Day 142

I have had a ridiculous night sleep with far too many awake hours, and now I have woken up with a crick in my shoulder and neck giving me ANOTHER dreaded headache. Derek had to get up at sparrow's fart for a flight to Sydney so no booticus campicus for me this morning. Instead the kids and I decided to ride the bikes to school.

It's the first time we have taken on this adventure as the school is not in our suburb, but rather a few suburbs away. Luckily we have a great bike path system to make the trip safe. The thing is though that the trip to school is about 6km of steady incline - not a huge hill, but it is uphill all the way. Tahlia powered into it as she is fit and flexible and well stretched. I did it easily because of all my whip-me-till-I-puke hill sprints. Poor old Darbs struggled a bit with his little 6 year old legs starting to cave on the final hill. He did a marvellous job though! There were no complaints, just a little face set in concentration, with a slight frown and lots of forehead sweat. As we pedalled up the last stretch to school I told him the good news was that on the way home it would be all down hill. That did little to budge the funnel between his brows. I stupidly then asked if he would like to ride his bike to school again next week. There wasn't much to his answer, just a very basic and quite forceful "no". Ok then. Perhaps I shouldn't have asked that question while his legs were jelly and battling the final uphill demon. We'll see ....

Anyway, I rode home again and will be setting off again this arvo to collect them for the return trip. As I sit here typing I realise I have a pretty severe case of bike bum and will need to investigate a more female friendly seat in which to nestle my deep fried fanny. The thought of getting back on the horse in a few hours is not all that appealing I've got to say. I won't let on to the kids though because this is all part of their endurance training to get them ready for climbing Mount Kosciusko in a few weeks. At least we should all sleep well tonight ...

A few hours later:

I am sitting at my desk laying hunched back in my chair with my bum hanging off the edge of the seat. Getting back on that bike was absolute agony!! I felt like I had broken bones all through my butt. It feels as though my entire arse is bruised! It feels ok just walking about but getting back on the seat was torturous. Surely it isn't supposed to feel like this? Is bike bum really that bad?! I think I have sprained something. Actually, I think I may have crunched, squished, folded, bruised and sprained lots of things. Anyway, I "sucked it up Princess" and rode the now not-so-gentle incline back to school and escorted the kids home. It is 27 degrees and we are feeling the heat. After a bucket load of water each Darby has declared that he quite simply can't go to tennis this arvo. I have to agree with him. It's time for splat ....

At least the down hill version of the journey has left everyone with a smile on their face. I'm off to get an ice pack. There are bits of me that require some TLC ...

Day 141

Bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, poop. That is the swear sequence of choice Mum used as I was growing up. I always thought it was quite a lady-like option until many years later I discovered what bugger actually means. Having that many buggers in a row I guess poop would be the logical next step. I'm not sure why Mum chose that exact sequence, but I doubt she really thought about the true meaning of it all. More than likely it was a nice musical sort of verbal frustration release that has been passed on from generation to generation. If you ignore the literal meaning, bugger is such a great word. It's almost posh when you hear an Englishman say it. Like when Hugh Grant says it in "Four Weddings and a Funeral", it sounds positively regal. I love the word! I use it often. And today I am using it the way Mum does in a kind of sing-song manner - 6 buggers then a poop. (And poop is a quick word ... not drawn out like in the USA to poooooooop ... it is not pronounced poo with a P on the end ... it is a nice quick "poop".)

Bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, poop!!!! Why? Because today is Monday. And what does Monday bring? Well yes, the kids go back to school and hubby goes back to work and I get my weekly routine sorted in regards to clients, writing, following up with publishers, house work, groceries, exercise AND cheerleading. Monday is cheerleading day. It is the day that I dedicate to all things cheerful ... updating the website, mixing music, communicating with parents, videoing myself to teach on line, face-to-face teaching at the end of the day AND creating the choreography. That is why I am swearing. The creating of the routines keeps me awake at night. I am not a dance teacher. We have 2 months before our first competition and I have only got about 1/8 of each of the 3 poms routine worked out. Bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, poop!

Hey, I wonder if I could create a dance sequence with that beat. Bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, poop! Yes! Excellent. It is only 7 counts though. I would need to add a pause on the end. Something I have learned in the last 12 months of cheer is that all dance is constructed to 8 counts. I used to be able to count forever, but now I can't count past 8. Interesting phenomenom. I am a counter. I count when I walk up stairs, I count my steps when I walk or jog. I count as I cut cheese slices. I count. Dad counts too. One day when I was about 15 we were walking through Sydney both deep in thought when Dad said to me "what number are you up to?" and I answered "64". It seemed natural enough - doesn't everyone count? Well now I find as I am doing hill sprints at boot camp and chanting "I'm so grateful I've got legs" I can only count to 8 and then I start back to 1 again. Bloody cheerleading ....

But I digress. Today is the day I need to finish all the choreography for the three routines. Until I do I won't sleep properly. Today is the day I search the net, watch Bring It On movies, watch Ellen dancing on You Tube, and get out the old jazzercise videos for choreography inspiration. Today is the day I have to step up and BE the cheer coach. We all know I have no background in dance, gymnastics and cheerleading, so what I lack in actual experience I will have to make up for in determination, commitment and the plain old fashioned ability to bullshit.

So off I go - bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, poop, pause.

Right arm point in half V (left hand on hip, right hip jutted out), and down into half K (hip jut to opposite side), back to half V, snap (standing to cheer attention, arms by side), left arm point to half V, down to half K, back to half V and snap. Got it! That is now going to be known as the bugger poop! Oh wait ... they're kids ... let's call it the BP snap (the big point snap).

Bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, poop, snap.

Day 140

Yesterday turned out to be a little waiver-esque in the end. We weren't just cruising about looking at the scenery and waving to each patch of farm as we drove about, we were put to work to bring hay and machinery from the farm down to the house block. I was driving a truck pulling a trailor full of hay (well, not a truck, a ute, but on account of the trailor it was very waiver-esque for those around me) and later I was hooning about on a motorbike! Yep, quite waiver-esque for this piece of deep fried fruit.

Let me tell you about "the farm". I didn't actually grow up as a farm chick, but rather in a house in a street in a large country town. But from the time I was around eight years old we always had a small patch of rural land in which to run horses and a few cows. Yep, I was a pony club pal and spent most of my weekends kicking about in jeans and boots and cowboy hats. In my mid-late teenage years keeping my nails nice became a bit of an issue, and I was torn between the dusty sweat of paddock bashin' and the allure of being a lady. The lady bit won out in the end, but deep in my soul is a paddock bashin' lass who feels complete peace standing on a hill looking out over grass, trees, cows, horses and the overall simplicity of nature. So although the farm hasn't been around for very long, it's the getting at one with nature and the knowing that if all else fails I can run back to my parents and the comfort of the land if necessary. Something I have done from time to time. I am seriously going to miss that. It's my security blanket. My safety net. My comfort.

"The farm" and the house block are separate. The house block was bought 25 years ago and is on around 25 acres (they didn't build until I had left home for uni), then some time later Mum and Dad bought a huge whack of land which at one point was around 800+ acres in total, and they have been slowly selling it off since to invest the funds for retirement purposes. Dad has been working the farm in his semi-retirement for over ten years now and this final sale is allowing him to join Mum in retirement freedom. So to get to the farm you don't just walk out the back door, you actually drive up a country road about ten minutes and there it is. So that's what we did yesterday, drove up and back from the farm to the house block as we carted hay and farm machinery to and fro. I was driving because Dad was taking the tractor back and forth to lift hay and carry tractor attachments back to the house, and Mum couldn't drive as she is still living in a life without feet. (For someone supposedly staying off her feet she sure is on her feet a lot at the moment! More about that another day.) So what better way to say horrah to the farm than to actually be working it! I think that highlighted to me that as wonderful the property is, there is a bloody lot of work involved in owning it, and I'm sure as hell not going to do it.

Later in the day we took the kids quad bike and Dad's motorbike up there for a some driving up and down the bush tracks. I have driven a motorbike twice before - once about 20 years ago, and again a couple of years back. It was definitely waiver-esque as I tried to coordinate my left foot with my left hand while doing something different with my right hand and remembering that the brake (the very important brake) was at my right foot. It was a bit of a pat the head rub the stomach kind of experience. I got it though and had an absolute blast!!! I felt like I was going like the clappers but given I didn't get past 3rd gear I would suggest I probably wasn't. And I only stalled it three times but was able to restart it on my own each time. Cool eh?!

So there it is. My last trip to "the farm". Of course we will still have a farm to visit - the 25 acre house block 15 minutes from the nearest town is not exactly suburbia. For all intents and purposes Mum and Dad still live on a farm. There are horses and paddocks and dams and hills and trees. So really this has been a great big dribble about nothing because nothing has changed. Bloggobable at its best. I've just spent two days talking to you about something that in the end really isn't anything! I've been all caught up in a piece of property when really the heart and soul of it all is still here. What a selfish bitch!! Man, how do you put up with me ...

Day 139

I had crazy dreams last night about parties and some massive uni campus and buying dozens of bottles of Killawara Dusk champagne and hanging out with a bloke who's not my husband and accidently leaving my baby boy (which I assume was meant to be Darby) in the car in the summer time and a woman by a roadside pay phone screaming hysterically that I had left a baby to die in the heat ....

Something was making a lot of noise in my dream. Lots of snorting and tooting or something. A wailing baby perhaps. That woman still screaming only her voice was getting deeper and deeper sounding like a fog horn. Ships in the harbour? Fog. Where am I now? The sound was getting louder as I started to wake from my wretched dream. I started to realise it must be someone's snoring ... the guy in the dream? As I came further to consciousness I thought of Derek and before opening my eyes reached over to poke him from the snorathon ... not Derek ...Darby. Darby is snoring? Yes he is, but that is not the noise. My eyes still closed I realised that the dawn birds were obviously maturing because their voices were getting deeper. Adolescent birds going through the change. With my eyes now open I realise I am not at home at all, nor am I at uni, or killing babies, or at a harbour. I am at the farm. I am home with Mum and Dad at the farm at the noise is in fact the cattle moo'ing in the distance outside my bedroom window.

As I sit here and type in Dad's study I look out the colonial style windows with their little square divisions that make the outside world look like a series of photos. A beautiful green, leafy, hilly series of photos with gum trees, cows, horses, hay bales and farm sheds. There is a fog over the yonder hills which is lifting to cloud level showing green smudged with white smudged with brown and a crystal blue sky appearing underneath. As I refocus my long distance vision to near sight, the picture frame windows show me a lush green vine snaking along the awning of the verandah. Yep, it is one of those verandahs the length of the house with chairs, and a coffee table, plants and a telescope, trimmed with shrubs and flower beds flowing onto a green lawned yard bordered by a heritage green picket fence dividing the house from the paddocks and all that farm life has to offer. Sigh. It's just so beautiful, and peaceful and wonderous.

I am here this weekend so the kids and I can say goodbye to the farm. Don't worry, Mum and Dad aren't leaving the house block, but they are selling the majority of their land for retirement purposes. There will be no more cattle farming on the Great Dividing Range. We are all getting dressed in our jeans and boots to take a ride around the property to say one last "horrah" before the new owners take over. I will be taking my camera and my tissues. I will let you know how it all goes.

Day 138

My trainer once said to me "a gift is not a gift unless you have to sign a waiver". I think she said that in response to my hot air ballooning experience which was a 40th birthday present. I contemplated that yesterday as I set some goals for the remainder of my 40th year. As I watch it slip away towards 41 I want to be sure I have some pretty serious waiver-esque experiences under my belt. Why? Buggered if I know. It just seems kind of youthful, and risky, and challenging. Don't we all need a bit of that in our lives? Besides, it's kind of nice to see the world from different angles. Like from great heights and upside down and zooming past and all that.

So as I sat on my back deck I thought about what I have done, what I am doing, and what I have yet to do.

Waiver-esque things that I have done: sky-diving, Sydney Harbour Bridge climb, Statue of Liberty, swimming with dolphins, jet boating, hot air ballooning, Grand Canyon, driven across the USA on the wrong side of the road, patted a crocodile, cuddled a snake, had a big hairy spider climb all over me (that was unexpected and not by choice), ridden a camel, fed a giraffe, experienced every ride at Disney (4 times), attended pole dancing classes, been on the roof at home, snorkelled in Hawaii with sea turtles (that's HUGE for me because Jaws completely ruined my ocean bravado for life), and attended the Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras. These experiences may not seem waiver-esque on the surface but they can certainly take you out of your comfort zone and really challenge your vertigo. Those giraffes have long licky slimy blue tongues which wrap around the carrots and your hand as you try to feed them. And the mardi gras! Well, I was continually stroked on the head with a feather by a a large woman in body hugging black leather with the boobs cut out and a dildo strapped to her crotch. And she had the same long licky slimy blue tongue which she flicked at me with every stroke of the feather. Very waiver-esque experiences.

What I am doing: well I am off to trapeze in 10 days (yikes) and I am going to climb Mount Kosciusko in a few weeks (it may not be the top of the world, but it's the top of the world as we know it in the land of Aus). Plus I guess boot camp is waiver-esque. Yes it actually is. We do sign waivers every month. Huh. And coaching cheerleading and having to do cartwheels, cheer jumps, dive rolls and deal with cheerleaders and their parents is quite life threatening. Especially now that we have well over 100 kids who have signed up.

What I have yet to do: everything else!

So as I sat on the back deck watching the kids play I thought about what I could add to my list to help make my 40th birthday year complete. What can Deep Fried Fruit do to expand the ol' zone. And then I saw it!! Remember that trampoline the kids got for Christmas that took us an eternity to erect (when it could have taken just a few minutes had we read the instructions)?! Well that is it. So I ordered the kids off and I climbed aboard. And I started to bounce. And then I got off, went inside, put on a bra, and returned. I bounced and bounced and bounced. I went on my bum, to my knees and back to my feet. The dizzies were pretty extreme (how the hell am I going to handle trapeze?) but I managed to put the vertigo to the side and kept on bouncing. The kids of course were delighted and as I peered around the backyard looking at my regular world from a different perspective I could see the neighbours peering over their fences to watch. Giggles were plenty and most of them were coming from me.

As I type this and squint due to my trampoline inflicted headache, I realise that many of our waiver-esque experiences are right in our back yard. Whether they be sitting on the roof, climbing a tree, walking up a hill, patting a spider, learning to dive roll, or simply strapping on a pair of roller skates, or trying out the family tramp (no, not your second cousin, I mean the trampoline), we can have comfort-zone-growth without having to travel too far to do it.

Having said all that, does anyone out there have some waiver-esque, not too expensive, close to home challenges for me? Please don't say swimming with sharks. My kids have no fear of the ocean as they have never seen Jaws. I have seen Jaws and I poo my pants at the slightest ocean shadow. That's why you normally see me lying on a sun lounge with a book (or chasing a projectile umbrella ...)

Day 137

It's 5.00am which makes it blog o'clock. It seems to be the only time I get any peace and quiet to write! I am sitting here in my exercise gear, eating a banana, and getting ready for boot camp. A wise person once told me that if you are aiming to complete a goal or a task which you feel a little resistant about, then set yourself up for the path of least resistance to lead you to the result you desire. For example, if you would prefer to sleep in instead of attend dawn boot camp (which is exactly how I feel this morning) then wear your exercise gear to bed making it really hard to NOT get up and exercise. You're already dressed and ready to go so excuses will be harder to make come morning time. Does that really work? Well, if you were all dressed up, had your make up done professionally, been to the hair dressers for a bee hive and bought a new ball gown, and suddenly decided you no longer wanted to attend the company function, would you scrub off the make up, detangle the up do and put your ball gown back in the cupboard never to be worn again? Chances are you would attend the function anyway because it's the path of least resistance. Am I right? Maybe .... Anyway, last night I went to bed wearing my exercise gear. I had a migraine and had taken some heavy duty painkillers and knew that waking would be an issue, so I figured I'd give it a go. As I lay in bed this morning struggling to open my eyes I seriously contemplated texting my trainers to say I wouldn't be there on account of the headache. But no, I am already dressed! I've got my leggings on, sports bra, t-shirt, socks. My cap and shoes were right by the bed. It's too easy to actually go!! It would seem silly not to go. The very wise person might be right. Perhaps that is why he is a very wise person ...

That said, I'm off to booticus campicus again. I seriously don't feel like going, and I haven't an ounce of energy, but I'm dressed so at least I have that base covered.

A few hours later:
If I hadn't taken the path of least resistance I wouldn't have experienced the world of complete resistance. We had to wear bloody 5kg weight vests today as we jogged, sprinted, jogged, sprinted around the lake until we came across the hill which we had to sprint up, jog down, sprint up, jog down, then do these big stepping up lunge things and some other stuff, before jog sprinting back to the cars ... oh, but don't let me forget the sitting squats against posts along the way ... You see! If I hadn't listened to the wise man I would never have experienced the joys of exercise and the wonders of feeling fit, fabulous (yet slightly fatigued) at 40! And I wouldn't be confined to my home today as a result. My legs are jelly. My knees are shot. My legs are so sore I can't get up and down the stairs which will allow me to escape these four walls. Excuse me wise man, but could I be now trapped in my path of least resistance? Ok, I can't stay here. I need to take the path of heaps of resistance and get down the stairs and off to join the world ... I have a nail appointment to attend!!

"I'm so grateful I've got legs, I'm so grateful I've got legs, I'm so grateful I've got legs ...."

(I wonder how Mum's life without feeting is going? I had better give her a call.)

Day 136

Someone asked me the other day how the hell I manage to blog daily. Well the answer is "it's not easy" but it is a great way to keep your creativity alive and brain exercised. It definitely wakes my mind up quickly each day and after blogging I tend to become very productive in the other areas of my life. I think it is because writing is my passion and to do so the moment I get out of bed feeds my spirit. But there are times like yesterday when you rely quite heavily on the material of others to get your mind into gear. I mean, if you are resorting to transcribing the wrappers of menstrual pads you've got to face up to the fact that you may actually be blogipated and should take a nice little mind-freeing laxative.

The mind-freeing laxative for me is to exercise it by reading. But like many I don't get a lot of time to read. January is my big reading month with about 3 chick lit novels read on the beach over the holiday season. My current author of choice is Marian Keyes as she has a similar writing style to me and she totally feeds my sense of humour (and creativity).

Of course magazines are a great alternative when time is of the essence. A quick article during a toilet stop, or with a morning cuppa, or on the bus will often satisfy the mind. I realised recently that my magazine mind has matured since turning 40. It was like a switch was flicked and I swapped from the gossip trash to mags of substance. I used to LOVE my weekly hollywood update, with the sensationalised stories and seriously opinionated fashion updates. But as I neared by Deep Fried Fruit goal post I started to get a bit peeved with the headline grabbing statements that didn't reflect the story at all. And how did they know that "Mrs Movie Star" had recently slept with "Mr Game Show Host"? Were they invited into the bedroom for a look-see? I think what really got up my goat was the fashion pages where rather than just report that "Teenage Pop Sensation" wore G&D to the opening of the lollypop store, they had to voice their opinion on how well she did or didn't wear it. Hang on, can't I form my own opinion on that? Why don't you just report the facts and let us do the rest. Yes, my magazine mind has matured somewhat and I am now in the ranks of the Woman's Weekly, Notebook and Better Homes and Gardens.

That doesn't mean I stop caring about the celebs. Oh no. I am still very shallow in that regard. So how do I keep up with the Hollywood goss? I feed my need by watching the news. Not the nightly news (I actually have a news ban in my home because I find it gives bad energy) but E News of course! No, no bad energy with E News! It's all fun. And Ellen does a good job too with positive celeb reporting and lots of dancing the key to her success.

So there you go fellow blog dogs. That is how I manage to post daily. I read. I read, I watch and I listen. You inspire me! Yep, I take little bits from you ... and dabs from them ... a whole lot of me ... and a sprinkle of us ... and I even read other blogs to see if the ramblings trigger anything in the recesses of my mind to blogobable about. I get inspired by others. That's what life is all about after all, isn't it?

Happy reading (and thanks for the inspiration).

Day 135

Did you know that the average person's left hand does 56% of the typing? There's an interesting fact that your day wouldn't be complete without. Here are some more:

• there are 293 ways to make change for a dollar
• rubber bands last longer when refrigerated
• mageiricophobia is the intense fear of having to cook (that's me!)
• the Guiness Book of Records holds the record for being the most stolen book from public libraries
• on average a 4 year old child asks 437 questions a day (double that for my 6 year old)
• the bullfrog is the only animal that never sleeps (bloody Queenslanders)
• every year, the moon moves a further 3.82cm from the Earth
• the Eiffel Tower has 1792 steps (I challenge you to count them)
• if you attemped to count the stars in a galaxy at a rage of one every second it would take around 3000 years to count then all (no wonder I never win at that game, I usually fall asleep)
• the Mona Lisa has no eyebrows (neither do I! That reminds me, time to book in for my eyebrow dye)
• elephants are the only animals that can't jump (I thought it was white men?)
• animals that lay eggs don't have belly buttons
• slugs have 4 noses (ewwwww)
• camel's milk does not curdle (whey don't we dairy farm camels?!)
• frogs cannot swallow with their eyes open (does that mean they never swallow then, given they don't sleep either?)
• there are a million ants to every human in the world (who the hell gets paid to count our ants?)
• the toothbrush was invented in 1498 (which obviously means those carnival folk really are prehistoric - or at least predentistoric - Day 97)

Aren't they interesting facts! You learn something new every day, particularly when you take the time to read the "odd spot" wrappers on the feminine hygience products. Thankyou Libra for giving me someting to write about.

That done, I'm off to boot camp :)

Without my cap given it is now considered performance enhancing (refer to day 130 including the comments).

A few hours later:

My cars tried to tell me not to go to boot camp. Some people listen to their stars, I should have listened to my cars. I managed to drive as far as the highway (about 2km from home) when I discovered a flat tyre. So I drove back home (very close to the rim) and swapped it for Derek's car. Again I got to the highway when I discovered the petrol light was on! Shit. Went to boot camp via the service station. I arrived late to boot camp and it was horrendous!!! I should have listened to my cars .... I almost passed out twice and my legs were dead. "I'm so grateful I have legs, I'm so grateful I've got legs, I'm so grateful I've got legs ...."

Day 134

Today we talk about feet (again). We discussed my Mum's flippers quite some time ago, but I need another flipperfest because today is the day she has the bricks at the base of her legs turned back into feet. Today Mum has foot surgery to shave, file, mould and shape her feet into a less painful and more shoe friendly version of their former selves.

There's no big story attached to the foot phenomenon, just that she was born into a family that had a genetic flaw in the physics of the foot. Apparently she inherited Aunty Beat's feet (whoever Aunty Beat is) which included an extra large knuckle that comes out the side of the foot around the base of the big toe, and if not properly cared for the extra large knuckle might grow a bunyon and "shock, horror" the extra large knuckle turns into a freakin' ginormous and very painful knuckle. Well, Mum was enjoying youth at the peak of the pointy shoe fashion, so let's just say she didn't care for her knuckle, and years of forcing Missy Piggy trotters into little dainty shoes has led to today's reconstruction. As I stare at my own feet I fear I may be following the same hoofish path. My knuckle is quite clearly growing ...

So the big challenge here is not the operation itself today, but how Mum is going to survive her recovery phase as a disabled house-bound retiree. She retired two weeks ago so not only is she without her regular routine and purpose, she has to learn how to live a life without feet! And let's not even talk about how Dad is going to cope as the carer for his footless flame. Or how Mum is going to cope having Dad as her carer. Or how Dad is going to cope having to hear about Mum and her useless carer. Or ..... well ..... you get the picture.

Feet are really important. They carry the weight of your physical world. Without them you can become a puppet. Mum isn't the only one who is gearing up for a physical challenge. Chelsea broke her foot in a motor bike accident four years ago. She ended up with a Lisfranc fracture (Google that) which without the marvels of today's modern surgery options, would have resulted in amputation in the old days. She had titanium pins holding her foot together for a year and with youth on her side it seemed she was going to be near normal. But unfortunately her foot is starting to fall apart again which requires removing bone from her ankle to fuse onto the midfoot region. This of course will mean she too will be disabled in the next few months.

Yes, a life without feet. Can you imagine a life without feet? These are both temporary versions of the story but there are plenty of people out there who are actually permanently footless. I often think about Gill Hicks as I do hills sprints at boot camp. Gill is the Australian woman who had her legs blown off in the London terrorist bombings. One minute she was travelling on The Tube to work, next thing she is fighting for her life in the carnage that followed. Gill's amazing story of survival and rehabilitation is outlined in her book "One Unknown" which documents her journey from the bomb to walking down the aisle 6 months later on her prosthetic legs. Yes, an absolutely fantastic story in human survival, determination and positivity. So when my legs are burning from over-use on those ridiculously steep dawn hills, I chant to myself "I'm so grateful I've got legs, I'm so grateful I've got legs, I'm so grateful I've got legs ...."

Perhaps that can be your mantra for today. Forget yesterday's valentine, it's totally over-rated. Let's look at something that is very "under-rated" instead. Stare at your feet and say "I love you feet". They may only be a foot long, and get all stinky, and grow crusty bits from time to time, and get nail rot, and grow bunyons, but they're kind of important and your life would be extremely challenging without them.

"I love you feet!" Now, where's that heel balm ....

Day 133

A little boy goes to his father and asks 'Daddy, how was I born?' The father answers, 'Well, son, I guess one day you will need to find out anyway! Your Mom and I first got together in a chat room on Yahoo. Then I set up a date via e-mail with your Mom and we met at a cyber-cafe. We sneaked into a secluded room, and googled each other. There your mother agreed to a download from my hard drive. As soon as I was ready to upload, we discovered that neither one of us had used a firewall, and since it was too late to hit the delete button, nine months later a little Pop-Up appeared that said: You got male.

I can't take the credit for that LOL gem - it was the email joke of the week recently. But it highlights to me what I knew all along, that being in the world of singledom is a very different experience than it was when I was out there 15 years ago. I wish I was single and out there in the dating game. No, I don’t really but at least it would give me something to write about. I am safe in the sanctity of marriage and as comfortable as it is, and as safe as it can be, I am really missing out on some pearlers. I mean, I can chat about the things my hubby gets up to to keep our relationship “alive” and I can complain about the normality and challenges of living with a human Labrador, but I quite simply can’t commentate on life out there in the world of single-dom.

The online world offers infinite opportunities to meet people. You can connect on line, date on line, create friendships on line, catch up with blasts from the past on line. My first online reality was email of course and the ability to write quickly and immediately to my bestie over in Pennsylvania. That sure beat the snail mail option and the middle of the night phone calls as we failed regularly to get the time difference right. I started my first blog in 2006. It is my family photo album and on line version of the photocopied letter that you send to all and sundry to update them on your happenings. I started it because my friends are scattered all over Australia and the world so it was the easiest way for me to stay in touch. Well, for them to stay in touch with me. It was around the same time we got Skype which allowed me to have face-to-face cup of tea with Pennsylvanian friend even if one was in their PJs on their way to bed, and the other was in their PJs just having woken up. Then I found Facebook. I wasn't overly impressed with Facebook to begin with because ... well ... it wasn't a blog. But I put my blog-snobbing to the side for a bit to check it out. I am now Facebook friends with a whole class full of people I went to school with 25 years ago and I can tell you, that without the online wonders we would NEVER have reconnected. Many of us are now driving hours to meet for coffee and catch up on a quarter century of gossip. Yes, it makes for a very long coffee ....

But now I am finding something else! The friendship of fellow blog dogs. Finding comfort in the knowledge that there are thousands of bloggers riding the blogatron. And better than that, that there are people out there who actually want to read mine!! DAILY!!! And they give me awards to acknowledge my blogging abilities. How special. I feel very honoured indeed. It is for that reason I award Kelly http://kellyansapansa.blogspot.com/ and Kara http://diaryofsmudgeandspider.blogspot.com/ with the You Are My Sunshine Award for being such supportive and regular commenters. It just so happens that Kelly (according to her blog profile) met her soon-to-be-husband on line and Kara too has a whole world of online friendships and budding beaus. This award and today's post are applicable to you on so many levels.

So on Valentine's 2010 I pay homage to the world of online communication which creates and maintains fabulous relationships! May cyber space continue to bring joy and sunshine to the lives of many. But may it not take the place of face-to-face flesh filled friendships. A virtual hug or kiss (or even a Facebook poke) is nothing like the real thing.

Happy Valentine's Day Deep Fried Fruit Followers :)
x x x x x

Day 132

I am a bit slow today on account of yesterday's super heavenly day spa. Oh, and it may also have something to do with the champagne and bourbon-athon I had last night. I started off being all regal and bubbly and ended up as a bush pig. It happens. Anyway, I am slow today as a result.

Well, I have some news to share. Chelsea (my 21 year old step-daughter) announced her engagement yesterday. Isn't that lovely! Oh, you didn't know I had a step-daughter? Well, I guess now that she is all grown up and living out of home and doing her own thing we don't spend a lot of time with her anymore, so the subject just hasn't come up. When I met Derek Chelsea was only 6 years old. She has been part of my life every second weekend and half the school holidays since. But when she turned 18 we "released" her into the world suggesting she needn't feel obliged to visit us regularly, just to go out and live the life of a young'n for bit. You know sow the wild oats and all that. Well after some wild oat sowing she has found her man and after only a year they are now dedicating themselves to each other for ever. Isn't that nice?

Anyway, I wrote to my bestie via email and did the whole "we've got huge news" thing and "you'll never guess what has happened" and "we are so excited" and then I left it hanging to get a bit of excitement and anticipation and atmosphere going on across cyber land, and she came back screaming hysterically and excitedly (in capital letters) "OMG YOU'RE PUBLISHED!!!!!" Bugger. I'm not. What a let down. Chelsea's news was lovely and all, but no. I'm not published. Shit. That kind of knocked the wind out of my excitement sails. Chelsea's engagement doesn't even come close to how I am going to feel when I am published. Sorry Chels, seeing you walk down the aisle will come close ... but getting published is going to be undescribable. I can't even put into words how I am going to feel. It's going to be like when I got my HSC results and accepted into uni (I remember opening the envelope with trembling hands and I was almost passing out in anticipation and nervousness), or when Derek proposed to me (and I cried and screamed and ran away from him and forgot to give him my answer), or like when I went to my first ever concert (I was 15 and it was a Wham! concert in Sydney and I was wearing lemon colour 3/4 jeans with matching sleeveless jacket and I was shaking and crying ) or when I went to my first Prince concert (at age 22 wearing a white ruffled pirate shirt, jeans and high heel black ankle boots in the same stadium back in Sydney) or when a boy rang me for the first time at home (no cordless phone so I had to take the call in Mum and Dad's bedroom hoping I wouldn't die from nerves and embarrassment), or when I got my first horse (Dad drove home late one night from working out of town with a Shetland pony in a box trailer with false walls. Even though he was dark brown I called him Blacky after Black Beauty), or on my wedding day (when the limo pulled up outside the church and I froze and couldn't get out because of the enormity of it all). Yep, it is going to feel something like that. I have a feeling it is going to be one of those momentous moments. (A momentous moment?! I guess momentous is a good thing for a moment to be ....)

When is that going to be? When???!!! Gosh darn it (which is an extremely nice way of saying FFS ... which is a nice way to write For Fucks Sake ....) I am not very good at this whole patient persistance thing right now. One week I am all calm and positive and serene and "it will happen when it's meant to happen", and then the next week (like this week) I am all "what the hell are they doing there in publishingville, dont' they know I am the next big thing to hit children's literature??!!! Get your lazy arses moving publishing pigs and stop fart arsing around FFS!!!"

Oh it's hard to be hangin' like this. Oh whoops. This wasn't about me. It was about Chelsea ...

Congratulations Chelsea! I hope your engagement is one of those hugely momentous occasions suspended in time that you can conjur up often with the flick of a mind switch. Just like my publishing news is going to be.

Day 131

It has been 131 days since my 40th birthday and it just keeps on going! My birthday that is ... sure 40 keeps on going too, and so does life, but I'm talking about my birthday ... or should I say my birth-131-day(s).

Today I get my IOU from Mum which is a joint session at a day spa. Woot woooooot!!! We are having some sort of herbal facial thingimo as well as an all over body wrap with scrubby bits and massage moments. It all sounds so exotic! We will be in a double room for the facial component but they strongly suggested separate rooms for the other bit since we'll be pretty much naked. Oh sure, if I have to. No need for Deep Fried Fruit and Deeper Fried Fruit to have a fry-off to compare levels of frydom. They said we need to bring spare undies. The mind boggles?! Do they think I am going to pee my pants in excitement? Well I might I suppose. Of course it could be because I actually leave my undies on during the scrub and rub and they get all muddy. Yes, that would be it ...

Anyway, that is what is on the agenda for this little princess today. Don't hate me too much. I'll tell you all about it this arvo when we're done ...IF I have the energy that is .... it all sounds positively strenuous and completely exhausting.

Many many MANY hours later ...

Mmmmmmm. Ahhhhhhhh. That's really all I have to say!

Let me give you the spiel from the brochure as my brain is too numb with relaxation to create my own blurb:

A Body Bliss Balance body treatment for balancing and hydrating tired and stressed-out bodies. A gentle exfoliation washed off with aura body wash then a massage of chakra essence & Shea butter with a blend of essential oils selected to balance the emotions, nourish and regenerate the skin (60 minutes) . Followed by a Wildflower Healing Facial which is a deep cleanse and exfoliation followed by high-performance organic healing herbals, wildflowers and treatment mask to hydrate and energise the skin, leaving it feeling rejuvenated and radiant (another 60 minutes). Fabulous! I feel fresh and free and light and very very fluffy ...

No pants wetting ... although my pants are wet due to the scrub thingimo ... and I did need to pee urgently during the facial ... but I didn't disgrace myself. It's all good!

Thanks Mum for an absolutely fantabulous 40th birth-131-day present! Let's do it again for my 41st!!

Day 130

Don't go anywhere! Iam just off to boot camp. I'll tell you all about it once I get home (and after I have packed the lunches, made the beds, fed the famiy, got the kids dressed and off to school).

A few hours later:

Man I stink! I am sitting here offending myself severly. I should shower, but that would mean leaving you hanging and I KNOW you want to hear from me so I'll make the ultimate sacrifice and breathe in my own stench as I type. I know! How positively cave woman of me ...

I am sipping from my cow mug again by the way, and no, I am not thinking of flatulence, but rather that my beautiful dairy farming friend is also a sparrow. She wakes up daily before the sun rises to milk her mooeys. As I drove to boot camp with the headlights on this morning I decided not to complain but to rejoice in only getting physical at dawn twice a week instead of daily like our hard working farmers. And I don't come home covered in cow poo ... actually cow splurt ... which kind of splatters all over you during the milking process ... worse than splatter actually, more like batter. Yes, poo batter. I don't come home in poo batter. Just a little bit of duck shit from time to time ...

Hmmm. Oh, but I digress!

I turned up to booticus campicus (that's Latin for boot camp) this morning in the semi-darkness (still not complaining) and was welcomed heartily by my fellow campers and my trainers. Quite a few happy faces considering. My trainer actually asked me if I'd blogged my Tuesday boot camp experience. No, I had to admit I hadn't. Oh .... (aren't we good enough for you anymore? Isn't boot camp bloggable? Why aren't you screaming in capital letters at us and telling the world how horrendously horrible today's session was?) She didn't actually say any of that, but I felt it trickling through the dawn mist. So today I dedicate my ramblings to you my dear Boot Campee (if we are boot campers, does that make her the campee? or just plain camp? Or is she actually the boot camper and we are the campees? Another topic best left for a night on the piss ....)

I got the heebie geebies when the big barbells came out. Yep, it was weights today. Hang on, I still can't lift my arms above my head from boxing on Tuesday! Looks like more work on the tuck shop arms. We partnered up and took our weights down by the lake, near the main bridge that funnels all the north/south traffic across the lake. Yikes. That means stairs and ramp sprints as well. Bugger.

I wasn't wrong. We started with a few easy runs up the ramp and down the stairs, up the ramp and down the stairs, up the ramp and down the stairs ..... then while one partner did the whole lifting the barbell above the head thingimo the other partner had to SPRINT up the stairs and down the ramp for one lap and then we swapped (it's about a 1.5 minute lap I guess, maybe 2 minutes depending on your partner). We did that a few times. The dizzies came to visit during the sprints. We don't like the dizzies. The weights were actually a welcome relief from the sprinting, but then as you heaved and puffed to get those last few weights out the sprinting became the relief from the lifting. Then it was sit-ups for the non-runner. But not any normal sit up. Oh no! We can't have anythig that is actually DOABLE!! It has to be something fandangle and ridiculously impossible. It was something called a ... what was it? .... um ... a fly crunch or something? Legs straight up in the air with arms out to the side(like you are mid dive doing a tumble in the Olympic high dive) while you do crunches. F*&^ me purple. I'm still not complaining by the way. But where is my runner??? Can anyone see my runner?? Then it was a different type of weight lifting (to the chin) while the runner went back to sprinting up the ramp and down the stairs (I find it hard to run down stairs ... vertigo). We had to keep doing that for God knows how long, swapping back and forth. As I did the weights I was internally screaming "WHERE'S MY RUNNER?!??!" Tuck shop arms my arse. I don't have arms. Mine are now elastic bands just burning with exhursion. They have become useless and all the muscles seemed to have dissolved. What have you done to my arms?! Oh, but it's not over yet. Now the runner has to go back to sprinting up the stairs and back down the ramp while the non-runner gets down into plank position. For non-exercisey people plank is where you are lying down on your elbows, with your body stretched out (face down) on your toes using your stomach to hold it all straight like a plank. We had to stay in plank until our person got back from their run and if we fell out of plank we both would have to do 10 situps for each stuff up. That's plankiscide!!! All righty then. It's kind of easy if you stick your butt in the air but then it is no longer plank. You get in trouble for that (as I found out). Remember how my arms no longer have muscles in them and have gone all wobbly and stretchy? It's hard to hold plank without arms. That's when I discovered my head! So without drawing too much attention to myself I managed to hold plank without falling out of it for a few rounds by making use of my noggin. Gee my legs look alright from this angle. "Leanne, are you leaning on your head?" "Me, nooooooooo, of course not ... it's just my hat getting in the way". My partner to her credit did it noggin free but the bottom line is that between the two of us we got through that phase without penalty push ups. Phew!! Then that was it. The whistle was blown (metaphorically) and another hour of boot camp was over. Really!?! Wow. I could have done at least another 3 ninutes .....

May I shower now? My stink is awful. It might actually challenge the whole poo batter thing ...

Day 129

Look at that - I am 40 years and 129 days old. Wow! More than a third of the way through my 40th year. I am going to have to pick up the pace a bit with some of those goals!

I am buggered. My post is a little later than it has been because I quite simply couldn't wake up this morning. I think it was a combination of my extra early rise yesterday and my first day back at boot camp, as well putting my head down and bum up to take care of business yesterday. Brain drain. I commenced a targetted marketing campaign with 25 letters out the door advertising my wares. Life coach anyone?

So, what are we going to talk about today? Let's open my little "things to do now that you're 40" book. Oh lookey! 4 wonderful pearls of fun for the day.

(1) Knuckle down if you don't feel you make enough money yet: You know, I used to make a bloody good wage when I was working for someone else (funnily enough) but now that I am in business for myself it is not quite so bloody good. Yeah, it's good to be out of the rat race and being my own person, but that's not getting fillet mignon on the table. That will change though. If I could just get these bloody books published we'll be fine. You know what! I rely too heavily on Derek's wage. I've become lazy. I have a good client base, but I only ever take on as many clients as I can fit around family, cheerleading, writing books and managing the house. Hmmm. Success is a choice. Maybe the book is right (shock, horror) it's time to knuckle down. Righteo then! Today is more target marketing AND a bit of not-so-patient persistence with publishers. It's time to up the ante! (or is that up the anti?)

(2) Be able to rub your stomach and pat your head simultaneously: Yep, got that down pat (so to speak). But can you pat your stomach and rub your head? Hmmm. Not quite so easy! I just got sprung by my daughter .... "Mum, what are you doing?" ... "just my things to do when you're 40 exercises sweety", "wow, you don't get out much Mum", "say THAT when I'm flying a trapeze in two weeks time!"

(3) Get housework down to a fine art, so you spend as little time as possible: yeah well, I know all about housework, just not as it applies to me. I mean I do it. I dust - once a fortnight - but the pesky stuff keeps coming back! And vaccuuming is left to Roomba my robotic carpet sweeper. Yesterday I squirted some domestos around my shower but when I went back last night it still wasn't overly clean. Apparently I am supposed to get down and scrub it as well as squirt it?! And you all know about my dark hair on the white bathroom tiles. Absolute filth. But the clothes are washed (and folded nicely even if not ironed) and the toilets are clean and the kitchen is spotless and the house is tidy. Just don't open any cupboards or my world may land on your head. If you were to walk into my home you would think "nice, she's got her shit togegther" and I have. I just don't get all freaked out and anal over the minor details. But isn't a clean home the sign of a wasted life? Unless of course you are super human like my mother - she has the whole clean house thing mastered AND climbs mountains, trekks through jungles and swans around at the beach. You may recall that my mother-in-law gave me a book called "Speed Cleaning: A Spotless House in Just 15 Minutes a Day". I put it in the pile and never looked at it again. I think I have my housework down to a fine art. I do a bit on a Monday and a bit on a Friday (and I make the beds, tidy the lounge room, clean the toilets and wipe over the kitchen daily). What else is there? Done. Next!

(4) Don't be too hard on yourself. If you don't succeed at something perhaps you have chosen the wrong goal: WHAT!!!?!? No. I don't agree with you little book. If you don't succeed then get out there and try again! Of course, it does depend on the goal. I mean, if you have decided to fly to the moon in a home made rocket and you can't get off the ground in your cardboard box then yes, it is the wrong goal. But for the most part go out there and aim for the metaphorical moon and at the very least you will land amongst the stars. Success is a choice! And I am choosing it. So no, I am not changing my goals, just my strategy.

Ok, so that's a lot of bloggobabble. Time to get our day started. It's a day to knuckle down so with that said I'm off to have a shower and I may even scrub it while I'm in there.

Oh yeah ... I booked my trapeze lessons ... Sunday 28th February ...

Day 128

I have been asked via email to continue with the blog glossary, so here are a few more I have come up with (refer to Day 119 for original set http://deepfriedfruit.blogspot.com/2010/01/day-119.html).

Blogorce: the divorce you get when one person is a blog dog (blog dog: an uptight bitch who blogs)

Bloggitude: your blogging attitude - can be negative or positive. "He has bad bloggitude!"

The Bloggatron: That wonderful fair-ride that is blogging. You start off having fun and can't get enough of it and keep lining up for more until eventually it just makes you plain sick and dizzy - refer to resulting conditions of Blogaphobia and Blogapnoea (see Day 119)

A Blogaphobe: Someone who refuses to even read a blog, doesn't understand them and is basically afraid of them.

Blogathon: A creative session where you can't stop spilling out your thoughts, so much so that you have to open a Word document to get it all down and save it for posting another day.

Bletiquette: Blog etiquette.

Blogorama: When you open up sites such as Blog This and discover a whole new panoramic world of blogs!

Blaugh: The blogs that give you a good LOL (as opposed to Blaff which are the blogs that make you barf)

Blogasmic: A posting so awesome it blows everything else out of the water

Blogiscidal: Right up there with Blogapnoea, Blogaphobia, Bloganoia, Blogasteria (see Day 119). If you are feeling blogiscidal then perhaps blogging is no longer for you.

Blogiscide: When you post something that is so opinionated or so crass that people un-follow you. You have committed blogiscide.

Bloggable: The stuff you come across everyday that can be blogged about. It is totally bloggable.

Bloggobabble: The blog glossary is a classic example of bloggobabble.


I hope that lesson in blogdom keeps you going for a few more days! When inspiration hits I will post some more, but right now I need to get ready for boot camp. Yep. I start dragging tyres up hills, carrying weights around the lake, sprinting up stairs and doing thousands of push-ups, sit-ups and burpies today. I am sooooooo looking forward to it (NOT!!)

See you tomorrow (unless I am left to die on a hill ....)

A few hours later:

I did not die on a hill. No hills at all today! They eased us back into boot camp relatively slowly with boxing and sprinting. My arms are killing me. Can't raise them above my head. Won't be doing my hair today. Boxing is great for Deep Fried Fruit because it not only firms up the tuck-shop arms but gives you something/someone to legally belt ...

Day 127

Today is a day of UPDATES. My last update session (Day 108) was so popular I was asked to make it a regular thing. So here we go! If I forget to update on something and you’re interested to know where things are at, please let me know!

The Man Bag: The man bag has gone back into the depths of the wardrobe where I can’t see it, smell it or hear it. We are still keeping the whole sandals and socks combination at bay as well. Thanks to a Deep Fried Fruit follower I have discovered there is a whole site dedicated to the wearing of sandals and socks! www.sandalandsoxer.co.uk/home.htm Shocking, absolutely shocking!

Maaaaa Meddddddiccccalllll Prooooooceeeeeeeduuuurrrreeee: The thingimo that was put in my which what via my hoo hoo is causing me grief. I am in pain! Should I still be in pain? My hips are kind of aching and throbbing, and I have cramping in my lower abdomen and I have really sore butt cheeks. What is THAT all about? Was he kneeling on my butt as he poked and prodded in there? And did he have to wrench my hips apart because their natural hinges weren’t working? Why am I feeling like this? According to an online discussion group about the thingimo lots of people have experienced this. Some even had their thingimo removed due to pain and loss of sex drive. Loss of sex drive?! I hardly had any to begin with. When I told Derek he simply said “no shit Sherlock”. What does that mean? But I won’t give into the online mass hysteria just yet and will remain calm until enough time has passed for me to not be calm anymore (or until I die from a ravaging infection, or experience a marriage melt-down, whichever comes first).

Cheer coach extraordinaire: Cheerleading has started up again and I am spending my life as an amateur desktop disk jockey cutting and pasting songs and stuff to create masterful originals. I can’t say I am “mixing” music because I haven’t mastered the art of mixing over the top of each other yet … definitely still at the cutting and pasting and “blending” level ….. I am also spending lots of time on the internet scanning for cool dance sequences and then getting very frustrated when my arms and legs go all uncoordinated on me as I try to replicate. The Dummy Mummy Dance Academy would be a good place to start (does such a beast exist?)

Staying fit and fabulous at 40: Boot camp hell is about to start up again (tomorrow). Last year I took on boot camp with gusto and pride and absolute conviction. This year I am cowering in a corner wishing I could stay fit without the actual exercise. May have something to do with the current pain from having that thingimo put into my which what via my hoo hoo ….

The 40 year old fart: Arty Farty still visits our parties frequently and I have yet to find a plug … but I do have a great range of scented candles.

Looking young: My Deep Fried Fruit tool box continues to grow as I fight the signs of aging. I will give you the list of essentials in the not-too-distant future. Today’s little tip includes putting a small dab of Sorbelene cream in your hair to smooth down the pesky fly-aways.

Max Factor (we call him that because he is always showing us his lipstick): Max the hip-gyrating-Lab seems a bit depressed of late. He looks sad. He hasn’t been to the farm for a while which means he may be fretting for his Brokeback Mountain cowboy lover, but the last time we visited there didn’t appear to be much hip-gyrating action anyway, so maybe Binny broke up with him? We’ll keep an eye on things.

Millie Vanillie (we call her that because it rhymes and she’s white): Millie the white fluffy has turned into a happy, springy, dancing bundle of fur since her teeth were fixed. She is also eating up a storm and growing a bit of a barrel belly. She is learning to get out of our way as we all walk through life forgetting to look down which means the accidental abuse we’d been delivering is starting to subside. Max is also starting to notice her a bit more which assists with keeping those internal injuries at bay.

Neck curtains: My hair is starting to grow and cover my neck canyons. That’s a good thing.

My daily guide to 40: I still refuse to make my own jam and whittle a piece of wood. I continue to be friends with my spinal column though! (Unless it is my spinal column that is beating up on my hips … ) Today’s little “Things to do when you’re 40” tip is to hang upside down on a Trapeze!!!! Woot woot!!! Finally it tells me to trapeze. That does it. I’ve been waiting for it!!! So much better than making jam. You don’t need to sign a waiver to make stupid jam. This is what I’m talkin’ about! I’m off to book my trapeze lessons …. (oh man, the gift voucher runs out in two weeks! Need to make a trip to Sydney real soon ...)

Staying Alive: I have a plant I was given for my 40th. It is a Flamingo Flower (Anthurium andreanum). It is part of my mobile office. It is still alive!!!! It is only the second plant ever I’ve managed to keep green.

My books: I am still not published. Sigh. But I visualise daily and stick with the dream. One publishing house has the books for months and months and MONTHS. I believe that to be a good thing. You can visit my dream at www.LeanneSheaLangdown.com

Having my cake and eating it too: I am still working on that work/life balance thing. Business is taking off again which is a good thing so money is coming into the house from me again. I love what I do. So really, can I call it work?

Finances: Money is still an issue. Just as there was light at the end of our Global Financial Crisis tunnel the switch was turned off sending us back into darkness. Derek has a new commission structure due to commence soon, but in the meantime they have decided to claw money off us because of an overpayment over 12 months ago! Hang on, you can’t claw back what we don’t have can you? Yep, apparently they can just not pay him at all this month. Excellent. I declare this the month of the two minute noodles. Nope, not putting up with that shit! I will just stride down that bloody tunnel and turn on the freakin’ light myself! Off to stand under a red light on a street corner ….

Off-spring: Kids are loving school and although they still won’t kiss or cuddle me at school drop off, they greet me with bear hugs at school pick up. So there is lots of “I don’t need you Mum, I’m cool” at the start of the day, and heaps of “thank God you’re here Mum we love you” at the end. That’s good. I can handle that.

Online TV Interview: Not sure when it is going to air but when it does, I will post a link!

Helping teachers: I think our teachers are absolute gold so I have signed up to be a teachers aid for those days I am low on clients, have exhausted my cheer choreography, have quit my role as household manager and don’t want to hound the publishers anymore.

Today's cup: Red with aztec type design - red is for action!

The iron: I ironed Darby's school shorts the other day. Yes, one small step for Leanne, with no mankind leaping ...

Escape hatch: The absolute best escape hatch of all is going to hospital for a general anaesthetic. I had the full day in hospital, being wheeled around in a bed, brought lunch on a platter (well, a tray at least), being fussed over by other people AND when I got home I was allowed to lie in bed for two days without any bother! Yep, am off to research some more surgeries I can schedule! But in the meantime the bath remains the closest thing to an effective escape hatch ...

Freebie: Derek changed his freebie from Pink to Sandra Bullock. Neither of us are any closer to bagging our crush.

Clown clothes: No new PJs yet so I continue through life as a night time Bozo.

Blog Glosssary: Another popular posting! Will be updating the blog glossary tomorrow.

Until then my friends, happy Monday!

Day 126

The Navy Chief noticed a new seaman and barked at him, "Get over here! What's your name sailor?"
"John," the new seaman replied.
"Look, I don't know what kind of bleeding-heart pansy crap they're teaching sailors in boot camp nowadays, but I don't call anyone by his first name," the chief scowled. "It breeds familiarity, and that leads to a breakdown in authority. I refer to my sailors by their last names only; Smith, Jones, Baker, whatever. And you are to refer to me as 'Chief'. Do I make myself clear?"
"Aye, Aye Chief!"
"Now that we've got that straight, what's your last name?"
The seaman sighed. "Darling, My name is John Darling, Chief."
"Okay, John, here's what I want you to do ....."

There are all these name experts and meanings for names and personalities that supposedly go with certain names and it really begs the question what's in a name?

Do you take on the supposed personality of the name just because someone chose your label, or did the name Gods know what spirit you had and insert the name in your parents mind on purpose? Do you grow into your name, or does your name grow into you? This is really far too heavy a topic to talk about here and must be referred to a drunken round table discussion at a later date. I can see a very philosophical Jim Beam session in the not-too-distant future. HOWEVER, for the purposes of today I thought I would check out the meaning of Leanne just to see what species I belong to.

According to http://www.meaning-of-names.com/ Leanne means "gracious plum". I guess I can be a bit gracious, but a plum? What does that mean?! Derek on the other hands means "famous ruler" (well he's famous in our house), Darby means "free man" (which we knew - it's why we named him that) and Tahlia means "morning dew" (which we also knew - she was born at dawn).

According to http://www.babynames.com/ and http://www.behindthename.com/ Leanne has no meaning other than to be a combination of Lee and Anne. How fascinating. Darby on the other hand has something to do with a deer park according to those two sites. Derek again means "people ruler" and Tahlia is once again "morning dew" and Hebrew in origin.

According to http://www.thinkbabynames.com/ Leanne is a variant of Leanna which in Latin means lioness. Well, that would explain my pesky mane! Darby means "without envy" or "deer park" (what's up with this bloody deer park?!), Derek means "power of the tribe" (well, he has the power of this particular tribe that's for sure ... but if you ask him he'll say the tribe has the power over him), and Tahlia does not exist on that site except in the masculine form "Tahl" which means ... yep ... morning dew.

Ok enough of that. Let's get to the real stuff. What is my name personality? For that you go to http://www.urbandictionary.com/ where it seems anyone in the world can write a definition and post it and it becomes truth! Because, the internet after all is always 100% correct. I have copied it below spelling errors and all ...

"A name normally given to only the most gorgeous of girls. A generaly music and party lover. She is a very determined person and wont stop until she gets what she wants. She loves to laugh, and people who can make her laugh. Normally a person who has a great sense of style and knows what looks good.She is a great friend and loves the company of others; however she does not like to be rushed into things and likes to do things her way. Like many other girls 'leanne's like guys to make the move. She likes to feel protected and loves cuddles."

Hmmm. I like that one! What do you think? It sounds quite a bit like me don't you think? Ego stroking and all that. There is also a reference on this site in the header area to Leanne being "slut and whore". Hmmm. Not so ego stroking. Then there is a second posting ...

"Leanne is very prude and doesnt fall for many boys but when she does she gets obsessive. This girl is the most beautiful of them all. This girl has a thing for boys named john. She is the nicest person you will ever meet and is friends with everybody. She loves when people look up to her. Most of the time born in the city (philadelphia). Gets straight A's in school, or gets promoted in work. One to wait for the right man. and most of all, falls for boys by the name of JOHN."

A bit prudish actually. Yep. John was my one true love before I outgrew him and found my Derek. Interesting. I've been to Philadelphia but wasn't born there. Born in Melbourne actually (still a city). Didn't get straight A's but was in all the A level classes. Yep, had lots of promotions at work. I can be obsessive about some things, but usually not about my men (much to Derek's dismay).

I think I like this one though:

"from the turkish meaning, little princess. it is a name commonly used and is given only to the most precious of people!"

That is totally contradicting itself. There are obviously a shit-load of precious people in the world worthy of the common name. But I like the princess bit. Yes, I am a princess. We'll keep that one.

What's in a name? Probably not a lot but this little investigation took an hour from my life that will never be returned.

Day 125

3.34am. Middle of the night monsters strike again. This time though the monster is Derek - arriving home from a boys night in ... poker, cigars and bourbon. I can hear him jingling as he walks through the door with a man bag full of coins. Perhaps the monster isn't Derek at all. It's far more sinister. That little leather satchel. Beware!! The man bag ...

If Derek had of been carrying a man bag when I met him back in 1994 we would never have hooked up. There would be no marriage, no kids, no house on the hill, no in-laws at the coast, no Derek/Labrador comparisons, no cheese stealers. Nope. If he had been carrying a man bag the first time I saw him I would have run a mile. So when did the man bag show it's ugly self? Around date number 4. I know, I know - there was still plenty of time to back out, but I was already hooked. It was one of those stomach turning and extremely cringe-worthy moments as he walked towards me in fitted knee length denim shorts, matching long sleeved denim shirt, basketball boots and a black leather satchel dangling from his wrist. I almost threw up on the spot. This guy is carrying a freakin' man bag!! F$#* me dead and call me Sharon.

It was an awkward date to say the least. It was lunch time so luckily I wasn't expected to lock lips or anything. The outfit was so wrong and I had never in my life seen any straight bloke under the age of 50 carrying a purse. What was that all about? It was so ... so ... so ... British! Next he would be bloody arriving wearing sandals and socks!! (What is it with the Poms and their sandal/sock combination?) Serves me right for dating a Limey I guess.

Anyway, to cut a long story short my boyfriend had a man bag and I wasn't sure what to do about it, because on the few occasions he did actually bring it with him I was almost gagging with revulsion. (Yes, I may be considered shallow but come on ... it's a man bag ... it's just wrong!) I did the only thing possible and secretly went about beating it up. Yep, when he wasn't around I would jump on it, slap it against brick walls, rub it on the cement a bit, scrunch it up and run over it with my car. Finally it started to look a bit warn (tough little buggers) and after six months Derek declared that his bag may have bit the dust. Oh, no, really? What a shame.

Relief was mine!! But it was short lived because although down to his last bourbon buying dollar Derek managed to scrounge enough cash together to come home with a brand spanking sparkly new wrist dangling man bag. Come on!!!!!!! Are you serious? What the hell?!?!? So I did it. After biting viciously on the inside of my cheek for a few days to hold back what could have been considered as insults, I very calmly said to him "D, you're gunna have to ditch the man bag". "Ditch my man bag? Why would I need to do that?" "Because it is f!^%ing ugly and I can't stand it and it's f!^%ing ugly, and I almost vomit every time I see it and it's f!^%ing ugly". There. I said it. He was mortified of course because he'd been wearing one for 6 months. But then he realised that the fact that I stuck it through (man bag and all) must mean I really liked him. Yep. You see! Not so shallow after all ...

Yep, it was hard, but we got through it. The man bag still exists but only comes out on card nights to hold all his gambling coins and cigars and stuff. It doesn't dangle from his wrist anymore either, he hides it in his cooler bag with this beer and bourbon. Nope, I didn't end up marrying Kel Knight (Kath and Kim). It's all good. Oh, and we got rid of the whole denim shorts, denim shirt combination too. And as yet the socks have not come out with sandals ... although he did try once but I nipped that in the bud quick smart ... (bloody Poms).

Goodnight! Now that that is off my chest I am going back to bed.

Day 124

Stop! Enough of the farting.

How much fun can you have with a one person conga line? Plenty!! It's so refreshing and fun and uplifting and happy. A big thumbs up to the one person conga line which I invented (well, I am sure I am not the only person in the world to have done it) the other night as I took my dancing on the inside to a dancing on the outside level. Do it! Conga around your lounge room, study, office, kitchen, rumpus room right now.

Cha, cha cha cha cha CHA, cha cha cha cha cha CHA .....

Get the whole bent elbow action, and the nice little hip wiggle leg kick thing happening.

"You know you want me, I know I want you, you know you want meeeeee, I know I want you ... "

Fun isn't it!!

Day 123

Today as I sip from my cow mug and think of my dairy farmer friend who gave it to me I turn once again to wind. Gas. Flatulence. I remember as a kid looking up "fart" in the dictionary and it said (well, it didn't "say" anything, it read) "a small explosion between the two legs". I can tell you something, there is often nothing small about it.

I don't think of farts because of the cows and them being all farty and buggering up our ozone and contributing to green house gases and stuff. The reason I think of wind when I drink from my cow mug is because said friend is a burping champion. I actually heard her before I met her all those years ago. It was a burp to end all burps that led me to the uni kitchen expecting to see some disgusting hairy he-man. Nope, just a strapping young country lass with lungs of steel! When my husband first met her he couldn't cope. Well, she did burp "hello Derek, nice to meet you" rather than say it. He was gob-smacked. She then proceeded to burp the alphabet which is something my daughter has since picked up from her (much to Derek's disgust). Her many other charms soon won him over and he loves her dearly, but the burping remains a sticking point. I quite like her burping, in the right enviroment. And yes, it can be very funny! Not so funny in the middle of a restaurant though with old ladies with pursed cats bum mouths staring at us in shock and revoltion. There is a time and place for these things to be funny. (Hi Jo Jo, how were the mooeys this morning? Got milk? Love you lots ...)

Once again, why is wind so funny? After my 40 year old fart posting on Day 120 I had many emails most of which confirmed that farting was funny. My friend who was the source of the "silent and extremely deadly" farts suggested her husband doesn't find her at all funny. I guess when your eyes start to water the novelty wears off. There is a point when your nose hairs burn. And that's just with your own stench! When it is someone else's the nausea can be extreme. And yes, you all know that I have a weak gutt so when Derek does the SBDs I can actually lose my lunch. My Silent But Deadly friend thinks farts are hysterical. I think the laughter from farting keeps her sane some days, but she gave me another good reason why farts sometimes aren't funny ... the "follow through". Yep, that's not funny. No one wants to poo themselves. It's no good when you fart and actually shit instead - it's called a shart.

Apparently as you age the sharting becomes par for the course! Ewwwwww. Not looking forward to that! My friend's aging father said to her recently that he has learnt 3 things since turning 70: 1. Never pass a urinal without using it 2. Never waste an erection (didn't need to know that thanks Dad) 3. Never trust a fart.

Ok, so maybe farts aren't always funny. Dogs don't think they are funny. They get yelled at when they do it and they get blamed when they don't. But hey, they can be romantic!! (the farts I mean, not the dogs ... although Max is very romantic when his boyfriend is around ... in a hip-gyrating sort of fashion). Farts romantic? Oh yes. When I first took Derek to meet my parents Mum accidently let one slip. It was loud. She was mortified. But quick recovery, by blaming Dad. "Oh Mick!" Dad very nicely took the blame and said "sorry about that". It wasn't until I smelt it that I recognised who dealt it! I kept her secret until I walked out the door with my now husband and told him it was actually Mum (we have no secrets). He thought that was the most romantic thing he had ever heard! Fancy someone accepting someone else's stench.

Yep, wind. Offensive, hysterical, romantic, shocking, painful, relieving, and downright rude. Gotta love it.

Day 122

Today I opened my little "Things to do now that you're 40" book to the page that says "throw a party where you play only the music you danced to as a teenager and invite everyone to dance; see if guests revert to teenage behaviours". Well, I did that. That was my 40th birthday party! An 80s disco, and yes, teenager behaviours returned all round. Me in particular. There was a shocking display of air guitar to Prince's "Let's go crazy". I might even post the photo. Who wants to see the photo? I don't normally post photos in this blog but I know you want it, sooo ...

So what now?

The book says to "accept that creative blocks happen sometimes and recognise the positive in them; they make you appreciate your creativity even more when it returns." De ja vu! Have I opened at this page before? All I can say about that suggestions is that it doesn't help me get this bloody blog written does it??!! It's alright for the book to say that when the book hasn't promised to blog for 365 days straight! Stupid book. Next.

"Write a poem to your true love, whether you're with that person or not". I am not sure Simon Baker will accept my letters though? And Robbie Williams would just steal it and turn it into a song and forget to acknowledge me and I would get all cranky and feel rejected. Hmmm. I could write one to Derek I suppose, but I would have to steal the "arty farty" one from Day 120. His name is after all Sir Fart Alot. Oh, yes, I've already written poems for Tahlia and Darby. Yes. Done that. Come on little book, give me something I haven't done yet. Where are the trapeze lessons? Next!

"Whittle something from a piece of wood". Huh?! Um, no. That's right up there with making your own jam! I am not whittling wood. That goes on the shelf for when I am in my 70s. Get a grip little book! I am here for the living not the whittling ...

Come on little book, give me something I can work with today to expand my Deep Fried Fruit horizons! Come on ....

"Be very grateful that wrinkles don't hurt." Ok, I can do that! That is my mantra today. As I rub my haemarrhoid cream into my crows feet I will repeat "I am so grateful my canyons are painless". As I pull my neck sacks back with a bulldog clip I will say "I love that my neck drapes don't hurt (except for this blasted bull dog clip)" Hang on a minute wrinkles do hurt. Ditch the bulldog clip then. Yep, that is better. Not hurting now. But look at the neck curtains! Time to grow my hair long enough to cover them.

Ok, I get it. Stop being so vain and rejoice in the wrinkles which depict the road map of my life.

Today is a day for accepting and respecting wrinkles and for being grateful that although the remedy is the same they don't hurt like haemarrhoids do. Oh, and I am grateful that I don't have haemarrhoids.

Living in the attitude of gratitude today and drinking from my "believe" mug. It's gonna be a great pain free day! I have lots to be grateful for.

Day 121

Thank you to everyone for emailing me about yesterday’s post. It seems my 40 year old fart created quite a lot of LOL which proves once and for all that yes, farts are still funny! In case you are wondering, my windiness has settled somewhat but I still have a bit of the ol’ pop and fizzle. I am very grateful that boot camp hasn’t started back yet because arse spluttering would have been plentiful in the bend, stretch, run and flex environment.

Speaking of farts I am up at sparrows fart today. Routine commences! No, not boot camp (that is next week). No, it is much more traumatic. The kids return to school today for the new school year. Tahlia is going into year 5 and Darby into year 1. Tahlia is looking forward to it and Darby is not. Tahlia will no doubt cruise into the school like she owns it and Darby will be clinging to my leg and the tears may commence when the bell rings. Maybe. So I need to make this a beautiful morning full of smiles and comfort. No yelling and screaming to get organised. I need to be 100% ahead of the game to keep them stress free. I might even iron their uniforms for them! Who am I trying to kid?

But that is not why I am up at sparrows fart. I am awake at 5.30 because I have a TV interview thingimo today for an on-line TV station and although it’s not a huge deal it is kind of big to me. I have been doing this media training stuff and because most of it was held in December/January I kind of screwed around a bit and didn’t really study properly. Bugger. And now I have forgotten everything I have learned and this morning I have that “shit shit shit” feeling in my stomach that actually makes you want to … shit. Hold that thought, gastro run required.

So I have written up the questions I want the interviewer to ask me, and I have 6 minutes to get my message across and I just realised that I haven’t timed myself at all yet. Shit. Hang on … another gastro run …

And as I look at the questions I can’t remember what my answers are and no clue as the point I was trying to make with the question in the first place. Damn. And now I need to a quiet place to go and think about this because the interview is at 10.00am and that means bolting from school the moment I pry Darby’s fingers off my cream pants suit. Crap. Another toilet run … (this is getting ridiculous - I think I’d prefer farting).

Ok, with that said it is still only 5.45am. It is dark outside but hopefully the sun will rise shortly and I can go for a quick walk/jog down to the lake and sit and ponder and breathe and learn my lines. Yep. That is what I will do. No toilets down there though …

A few hours later:

The walk to the park was highly successful and my mind is now ready for the interview ahead. The kids are also very perky and alive this morning and as yet there are no obvious signs of nerves (except that Darby isn't hungry this morning which is highly unusual). The morning has not been stress free though! What is far worse than stuffing up your Q and A in a TV interview? Looking like shit!!

I looked in the mirror to see lifeless hair with skunk line, eye luggage, no eyebrows, a round stomach suggesting I may have swallowed a melon recently, and one toe that has lost it polish. But don't fear! I have my trusty Deep Fried Fruit tool box. Out comes quick fix Schwartzkopf Live Colour hair rinse to add shine to hair, Maybelline Define-A-Lash mascara to colour in the left over grey temples and grey part, an Estee Lauder Artists Eye Pencil to create some brows, fast and soothing haemorrhoid relief cream to tighten up the eye bags (with some Lasonil ointment for bruises just to be safe), suck-it-all-in-so-that-not-even-gas-can-escape-gee-I-have-bad-wind-pains-now Dr Rey Shapewear undies (sorry Ricki-Lee - I bought these before your brand came out), and an Artline Marker to colour in the naked toe nail. All fixed! Ready to rock and roll. Hey, can I get some product placement revenue here please?!!

Lots of hours later:

The kids had a fantastic first day back at school. After a dodgey start with Darby shedding a few years (he tried to hide it) and with Tahlia cringing and recoiling as I tried to stroke her cheek and kiss her goodbye as I left (when did that start?!?), they went on to have what they have described as an awesome day.

I could say I had an awesome day too. The interviewer didn't ask any of the questions I had prepared and so I didn't recite any of the answers I had practiced on my walk this morning, but instead of that being a disaster I was able to talk naturally, off the cuff and with my heart. And I looked like a hundred bucks (at least!) I did leave my eyebrows on the bed at my chiro session though (I was lying face down) but it's all good because the interview was over by then.

Thumbs up all around!

Day 120

Arty Farty had a party, all the farts were there, Tooty Fruity did a beauty, and we all went out for air.

Why are farts so funny? Depending on what phase of life you are in, and your frame of mind, farts can be the most hysterical thing ever. A kids movie with a fart segment is sure to be a hit. Men fart as easily and openly as they yawn, cough and sneeze. Women are often quite appalled by it and are seriously embarrassed if one slips. My boy child thinks he is a farting champion and loves a good fart in your face gag. My girl lets them slip but then vehemently denies any knowledge of said fart and reddens if she is accused. I personally sit on the farting fence with it all. I am appalled when I choose to be (like at the dinner table, in company, when a rotten egg is involved) but when I need to fart I will do it with gusto in either a private location, downwind during a walk or in my immediate family friendly environment. For me farts are neither funny or embarassing, just necessary.

So when did I get so windy? Is this another Deep Fried Fruitism? I don't recall being particularly farty in my youth. In fact I remember going to uni never having farted in front of someone. I mean, my dad was a farting champion as I grew up. He was one of those sitting on the arm chair reading the paper raising one butt cheek to fart type people. He didn't bat an eyelid. Mum would exclaim "Oh Mick!", I would exclaim "Oh Dad!" and he would simply say "it's better to fart and stink a little then rip your arse and be a cripple". I guess that is true. But I never had the inclination to fart in front of others. In fact I would have been appauled! But when I went to university living at uni residences I was introduced to a whole new world of fartdom. There were those that did - girls included - and those that didn't. Those that did thought it hysterical! And they taught me not to be so uptight about it. I recall one friend who used to have farting competitions with her cousins. They would line up on the ground, kneeling with elbows on the floor, bums in the air, and they would fart. But that wasn't the competition. The competition involved sucking the fart back in and refarting. Excellent. They were called "Pal farts". Not because they were done with friends, but because they sounded like a can of Pal (dog food) when you scoop the meat out ... a kind of sucking farting noise. Another friend would fart silently and then sit their in silent convulsions as her body shook with laughter at her own bodily functions. There was no need to question it, you just knew you had to run because the harder she shook, and the wider her eyes, the smellier you knew her fart was going to be.

I don't recall when I started farting in front on my husband. Someone asked me that once. They said "oh wise woman Leanne" (well, they didn't use those words exactly), when do you think it is ok to pass wind in front of your boyfriend? Gosh. That's an interesting question. I mean, you don't want to fart like a man because he will run back to his mother, and you don't want to keep it all sucked in only to fart 10 years down the track and have him run back to his mother. It has to happen naturally and daintally and with dignity and a bit of pride mixed in. It helps if you pretend to be mortified while he gently consoles you and tells you it is ok. That way you get to keep your lady like status without having to have future arse ripping experiences due to an internal wind tunnel. Remember that Sex and the City scene where Carry farts in front of Mr Big the first time? That's what you are aiming for.

So, why am I focussing on farts today? Because as Deep Fried Fruit my farts are intensifying. Wearing my "suck everything in scuba suit" undies doesn't help because the firmness and constriction seems to intensify gas. Not that I wear them every day. Only on special occasions. But special occasions are no place to fart. And since having the medical procedure I seem to be loaded with gas and bubbles and all things that squeak. How much air was let into my hoo hoo, when he inserted the do dad into my which what? And how and when am I going to let all that air out? Time to pop this balloon and get into the pal fart position I think, because as Dad says, you don't want any arse ripping crippling repercussions!

Might be best if no one visits me today, and if you do and the scented candle is lit, then ... well ... you've been warned.

Happy farting.