Remind me.

Internet, I am counting on you, so do not let me down.

I’ll even be a bit trendy and pluralise you totally unnecessarily, Internets, if you will solemnly promise me to do me but one small favour.

The very NEXT time I mention that the post-Christmas sales sound like just a terrific way to spend an afternoon, could you please all:

A: Pour a hot Lamb Madras into both eyes at once so I am spared the sight a billion signs all proclaiming ‘BARGAIN!’. I am easily swayed by lurid neon writing two feet high.

B: Shove a clove of garlic up both nostrils, so I cannot smell the delicate aroma of ten-thousand hot day deodarent-conservationalist co-shoppers, and (if I am not already crying)

C: Pour a lovely cold beer all over my carpets.

I hate shopping in a flock almost as mush as I decry seeing perfectly good alcohol go to waste. That is all.

Now, promise me, okay?

I’ve had a really shit day and it shall only be surpassed by tomorrow’s shenanigans where I plan to return one thousand dollars worth of belatedly identified SLR Wrong-In-A-Critical-Way-Camera in exchange for what sadly turns out to be slightly more than one thousand dollar’s worth of SLR Better-Camera.

It turns out that no matter what any smooth salesman says, vibration reduction comes in rather handy, unless you actually LIKE toting a tripod around to capture those special moments. Or drink less coffee than I.

Oh, and it’s an hour’s drive away, because the local shop is all out of stock now.

Plus, also, and waah, an hour’s drive away with twins who have no appreciation for quality in cameras beyond the taste of the case OR much love for being imprisoned in a pusher when surrounded by a fun shop full of delectable breakables (expensive ones, the best kind).

At least I didn’t ask the salesman for the ’strongest’ camera, unlike another befuddled type who also does not know her F-stop from her ISO-hole.

Who am I kidding, educate me, please? Just how do I use something that is worth more money than my entire wardrobe properly?

If experiments with my current disaster of a camera are to be trusted, ‘automatic’ does not work nearly as well as it does in a car.

Ouch.

Two things.

Oh wise Internet-at-large,

Today I am knackered on accounts of a heady combination of soothing wailing overtired banshee twins to sleep rather later than is their wont and also 5am sparrow’s fart awakening courtesy of that silly thing the earth insists on doing with regards to tilting a bit. At THIS time of year in the southern hemisphere it gets light fecking early indeed.

Very fecking early. You can trust my confidence on this one.

A certain wailing (Naan) pissed-off  banshee (Naan) who shall not be named (Naan) to protect the innocent (Saag), is particularly good at 5am ‘I see photons in very small amounts!’ awakenings.

Vocal ones.

Anyway, I am tired but I have questions, in plural for you.

A: If you take twins for a dip in the pool (don’t worry, with serious amounts of responsible adult help, since they can only swim about three feet straight down thus far and aren’t cognizant of that fact), and they love it so much you feel like you are trying to hold a wiggling sack of cats in your arms, is it wrong to barely be able to suppress the urge to let aforementioned turbocharged toddler (with sharp nails and unnerving ability to give one a heck of a nipple cripple) loose when your left breast becomes an unexpected public zone of white-hot pain?

You know, because you’re not quite sure, deep down, that the blasted child wouldn’t leave friction burns on top of the water from the speed at which they would create a small religious miracle of ambulation?

Also, my left breast now sports an areola twice as long as the right and half of the swimming pool has seen it at, um, full length.

So uncomfortable, literally and figuratively speaking.

B: If certain not-to-be-named (Naan) pissed-off banshees (Naan) also screech blue bloody murder when I remove their new what-did-I-do-to-make-the-giver-hate-me-so Percussion Drum Kit Christmas present on accounts of splitting headache threatening to actually succeed in dividing my cranium into two halves, is it wrong to wonder where the kid hides her volume control?

Or put her on mute?

C: If an anonymous twin (Naan) also gets into such a screaming snit at being denied custody of my mobile phone that she pushes me away in fury, and chooses instead to scream solidly at the wall from a distance of only two very cranky inches for thirty ear-splitting minutes, should I not laugh when she also stomps her feet?

She didn’t seem to think that I was giving her the proper degree of respect, and I’d hate to be getting this parenting thing all wrong or anything.

Feedback gratefully appreciated. How should I be raising these little buggers? I’m all out of ideas.

PS. I know. It’s not really two of anything because it’s probably thee, but the title sounded good so I’m sticking with it.

Hotmail.

I have a love-hate affair with my Hotmail account, really I do.

I love, love, LOVE that, despite the fifty-bazillion human beings on this planet with Internet access, I have my own name.

My OWN name.

Without any irritating letters from the arse end of the alphabet to fill it out OR more numbers tacked on the end than my last university student ID to make it unique.

It’s just my name and remarkably simple and useful for that very reason.

Really, it’s wierd because those of you who know me from other walks of life would also know that I have a fairly standard celtic-derived surname, albeit with a bit of mid-70’s trend first name Heinz. You know, to put it another way, I am the common-as-muck resultant  ’bitzer’ offspring of a (heh I can say this without swearing) bitch dallying with the willy of some trendy mutt derived from 57 varieties.

A bitzer with a name that screams ‘You were born before the ’80’s, weren’t you?’, just in case my saggy arse, wrinkles and loss of cheek fat pads did not already make that crystal clear. I am really going to be a very bony old duck some day, but I plan to be one who breaks her hip in STYLE at least. Possibly like the patient I had once who did it at the grand old age of ninety shagging.

Anyway.

My name is not unusual, and yet Hotmail had it free for the asking.

Clearly, the microsecond I got married, I asked, and I duly received.

But I’m starting to get a bit, well, narked by all the ‘hello, friend!’ shite that keeps hitting my inbox, propagating itself to all my mates, professional contacts and other randoms unfortunate enough to be in my address book, and then departing in a merry haze of misspelt Chinese Electronics.

Sigh.

Fark off, hotmail.

Sort it out, please.

At the very least if you are not going to stop the annoying little shits, could you insist your spammers hit ’spellcheck’ before sending?

This is the third time in a month I’ve copped this crap and I’m kind of over the sweet-but-confused replies from those who really think they should click on that link for rip-off whatever stereos.

Love,

Geohde who has also had a rather trying shift in a trauma unit this weekend where she learned that some people really are just stupid and piss off people with spades and screwdrivers more than once in a lifetime (to their detriment) AND nearly got kicked in the head by some fool who rode their motorcycle into a wall accidentally-on-purpose as you do when your girlfriend of five minutes tells you to shove it.

My reply is as follows, A: This, along with torching yourself or shooting half your face off is a crap way to commit suicide, email me for much more effective ones (hint Opioids, Big Fat Doses and Insulin Similarly Gigantic all at once) and B: Post traumatic amnesia (PTA) should be renamed ‘PITA’. I just don’t want to see you fiddle with your willy OR your poop before you try to kick me in the head.

Drive safely over the holidays everybody.

Repost.

Or, possibly riposte?

Yes, I know it’s lazy of me to ‘borrow’ and recycle the post I wrote for the cross-pollination effort a while back.

Yes, you may tell me I cannot have ice-cream for dessert today, and I shall not argue or whine too much about it. Mostly because I am officially the fattest a chicken-legged stick insect can get right now and in the only slightly-unfortunately-cushingoid place I really gain weight, to boot, my abdomen.

I am a striae ravaged olive on a damn stick. Okay, two sticks.

To abuse some more food analogies since I have started in that theme, nothing says ’sexy’ like having a beer gut right underneath your saggy fried eggs. 

I think I’m hungry.

Anyway.

I am most pissed about it (although you will note NOT pissed enough to refrain from filling my cake hole as frequently as is my wont) and things are looking increasingly grim for the strangers who will probably start rubbing my belly in the supermarket any day now.

However, it is coming up to Christmas, my cupboard is positively bulging with an orgy of food which I plan to unleash on my unwary extended family in one big, indulgent, sugar and fat laden (to disguise the fact that I can arrange food quite well and my presentation is positively impeccable, but regrettably I cannot actually cook as such) feast in, eep-must-buy-sharding-presents, less than a week now.

Feck it, waists are overrated, yes?

Anyway, without further ado, here is my old-is-the-new-NEW post. Please don’t hate me too much for being so slack. If it helps I also have a driver’s licence photo to endure, a dental visit overdue and I need to get a quote for home insurance. I am already suffering enough.

Boobs. They’re not always just for men’s magazines, after all.

Today I am positively itching to share a fact.

It turns out that breasts also make this stuff called milk.

Okay, so mostly. In an ideal world, they’d all swap from ‘Ralph front-page cleavage with big blue veins on’ to ‘moo’ the very moment we gave birth, but in the real world it doesn’t always go quite like that.

We all know that ‘breast is best’. We all hear the mantra. Almost every single one of us who is fortunate enough to become a parent, especially after infertility wants their body to do SOMETHING right. For many of us, our cans co-operate.

But that isn’t the end of the story.

Breastfeeding rates don’t lie. While 90ish percent leave hospital ‘breastfeeding’ (a fact I question in these heady days of discharging women before milk has even come in), by the time a baby is six months old it’s less than half.

So what happens? Why aren’t we all blissfully gazing into a happy baby’s nuzzling face while our perfectly un-bleeding nipples produce the goods?

Are so many of us lazy? Bad mothers?

I would disagree.

It is true that some of us just can’t, and even the most militant Booby types concede that number is about one in twenty. I had the dubious honour of becoming one of that number.

But again, the rates say it all. Plenty more of us stop and I refuse to believe it’s because we’re all lazy cows who want their tits back in something that doesn’t unfasten itself in the supermarket and show your breast pad to half of the queue in front of you before you correct the problem.

If you’re reading this and you had an easy transition to breastfeeding, you don’t know how lucky you are. It’s so loaded emotionally and hard for us flunkers to discuss with you.

Society is on your side.

Put simply, usually it doesn’t come easy. It’s NOT natural or instinctive. Often, it’s damn hard at best. Even worse, many of us have never seen it done before we’re expected to know all about a ‘good latch’, or a ‘football hold’ by simple virtue of creating life. Breastfeeding isn’t something we talk about in more than vague generalities and so it’s no wonder that so many women aren’t aware the baby ISN’T meant to chomp down on the nipple until you’re cracked and bleeding.

All of that aside, all of us do the best we can for our babies and we damn well try. But at the end of the day when your nipples are bleeding, you’ve got mastitis AGAIN, you’re borderline bleeping psychotic after four weeks on two hours sleep because you can’t let down for the pump to get a break and you think you might want to throw your baby rather than let them take to your sensitive bits with their oral cheesegrater in two hours time, sometimes enough is enough.

And that’s okay. Really, it’s understandable. You are not bad, evil or a failure.

Let’s be honest. Really honest. No matter what anybody says about muss, fuss and equipment, bottle feeding has its place.

And sometimes, do forgive me boob-police for uttering these words, that’s not such a sin.

There, I said it.

It’s not so evil to bottle feed if you have to.

Yes, there are exceptions, and YES, breast is the best if you can, but if your kid has asthma in ten years time and you bottle fed, it doesn’t mean you should flagellate your tits for failing you. They probably would have got it anyway, and life isn’t so black and white as the papers would have you believe.

So.

This one goes out to all the flunkers, failures, thrushers, mastitisers, bleeders, biters and plain old exhausteders who want to reclaim ownership of their nipples. This one’s for you.

It’s okay that you stopped.

You tried. End of story.

Don’t beat yourself up about it any more than you have already. Don’t feel you can’t mention your mode of feeding in public for fear of judgement.

Remember.

It isn’t any of their damn business.

Conversely, if you’re one of the fortunate enough to be able to breastfeed and do it well, talk to a sister who could use the tips. demystify. Explain.

HELP. There are plenty of women who could use it.

But.

Don’t be an ass, either. Plenty of us make the mistake that simple information means everything will work- I have degrees that taught me clever things about prolactin, lactiferous ducts and oxytocin. I could bore for my nation on lactation (when I’m not spending my time merely rhyming badly). My boobs didn’t get the memo.

Just understand that you were one of the lucky ones. Be gentle.

And remember, the next time you see a woman using the dreaded formula-word, any negative comment you might have, no matter how pointed, well there isn’t a damn thing you could say to her that that woman probably hasn’t said to herself already.

You can’t make her feel any worse than she already does.

Every mother does the best she can for her children with the resources she had at the time. End of debate.

Peace out, world.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Perhaps next time I shall share my lightbulb moment male training approach to sharing the load of boring household chores more evenly. Hint, men think something else is better than chocolate and will go to some impressive lengths to get it.

Out of curiosity.

I have a question for you all. Purely out of curiosity, you understand, Internet. You don’t have to tell me the truth or anything. In fact, when I explain what it is I want to know, you’ll all probably deny that it was you or that you had a reason for clicking in the first place.

So.

Humour a woman who has run out of blogs to read, emails to send, tasks to do and doesn’t want to hang the washing out because it is fecking blowtorch-to-the-face hot and windy outside today, will you?

I just have this nagging question for all of you and since naptime (the children’s and not mine, let me make it clear, although I could sorely use one today) has slumbered on somewhat unexpectedly into the third hour (otherwise known as ‘Extra time’), I now have a spare moment of procrastination available.

Despite some awake sounding window banging with a certain unfortunate dolly about half an hour ago, things have settled down in the  darker-than-a-coalminer’s-armpit-cardboard-lined-window Fart-Aroma’ed TwinCave, and I cannot bring myself to look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth.

For all I know, the little buggers have figured out calculus, physics, escaped from their cribs and hitchhiked to the local pub for a light bevvy.

Anyway, because all this naptime bragging means I am almost certain to A: hear a ‘Waaaahahahahahah!’ of consciousness very soon and B: cop many more yowls and whines of the haven’t-eaten-in-some-hours equally shortly, I suspect I shall henceforth be fully occupied acting as chief chef in the twin household with aforementioned cranky twins attached limpet-fashion to each leg. Needless to say, I won’t be blogging any more today, but I would love to read your answers and spit coffee on my monitor when I wake up tomorrow.

Walking will probably also be slower than expected, which neatly solves the laundry problem, too. Nice.

Anyway.

My question is this: when I posted that moderately revolting picture of a giant turd (©Saag 2009), why exactly did so many of you click on the picture?

Even more to the point, when I changed the link to http://whydidyouclickonapoo.com, what I thought was a dead giveaway, really, why did so many of you continue clicking and then say nothing about it at all in the comments section? It was by far the top click on my little corner of the Internet for a while, there.

Is the free-range turd of ‘09 (©Saag 2009) something of which we shall now by consensus never speak of again, including reasons for clicking on such an object?

Now, if you will excuse me, I hear a ‘Waah’. Well timed. My legs are required, I believe.

Around the world in 80 blogs.

Alternatively entitled ‘In which I join in on somebody else’s good idea, and hope madly that nobody from my bottom-part of the Antipodean world has had a crack at it before I hit publish’.

Alternatively alternatively entitled ‘Photography clearly not my own for three reasons, namely 1: My camera sucks, 2: So does my Internet connection and it would be quicker to post you all the photos, if indeed I took any. Which I didn’t. 3: These ones are in focus (see point 1)’.

Internet, let me tell you about my home city.

We have giant heads with which to terrify the holy bejeebers out of any four year olds you may be carrying about your person.

Actually, this is allegedly an amusement park, more famously known as one ‘Luna Park’.

So, I live in a city where for the price of admission you too can walk through a giant mouth without fear of dying a suitably giant, carious, halitosis-filled death, although the state of the rides inside may make you wish you had.

Being as the edge of my city ends at this wet stuff called ‘the ocean’ at one part (the other parts being kind-of ringed with these high things we call ’smog catchers’), we have beaches.

Most of them are fortunately syringe-free and you can fry yourself a delicate shade of lobster red with safety in the hot months. As an added bonus you may take home half the sand in your bum crack, all free of charge.

If you were looking for the wholes, by the way, they’re just down the road from the above beach. You’re welcome.

We have a great place to spend city lunch breaks on sunny days, otherwise known as the Botanic Gardens.

 You actually CAN peacefully enjoy beautiful parkland right on the CBD, if running in circles around the perimeter like all the superfit lumchtime lemmings fails to appeal to YOU as much as it does to me.

Also, on balmy summer evenings you may (for a small fee) enjoy a picnic and watch an outdoor movie, all the while studiously ignoring the young and enthusiastic types shagging of in the foliage.

Whatever takes your fancy.

You can forget where you left your car (after you spent five hours fighting to the death to get the damn space in the first place) in an orgy of shopping in locations too numerous to count.

Our retailers are happy to keep you comfortably poor and in no danger whatsoever of ever actually paying off your massive mortgage for that modest tin shack.

If you ever tire of shopping in a giant concrete can with transparent roof panels in strategic but clock-free locations, then you can instead shop, eat and go to a rather good pub, right on the water’s edge.

Hopefully without having your face ripped off or being blown into the water by ever-present driving wind.

In MY city, you can drive around in a filthy vehicle completely guilt free (and as an added bonus call yourself an environmentalist for being a sloth), since water restrictions mean you’re not meant to be doing it, anyway.

Also, however, take note that one may get stuck on the eternally crowded train network with some people who have taken this view rather too far and have exposed, well-aerated armpits (due to hanging on for grim life to nearest bar, rail, roof panel or other hapless commuter).

Go on, get the obligatory ‘aww’ out of the way before I tell you how a trip to the eastern foothills can land you at a place called Healesville Sanctuary where not only can you pat one of these suckers, but you can also get clawed, widdled on and learn about how they all have the clap, the cheeky things.

 True story.

If you have a car and like windy roads with a gradient that makes mountain goats a tad uncomfortable, then you can visit Mt Dandenong ( a.k.a one of the high bits). For only the cost of the petrol involved, you can get stuck behind the endless parade of old cars with ribbons on the front ferrying the hapless to various bits of Mt Wedding Central.

Also, this is where we stick our TV transmission bits. Pretty.

The End.

Now when are you all coming to visit? It really is quite nice, my city.

Rhymes with ‘witch’.

<confession>

Forgive me, Internet, for I have sinned.

I have willfully and without regard used a certain social networking tool to look up a certain male person from my past life.

Please forgive me, but I was curious.

Damnit, I wanted to know. He may have been a one-off in-sobriety regretted spectacularly bad shag, but oh boy he was cute. Charming. Vaguely debonair, even if I could see clean over the top of his head in heels and he persisted in fiddling with the shift of an automatic car like it was a requisite part of the driving.

Drowningly big brown eyes, as I recall. With accent you understand.

You could just about get a season pass to my fun zone with the right accent and a glass of wine back in the day.

Actually, in retrospect he was probably merely an affected little snit who was borrowing a mate’s fondue pot to look all suave, but what does a twenty year old know of such things? 

So, dear sweet Internet who hopefully shall not judge me overmuch for what I am about to say, is it wrong that I looked him up, worked out who his wife is, looked at HER profile and thought to myself smugly ‘at least I don’t have to chew my own arm off in the mornings?’

I have sinned.

</end confession>

Xpollination, a Mystery Guest Post.

Go on, have a crack in the comments section at working out who my mystery blogger is for today, then click on over and see if you’re correct.

Go here:

….for the masterlist of Pollinators and see if you can work out where everybody is writing today.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

How to Check Your Underpants Compulsively While Puking Your Guts Out….

Or, The Infertile’s Guide to Pregnancy

I am infertile. I am also pregnant. Not quite two months depending on who you ask- my OB says one thing, the U/S tech says another, and my gut –which has never been wrong – says something completely different. I feel fat, and hormonal, and I puke… oh good lord do I puke (and even if I don’t, I have this awful all-day-long constant nausea that makes you actually WANT to puke). Pregnancy is messy, and a lot of the time uncomfortable, but after trying sooooo damn hard- it’s hard to remember that it’s OK to NOT enjoy every moment. I hope at least some of you get a chuckle out of this.

And so- here it is… The Infertile’s Guide to Pregnancy

 1.       Compulsively continue to POAS weeks after your multiple Beta results have come back positive. Analyse each stick until you go completely cross eyed trying to decide if the line got darker or fainter than the last fifteen or so tests- freak out until your early ultrasound appt when you FINALLY get to see the little bean, peanut, tic tac… etc…etc…etc… Pretend to your friends who DON’T get an early U/S that it’s the cat’s ass and recommend they ALL get dildo cammed.

 2.       Develop an OCD complex involving your underpants and the checking of them for any and all bodily fluids. Have a mini-mental-breakdown at work because you’re not sure if you’re leaking amniotic fluid or just peed yourself, even though it’s still too early in your pregnancy to even HAVE amniotic fluid. Double your points if you actually find spotting, or red lint that you THINK, even momentarily, is spotting. You will be dubbed champion of all things pregnancy if you can manage to do this WHILE puking your guts out. Of course, NEVER complaining of the morning sickness from hell- because, omg, how could anyone LOATHE throwing up every half hour when you’re FINALLY PREGNANT???!!!

 3.       Buy every pregnancy guide (the ones you don’t already have) and then shove ANY with the title beginning “What to Expect” up a fertile expecting woman’s arse.

 4.       Reach the milestone of 12 weeks and hesitantly inform friends and family of your pregnancy (if you haven’t already). Pretend like you don’t notice that all of them pretty much know already because you’re no longer walking like you rode a stallion for ten hours a day for the last [insert how long you’ve been TTC here] from either- riding your husband like a stallion for ten hours a day during ovulation, getting 3 cooter cams a week, having a catheter rammed through your cervix, or having other  vicious poky instruments jammed in your lady bits.

 5.       Spend an exorbitant amount of money on maternity clothing because after fertility treatments you’re so bloated that you already look 6 months pregnant, and of course BEING pregnant, you look closer to 8 months… and you’re not even out of the first trimester yet. And just because you CAN DAMMIT!!

 6.       Once you reach the hallowed second trimester- try to relax and fail because your triple screen results came back with a one in 14 billion chance of having a trisomy disorder and because of [pick one of the following]: family history;  advanced maternal age;  your doctor’s daughter just turned 16 and totalled his jag; you agree to have amniocentisis which sucks donkey crack, but you will do almost anything at this point to have some reassurance that everything is ok- and what’s one more needle in your abdomen??

 7.       Continue throwing up throughout the entire second trimester and “smile” because “at least you know you’re still pregnant”. Har har har. Tell this to anyone who will listen- the more often you hear it, the more believable it sounds.

 8.       Reach the third trimester- start freaking out because you never actually thought you would get this far and you haven’t prepared ANYTHING!!! As of right now, if your baby came, he/she’d be sleeping in a drawer in your dresser and wearing your spanx padded with your significant other’s t-shirts for diapers because you haven’t even considered which crib you might consider putting your precious babe in- never MIND the argument for cloth vs. Disposables. Have a nervous breakdown trying to decide between Lamaze and Bradley method classes. Attend both because YOU are SUPERPREGGOWOMAN and going to do everything PERFECT!!! 

 9.       Spend the last three weeks in a complete and utter panic because you have to plan, purchase, and execute “BABY ROOM OF THE CENTURY!!!!” Cry when you reach two weeks overdue and have to be induced- because for the love of all that’s holy- won’t this child just COME OUT ALREADY!!!??? 

 10.   Feel guilt for the rest of your natural life for ever wanting a child because you are certain that no matter what you do you are going to fuck them up royally anyhow. Forget college- start saving now for therapy.

 The end

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

So, who is it?

Have a guess and then click on over.

Click the button or go to the post below to keep playing along.

Xpol 09.

The time has come, the Walrus said, to speak of many things.

Only THIS time I don’t think cabbages and Kings are involved at any point and I am in danger of becoming a little obscure.

Okay, so it’s not the 9th EVERYWHERE yet, on accounts of the earth would have to be rather differently shaped for that to happen and we’d all become rather briefly terminally unwell astronauts with little interest in cross-pollinating, but nevertheless it is the 9th where I am and thus here is the big list of participants.

I shall also copy and paste the same list on the mater page for the Xpol, so that button clickers get to the correct information to play along at home.

So, get clicking, read and try and work out who cross-posted with who.

The Lovely Ladies of Sans:

1. May http://nutsinmay.wordpress.com/
2. Michele http://bakingacookie.blogspot.com
3. Perchance to Dream http://perchancetodream.wordpress.com/
4. Dee www.wheresmy2lines.wordpress.com
5. Samcy http://theclam.wordpress.com
6. Lin http://oursomedayfamily.blogspot.com
7. Anna http://www.agardenforbutterflies.blogspot.com
8. Jenn http://lovemarriagewheresthebabycarriage.blogspot.com/
9. Miriam  http://hannahweptsarahlaughed.blogspot.com
10. Jendeis http://sellcrazysomeplaceelse.blogspot.com
11. Jill http://www.jillsboringlife.blogspot.com
12. Mrs Spit http://mrsspitspouts.blogspot.com/
13. Also a Pollinated Honourable Mention goes to http://semi-fertile.blogspot.com, the unlucky last under the wire for whom I did not find a match in time. Go say hello, anyway, will you?

The Avec’ers:

1. Sarah http://www.dreamsandfalsealarms.typepad.com
2. Everydaystranger http://www.everydaystranger.net
3. Betty M  http://www.highlandhardrain.blogspot.com
4. Thecancadianduck http://theexpectantduck.wordpress.com
5. Katie http://www.takingthestatisticalbullet.blogspot.com
6. Korechronicles http://www.korechronicles.wordpress.com
7. Kimbosue http://raisingmiles.wordpress.com
8. Calliope  http://creatingmotherhood.com
9. Mrs Spock http://www.mrsspock.blogspot.com
10. JENinMICH http://www.jeninmich.blogspot.com
11. Stacie http://stacie-heeeeerestorkeystorkey.blogspot.com/
12. Yo-yo Mama http://knockuout.wordpress.com
13. JJ http://reproductivejeans.blogspot.com
14. Thalia http://www.thalia.typepad.com
15. Rosie http://anxiousmummyto3.blogspot.com
16. Lollipop Goldstein http://stirrup-queens.com
17. Searching for Serenity http://www.seeksserenity.blogspot.com
18. Potty Mouth Mommy http://pottymouthmommy.wordpress.com
19. K  http://romancingthestork.blogspot.com
20. Geohde http://missionimpossibleinfertile.wordpress.com
21. HerewegoaJen  http://jenniferelaineg.blogspot.com
22. Lavander Luz http://weebleswobblog.com
23. A http://xj2608.blogspot.com
24. Rachel http://longdistanceinfertility.blogspot.com

 

Thank you all so gibberishly gratefully much for making this possible and come back in twelve-ish months, you hear?

Now I’m off to post MY mystery blogger….

Cleanliness is next to something, right?

Dear Internet,

I have a multiple-guess exam for you all today, but do not fret if you haven’t done your homework lately. I don’t think it’s all that difficult, just between you, me and the rest of the world.

Here goes.

When one and ONLY one of your two sixteen-month old balls of energy goes strangely silent for five minutes (generally they get about a five minute head start since I’m rather slow on the ‘I can see them, I can see them, I can see ONE, I can still only see ONE, Fuuuukkk!’  uptake) do you look frantically:

A: In the laundry, because now all of your to-be-dealt-with-later pile of dirty sicked-up on and pee-stained washing will now be gaily mixed in grimy floor-covering harmony with the clean stuff that had made it only far enough off the line to be inside but not yet put away?

B: In the bathroom, because you know the little bugger will be happily chewing certain packets and playing with the newly freed frisky little mice with strings, as horrifyingly enough tampons hold a fascination which you have failed as yet to delicately trample to shreds, mostly on the grounds that having a conversation about the joys of womanhood is something you were hoping to have a least another decade to gear up for? Alternatively, as a possible bonus option, kiss goodbye to your high heels down the toilet.

C: Chewing a piece of fossilised possibly-crumpet with every sign of enjoyment while mournfully inverting a bottle above their head (contents now solidified and nameless) in the hopes that eventually some of the yoghurt-y remains will escape into aforementioned crumpet-hole?

Actually, I lie. Try D: All of the above, in the last 72 hours.

Please do not judge me, for I have twins.

Also, no, clearly I do not bend over and check things out from Indian Takeaway height nearly often enough, either. There was another fermenting bottle and some more crumpety goodness under my bed when I investigated further.

Now do reassure a rapidly ageing lady with children who clearly have zero tastebuds, negative amounts of common sense, teflon digestive tracts and the vulnerability to infection of lead blocks that you’re all locked and loaded to cross-pollinate, yes?

Next up is the big list of participants.

Things I now know about toddlers.

…but wish I didn’t.

Alternatively entitled ‘Potty training and other Kid Tricks: The things they do not tell you, a helpful primer on how to get excreta where it rightfully belongs’.

Is now the time?

Or can you put it, and the risk to your carpets, off until later?

Children vary widely. Fear of the unknown can make even the owners of washable plastic floors hesitate, but if you wait until they’re in high-school, not only have you missed your mark, but you’re spending a veritable fortune in diapers to cover arses that big. One has to take the leap sooner or later.

Generally speaking it helps if your Infant 1.0 module is mobile and has their very own identifiable potty dance* (or word). If they’re showing awareness that they KNOW they’re about to kack their dacks (for random example by pulling of their own nappy and taking a healthy dump in the middle of your neighbour’s driveway), take the initiative.

*No, The Macarena is too complicated. So is the Bus Stop. Think simpler.

Will they sit on the damn thing?

If your infant runs off in screaming hysterics every time you try and callously whip their duds off and sit them on a bit of cold plastic, try a bit of gentle introduction.

Give it a name than you plan to use. ‘Potty’ is evergreen and rather popular, ‘Bertha’ not so much.

While it isn’t a good idea to use it as a water bowl until the fear response abates, having the thing generally hanging out with the family probably isn’t a bad idea.

Naan now talks to ours, although since I can’t understand her most of the time and I live with her, history must remain silent as to what she’s discussing.

Try often.

Post mealtimes are usually a good option, because, well, food in equals food out. Often not all that far apart in temporal terms.

Sit your spawn down, and wait as long as you can get away with. Puppets help. You don’t need a Punch and Judy show. Kids aren’t critical.

You’re looking on associating Item A with Action B, so have patience, modern sanitation was not built in a day.

Enrol cheerleaders.

If they DO produce the goods, have a small party in your bathroom. Dance. Whoop. Hip-hip-Hooray. Generally show how fecking happy you are to have one less poop on your watch and one more heading off into the sunset to float it out into retirement at your municipal sanitation facility.

LS and I conducted a very small but exceedingly enthusiastic Mexican Wave in our toilet the first time Saag got it right. She was delighted.

Reward the heck out of the little buggers.

Small children are easily bribed. I find a small square of toilet paper is more revered than a comically oversized novelty cheque for a house around these parts.

Also, it’s more repeatable and vaguely related to the task at hand.

Have a clean-up plan.

Keep a packet of baby wipes near your choice receptacle.

Toilet paper SOUNDS like a good idea until you’re tried to clean a wiggly child’s poopy bottom with half a roll of it and only succeeded on getting lumps of wet, shitty paper stuck to your calf and other undesirable anatomical locations.

Also, if they’re older, ask ‘em to show you how they can touch their toes. Not only will this reinforce just how inflexible YOU have become with age, but you’ll get a birds eye view of the target clean-up zone.

Other stuff.

For every thrilling high of hearing the sweet tinkle of urine on porcelain, you will have the crushing low of pooh in your loungeroom. It takes time and patience, and yes, in the short term it is considerably more pissing about (no pun intended) than just dealing with nappies.

Also, if like a certain child of mine, your spawn knows enough to anticipate bowel-action, quite reasonably enough doesn’t like to sit in their own productions and knows full well how nappy fasteners work, expect a lot of puppy like mistakes.

Rubbing their nose in it doesn’t work for kids, either.

But you are allowed to be sorely tempted when they take a fancy to crapping in the bath and coating their sibling in a fine coat of nature’s finest.

Wish me luck, I think I’ll need it.

Serious Xpol Business.

…or not all that serious as it turns out, don’t fret dear Internet.

I would just like to let you all know that I have emailed everybody who had signed up as of about twelve hours ago .

Okay, about twelve-ish plus or minus a bit hours in my timezone, which is GMT + some number I forget. It was morning here if that helps, at least I hope it was, because the babies and I got up and spent an invigorating half an hour working out who has superior keyboard bashing skills before I bribed them with porridge dense enough to glue them to the floor after consumption and generally got on with it.

Yes, the predictable result was exceedingly fibre filled Turdus Giganticus Multipilus, yet again.

You see the sacrifices I make on your behalf, Internet?

Anyway, could you all be good ladies and/or gents and check your inboxes and say ‘hi’ to your matchee?

If that fails, try your spam filter, and then try ME. I’ll get back to you in about 12 porridge-y hours. Give or take.

For those of you who signed up under the wire of my mouseclick, never fear, I shall do my best to find you a match and then ship your details on. Watch this space. Actually, on that note, I could do with a lovely lady or gent of ’sans’ to pipe up and sign on.

In other matters that relate to a word that rhymes with ‘carriage’ a certain person now seems to be deleting all of their messages on a regular basis.

Is this A: Bad, B: Very Bad, or C: I’ve been sprung?

Inquiring minds, etc etc.

Agony Aunt, edition 20.

Is it wrong to realise that a semi-regular feature column has now reached the less-wrinkled decade immediately below your own, and feel accordingly slightly jealous?

Oh, how I loved being twenty. Well, apart from all the crippling self-conciousness, drunken vomits and general lack of financial liquidity, anyway.

Bring it, Google. I’m ready.

….and so it begins again. I decide that I cannot let Goog.le proclaim me the font of all knowledge with regard to ‘geriatric backboarding’ and the Giant Bathing Suit with Frills On The Arse like, without remembering that those who live in cellulitic houses should not throw one-piece stones.

As always, click on the button for previous editions of my snark advice to the frequently illiterate. Or click on the Bad Google tab at the top to see a more comprehensive list of what can only be described as Really Dumb Stuff.

Ahem:

• does a fate line mean im pregnant?
• pregnant am the a.ss to fuck
• flapoplasty
• geriatric backboarding
• Big naked nanna thighs.
• is my pea green when i’m pregnant
• safe to penetrate va.gina with bottle
• elderly vagi.na galleries pics
• can i fuck when im pregnant

Item #1 (does a fate line mean im pregnant?):

No, it means you’ve gone and asked a palm-reader or similar to basically guess if you are up the metaphorical duff.

Alternatively, you just can’t spell.

Strike out whichever option is less embarrassing.

Item # 2 (pregnant am the a.ss to fuck):

I, personally, don’t rate northbound traffic on a strictly southbound highway as highly as I do, say, ice-cream, but I also can’t see any reason why being knocked up should stop you indulging if fancy takes you in that rear-guard.

Ahem.

Unless you’re actually asking if tender loving times, bottom-style, can lead to eighteen years of child support payments. I would hope you already know that the answer to THAT particular question  is a big, fat NO.

Don’t be getting ideas, honey.

Item # 3 (flapoplasty):

Excuse me for being slightly crass, but what flap or flaps are you intending to rearrange, dear Googler?

I mean, I can understand not wanting to have a cheeky three inches of abdomen hang over the front of your  jeans, but if it’s the other kind of flap that’s chafing you, perhaps you should just buy looser trousers?

Skinny jeans only make most people look like they have carrot legs, anyway.

Item #4 and #5  (geriatric backboarding AND Big naked nanna thighs.):

Yes, you are correct oh Google-y ones. Just because one is of the blue-rinse persuasion does not mean that one can not be fully involved in the local water-sports scene.

Inviting the contents of your local nursing home to don big, black swimming costumes, complete with creaking structural reinforcement and outlying postcodes of ass-skimming fabric, probably WILL lead to seeing rather a lot of naked nanna thighs.

Enjoy.

Item #6 (is my pea green when i’m pregnant):

Peas remain green whether you are pregnant or not. They don’t really care.

Your pee, on the other hand, should never be green, brown, black, red, full of pus, have a head of foam on it,  or be possessing of lumps.

Also, on a different note, your vowels should include careful discrimination between A and E. There’s five of them these days, not four.

Item #7 (safe to penetrate va.gina with bottle):

No, not really.

In Captain Obvious mode, most especially not if it isn’t nice and smooth and absolutely not if it happens to be glass.

Item #8 (elderly vagi.na galleries pics):

Sorry, I can’t help you on this one.

Come back in about 50 years.

Item #9 (can i fuck when im pregnant):

If you still feel remotely like it, power to you, sister.

Love,

G

PS. To answer the burning question and put you all out of your dying-to-know misery, the free-range poo-layer was Saag.

Also, yes, it was huge.

Saag and Naan both do a hefty four to five of ‘em a day EACH. Not only was it a mere mathematical matter of time until I was the lucky recipient of Exhibit A in the post below (with at least ten chances a day), but I really do almost drown in baby shit around these parts.

So, how has YOUR morning been?

As for me, well I’ve been kind of busy.

Feel free to speculate on originator and circumstances in the comments section.

Hint: it wasn’t me, but it was fortunately enough fibre-filled, formed and still steaming when I discovered it smack-bang in the middle of my loungeroom.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have a big pile of shit to clean up, and I am not speaking figuratively this time.

Little things.

I spent this morning cleaning.

Actually, since the above sentence makes it sound like I’ve gone all 50’s housewife and shall duly invite you all over for a dinner consisting of three courses, none of which I’ve fucked up in any way and at least one of which nessecitates competant use of my oven, I shall begin again.

I spent this morning scrubbing clean every damn millimetre of grout between every single tile in my entire house with the aid of something that has a cleaning action best described as somewhere between ‘paint stripper’ and ‘partial thickness burns’. With a toothbrush. Slowly.

Because that seems to be how I roll when I am under pressure.

Don’t worry, although I admit I was tempted, I used an old toothbrush and not one of LS’s.

Also, on the plus side and trying to see the silver lining in the fact that the skin on my hands is now so very dessicated that touching things sets my teeth on edge, if I do turn into the kind of apron-sprouting woman who knows how long to cook a roast without risking serving guests either meat so rare that a rapid combination of CPR and defibrillation may restore circulation to the departed beast in question, or alternately and more irretrievably a round lump of smoking charcoal…..well.

If I discover a hitherto deeply hidden talent with hair rollers and turn into one of those women who don’t drink their alcohol out of tumblers merely because the proper wine glasses are an utter bastard to fit in the dishwasher, and you do all come over to admire my table settings, I guess you better squeeze in a compliment on my grout as well.

No, that’s not an euphamism for anything, either.

Things are strange around these parts, and I’m not sure how best to describe the state of play.

LS and I talk perfectly civilly to one another. Mostly. I keep the swearing to under my breath.

I still want to rip his silly head off barehanded and slap him with the wet end when he admonishes one of the twins not to walk on the tiles lest they fall, hit their head and die.

We cuddle in bed before going to sleep at night. He still generally ruins the fragile peace by telling me I really need to shape up and work on the things that displease him.

I barely resist the urge to shove his head clean up his own bottom just so he can’t say any more stupid things. Mostly because he does try to say them nicely, I think.

In paranoid mode, I check his old text messages and read such pearlers as one from his best mate recommending he slip me a drug touted as a surefire way to have a wife in the kitchen and a whore in the bedroom. Obviously he’s not been completely straight with best mate about the underpinnings of the sex drought around these parts.

Oh, and then there’s all the ones from someone interstate who I do not know in the least, but who sure seems to want to know how some of LS’s ‘talks’ with myself have gone down. They also seem to be of the  ’miss you’, ‘thinking of you’ and ‘wish you could be here’ persuasion when it comes to my husband.

With x’s.

Clearly I cannot interrogate LS on the matter since they were never mine to read in the first instance and I shall only come off as an untrusting nutbag if I let on I know. Besides, I have bigger things to worry about than some harlot who in all probability exists only in my worried mind and conveniently a very safe distance away.

I’m trying. He’s trying. We shall see.

He is the man who wept and roared with grief when we found out our first baby would invariably die.

If I close my eyes I can still see him rocking Saag and Naan not long after they were born, telling them how very glad he was to meet them at long last.

It’s hard, sweating the little things when I know the frame of the big picture is quite different. Now, if only I can hold onto that thought.

So, tell me.

On the subject of doom and gloom, since I appear to be positively wallowing in figurative sh!t these days (and really should do something about that damn fan because I can’t resist throwing it in that general metaphorical direction), I have a question for you, oh wise Internet.

Well, a question for those of you who have had the misfortune to have joined the big club of poor thirty somethings with twins minus assets and minus spouses. Oh, and with a mortgage one can’t possibly pay solo.

It’s not if I will ever have s.e.x again should the current delicate state of affairs go tits up, because right now that sounds positively divine to me.

It’s not if I really will enjoy finding the toilet seat in the position I left it as much as I anticipate I would, because clearly I will be quietly delighted not to nearly fall down the blasted thing while stepping in a puddle of misdirected pee at 3am ever again.

It’s not if I shall ever regain my sense of humour, because that seems relatively intact, too.

It’s THIS.

Just how does this sort of thing actually go, anyway? Gory detail, please.

Will I be homeless, assetless, single and likely to stay that way on the grounds that, well, there ain’t no way in heck I am allowing anybody new to see my heavily used abdomen?

WIll I really have to crawl back to a parent’s house with my tail between my legs and in debt since the alternative shall truly be living in a box under some bridge somewhere? I love my folks, but pride dictates I plump for option ‘box’. When winter rolls around  that could be rather problematic.

Do I really have to bloody share the Indian Takeaways? I am not good at sharing things I hold dear to my heart with people that I am Not Getting On With, as mean-spirited and horrible as that makes me sound.

Also, should I feel as ashamed as I do, simply because this is the first time in my coddled life I have ever come close to properly screwing up and seriously belly-flopping failing at something?

I am pathetic and idle minds want to know.

I also want to know if anybody else would do me the honour of cross-pollinating in December? I can be persistant to the point of irritation about that sort of thing. Also, if you haven’t emailed me back when I emailed YOU, why I shall have to start stalking your blogs and gently checking.

I’m good at threats.

Not Okay.

This is a post that I need to preface with a heavy sigh and a ‘what now?’

I’ve not been writing as much as is my wont of late. I could blame the twins, work, life and a sudden deep and time-consuming obsession with handwashing every single item of laundry individually in a misdirected attempt to get the dribble stains out, but it wouldn’t be true.

I could even tell you a funny story about how LS has, rather inappropriately, taught Naan to grab her euphemistic moneymaker when he says the magic word ‘flaps!’, but I don’t really feel like it.

I could tell you how Saag has taken a carpet-risking fancy to removing her own nappy and belting around the house at warp speed stark naked, collapsing in a foot stomping hissy-fit at all the Oppression By The (Wo)Man when I insist that babies to whom ’potty training’ is merely a nice collection of syllables must keep their leaky bits covered, thank-you-very-much. But I don’t want to do that either.

I could write this under password, but for now I won’t. Mostly because I am not really writing anything here that LS and I have not bashed out in person without any sensible resolution already. However, I will probably rethink the decision not to pwp at some sleepless 3am in the near future and change that in a blind panic.

More heavy sighing, please. You know there’s been a lot of friction Chez MII.

Here’s the thing.

We’re not okay.

We’re really not okay.

I could also write a big, hurt missive about all the banal and predictable things that make us so not okay, but I expect that you could guess most of them, anyway. Disputes about laughable complete ignorance of magically self maintaining house, unfair division of time, money, the fact that LS wouldn’t even know which energy companies we’re signed up with, let alone how to pay a sodding bill, work (I mean, the man independently got me a job six hours away by plane when the twins were three months old on the grounds that it would be ‘good’ for my career and was surprised when I declined), sleeping arrangements and the general whinges and whines of a card-carrying pissed off housewife.

See, predictable.

Oh, and then there’s his (what I maintain is about as non-normative as heading out in public clothed only in your socks) rabid anxiety about everything that pertains to Saag and Naan. I don’t know another parent who hovers so bleeping much and won’t even let their children walk on the tiles lest they fall over, bang their heads and die, but I live with this sort of thing.

Every. Single. Day.

It’s exhausting, and I admit I’m pathetically human. Having my buttons pushed so effectively all the time makes me cranky, snappy and judgemental. I suck. I admit it.

But.

I’m not the one who seems to think that the easy out is the way to go. I may not like LS very much a lot of the time at the moment, but we have history together and I love him. We made vows.

In summary, and to get to the point, I am not at all sure that he plans to keep them. Not anymore. Because last night he matter of factly gave me (and therefore US) until the end of the year to shape up before one of us had to leave.

The thing that really gets my goat is he objected to calling this a threat. I’m not sure what else you would call it, really.

More sighing.

Having multiples puts the kind of stress test on a relationship that all too many fail. The statistics bear that out. I simply don’t know whether being naughty or nice will change what I get for Christmas this year.

PS. In Keeping It Together mode, because there are still a few bloggers who have not replied to my sing-out, I must ask all of you who signed up to the great blog cross-pollination this year who haven’t checked your email lately, or haven’t received an email from me acknowledging your entry to check your email. Send me a line if you haven’t got one, or you haven’t replied as yet and you’d make me abjectly grateful.

I’m good at abject gratitude.

Gremlins.

Sometimes I swear that teeny-tiny gremlins live inside my computer and widdle with barely concealed glee on my pretty, clean html whenever they get wind that I might be intending to share it with you all.

Or possibly I was innocently posting before being struck by  another vagrancy of WordPress…

Is it okay if you all nod and smile and agree on whichever of the above two scenarios you prefer, rather than the more likely story that I bolloxed something up, yet again?

Regardless.

The key point is that there was possibly (for about ten minutes until I idly checked the link myself and said some invigoratingly rude words) aforementioned hypothetical little green creatures piddle all over a key bit of html for the Cross Pollination button.

So many of you were ultra efficient and snaffled it before I had time to swear creatively and fix the problem that I’ve had several polite emails that all thus far delicately refrain from pointing out that I suck. You’re all quite nice, you know. Rightly enough, however, you do mention that I cleverly coded a button that links to a non-existant post.

I did briefly inadvertantly do precisely that.

I suspect that many of you are significantly quicker on the uptake than I, and merely sighed then fixed the link when you noticed what I staunchly maintain is Act Of WordPress balls-up.

Anyway, if you assumed that I would not post a screwed up bit of code, and haven’t checked, and yours is one of the terminally misdirected buttons, do have another metaphorical stab at it. As far as I can tell it seems to point in all the right directions from my end of things (by which I do NOT mean it comes straight out of my arse, although you may be forgiven for thinking THAT, too) so it should work much better for YOU if you are one of the Broken Button afflicted.

Also, you know, if you haven’t signed up, you really should.

If only to fix my wonky html skills for me? Please?

In the meantime, I am now going to go hide in shame and possibly email everybody who has been gracious enough to sign up this year. Just so you know that I didn’t get that bit wrong, too.

Oh, and since Saag has developed a real knack for running clean across a room and looking deceptively innocent at the mere hint of approaching maternal unit, despite all the milky-footprint evidence neatly tying her to the upside-down empty bottle scene of the crime, I also have quite a lot of floor to clean.

I don’t think I need to call in the services of CSI on that one, somehow. I might however resort to explaining that you can’t work on your bone density very well if you persist in feeding the carpets your milk in the mornings.

Now do remind me- sometime when my floor does not smell so distressingly like cheese (it is hot here)- to tell you how I scored some gorgeous flowers on my birthday from a man other than my husband, right in front of him. Not only did LS watch, but he didn’t even bat an eyelid.

Actually, I just made the whole thing sound far saucier than the reality. Sorry about that.

Pross Collinate.

The time has come, the Walrus said, to speak of many things.

Only THIS time I don’t think cabbages and Kings are involved at any point and I am in danger of becoming a little obscure.

Okay, so it’s not the 9th EVERYWHERE yet, on accounts of the earth would have to be rather differently shaped for that to happen and we’d all become rather briefly terminally unwell astronauts with little interest in cross-pollinating, but nevertheless it is the 9th where I am and thus here is the big list of participants.

I shall also copy and paste the same list on the mater page for the Xpol, so that button clickers get to the correct information to play along at home.

So, get clicking, read and try and work out who cross-posted with who.

The Lovely Ladies of Sans:

1. May http://nutsinmay.wordpress.com/
2. Michele http://bakingacookie.blogspot.com
3. Perchance to Dream http://perchancetodream.wordpress.com/
4. Dee www.wheresmy2lines.wordpress.com
5. Samcy http://theclam.wordpress.com
6. Lin http://oursomedayfamily.blogspot.com
7. Anna http://www.agardenforbutterflies.blogspot.com
8. Jenn http://lovemarriagewheresthebabycarriage.blogspot.com/
9. Miriam  http://hannahweptsarahlaughed.blogspot.com
10. Jendeis http://sellcrazysomeplaceelse.blogspot.com
11. Jill http://www.jillsboringlife.blogspot.com
12. Mrs Spit http://mrsspitspouts.blogspot.com/
13. Also a Pollinated Honourable Mention goes to http://semi-fertile.blogspot.com, the unlucky last under the wire for whom I did not find a match in time. Go say hello, anyway, will you?

The Avec’ers:

1. Sarah http://www.dreamsandfalsealarms.typepad.com
2. Everydaystranger http://www.everydaystranger.net
3. Betty M  http://www.highlandhardrain.blogspot.com
4. Thecancadianduck http://theexpectantduck.wordpress.com
5. Katie http://www.takingthestatisticalbullet.blogspot.com
6. Korechronicles http://www.korechronicles.wordpress.com
7. Kimbosue http://raisingmiles.wordpress.com
8. Calliope  http://creatingmotherhood.com
9. Mrs Spock http://www.mrsspock.blogspot.com
10. JENinMICH http://www.jeninmich.blogspot.com
11. Stacie http://stacie-heeeeerestorkeystorkey.blogspot.com/
12. Yo-yo Mama http://knockuout.wordpress.com
13. JJ http://reproductivejeans.blogspot.com
14. Thalia http://www.thalia.typepad.com
15. Rosie http://anxiousmummyto3.blogspot.com
16. Lollipop Goldstein http://stirrup-queens.com
17. Searching for Serenity http://www.seeksserenity.blogspot.com
18. Potty Mouth Mommy http://pottymouthmommy.wordpress.com
19. K  http://romancingthestork.blogspot.com
20. Geohde http://missionimpossibleinfertile.wordpress.com
21. HerewegoaJen  http://jenniferelaineg.blogspot.com
22. Lavander Luz http://weebleswobblog.com
23. A http://xj2608.blogspot.com
24. Rachel http://longdistanceinfertility.blogspot.com

 

Thank you all so gibberishly gratefully much for making this possible and come back in twelve-ish months, you hear?

Now I’m off to post MY mystery blogger….

(Below is the original sign-up post for the Xpol)

Once a year I gird my disorganised self into some semblence of organisation and I do my best to introduce new bloggers in the community to all of us by hosting the Great Blog Cross Pollination.

Except THIS year I inconveniently went and scheduled International! Travel! With! Three Children LS! and Twins! right when I should have been nagging you all to merrily swap entries for a day left, right and centre. 

Because I know full well my organisational limitations (you will note that I remain slightly disorientated to time and place despite having been home for, what?, several days now, although person has reassuringly remained rock-steady though all of my recent travels), I didn’t even try this year.

Yet.

So, here’s the deal.

Please, pretty please with a cherry on top participate in the Great Blog Cross Pollination this year.

It’s open to EVERYBODY in the ALI community, and divided into two groups of blogs, those that reference children (hereon known as ‘avec’) and those that do not (the ladies and gents of ’sans’). The idea is to swap posts for one day with a matched blogger so that you BOTH meet new bloggers and everybody finds new readers. Old blogs, new blogs, infertility, loss, pregnancy and parenting blogs (and anybody else I haven’t covered) are more than welcome.

Actually, having crossed into the dreaded muh-’ummy’ (or ‘ommy’) blog territory myself I especially welcome meeting new bloggers still in the trenches.

Here are the details, it really is easy. I do most of the work. Really.

1. Leave a comment here (ensuring that your blog url and email address are written the appropriate fields, you don’t have to write them in the comment itself and this stops spam filters eating your words, too).  In your comment, all I need to know is if you fit the AVEC or SANS group. You can write as many other nice things about me as you like (or not, I shan’t be offended), but the AVEC or SANS is handy to know.

2. This one bites me in the posterior every year- please make sure the email address you have entered is one you check, because I shall be in further contact with you about your match via that email address. Also, if you change your mind about participating, let me know. I’d never be offended because sometimes circumstances change, but it is hard for your match-ee on the day if you bail unexpectedly.

3. Periodically I shall send out an email acknowledging receiving your entry. Please reply so I know your email addy works (see above) Get cracking on that wonder post with which to bedazzle new eyes and introduce yourself to a new audience.

4. Closer to the date (at least a week beforehand) I shall email you with the name of your match. You then email each other your posts.

5. On the 9th december, you post the cross-pollinated entry WITHOUT SAYING WHO IT IS FROM, but WITH a ‘click here’ hyperlink to THEIR blog (so your own readers can find where YOU are hiding on that day). Just for fun, ask people to see if they can recognise the guest blogger in a different home in the comments section.

See? Easy.

I will keep a masterlist of participants here, so on the day, EVERYBODY can have fun clicking hyperlinks and guessing who posted what, and where. Hopefully along the way everybody shall make lovely new bloggy friends.

I really do adore hosting this, so please sign up. The more the merrier. It really is fun.

For those who like buttons on their sidebar, this is this year’s linked button. Feel free to grab the code and put it up on your own blog. Actually, that would positively fill me with delight.

Here is detailed instructions as to how to snaffle it, if you need a hand.

Now, please sign up? Pretty please?

Only a man…

May I utter the universal cry of truly browned-off women everywhere?

Men!

Humph.

Bloody silly creatures they are, really.

Honestly, I  actually happen to love LS, despite my many written allusions to possible acts of physical violence upon his person, really I do.

Most of the time, at least.

Even if  he dosen’t have the faintest idea just how it is his underwear drawer never runs out, or that the fridge is always full of food. Let alone a sensible understanding of how to hold a vacuum cleaner the right way up. I think he might do himself an injury if he turned the blasted thing on successfully, so it’s probably a good thing he doesn’t even know which cupboard it lives in.

It must be jolly nice living in a world where the sorting fairy, washing fairy, shopping fairy, cleaning fairy, dusting fairy and diary fairy keep your life neat and tidy all on your behalf behind the scenes like that. Really, it must.

Typing the above paragraph makes me wish I fancied the fairer sex, because surely a two woman household would run MUCH more smoothly.

Just think of all the loo seat  and piddle on the floor palaver I wouldn’t have to deal with.

But, anyway. My weekend point is the following belated observation.

Men come without and not in any way WITH the tact chip in the factory standard model, don’t they?

Because otherwise, I think mine has a broken one.

How else can I explain LS telling me that I am, and I quote ‘moody and grumpy’ before bidding me goodnight to retreat to my decidedly-separate-shall-not-be-poked-all-night bedroom and then being shocked when I tell him to get stuffed?

I mean, really?

What part of calling your spouse a cranky witch in those sort of circumstances doesn’t deserve cutting the crotch out of every single pair of jocks, simply as a warning shot?

I think I was quite restrained in the circumstances.

 

Rant-End-Rant.

Dear Internet,

I am home, I have slept (although see below for further details on that one), I have been blissfully reunited with my mascara, deodarent and (praise-be-to-the-dental-gods) toothbrush, and now I have a question for you.

I do so hope you can help.

So, Internet, oh wise and all-knowing Internet.

Can you tell me something?

Because I really need to know the answer.

At what point in a marriage does a quirky trait in a spouse shift from endearing to more irritating than wearing sandpaper underpants horse riding? 

If I am alone in my dilemma and your own loving spouse never does anything to cause your eyelid to twitch convulsively, just where do I get a Husband 2.0 upgrade from? Should I try reading the user’s manual for the version I have again first?

Can I reboot the sucker?

Or am I simply an uncaring bitch?

Also, how do you make it goddam stop already?

Is electroshock therapy even legal?

Would it really be too juvenile to file for divorce on the grounds that your spouse irritates the living snot out of you?

Because something is REALLY chafing my bum and I am this close to, oh, I don’t know, probably simply fuming impotently between my own ears about how bloody pathetic LS is when it comes to his precious SLEEP, combined with a little gentle week-old-kipper fishwacking of the facial region the very next time he refuses to get his arse out of bed in the morning on accounts of how tired he is.

Like, say, tomorrow.

I can forecast this with complete-and-absolute 100% confidence on accounts of it happens every day. Every. Single. Morning. I get to hear how he is just exhausted and tired and has not slept a WINK all night.

I am possibly a small and petty person, but oh BOY and I fucking sick to the back teeth of hearing that whine.

I am also fornicatingly-unwell to the point of dental caries in my molars with the current status quo of picking up the slack, being almost literally drowned in baby shit solo before midday and making excuse after excuse to the universe at large when people ask about why husband almost never appears in public. Seriously, I have friends that don’t even know what he looks like.

So, what the flipping feck is wrong with LS and why the hell do I always end up the bad guy because I cannot remain forever sympathetic to his dozy plight?

After so many groundhog-day years of this rubbish every damn morning I just have this irresistable urge to kick his lazy arse until he gets it out of bed, is all.

Is that not perfectly understandable?

Send help at once, because I now refuse to even contemplate sleep in the same bedroom on accounts of I cannot take any more bleeping fingers poking me in the arm, chest, back and eyeball at random and all night, nor will I endure repeated nocturnal wake-ups and interrogations as to which position I may or may not be choosing to enjoy my repose.

Also, he turns the fucking light on to check I am telling the truth. If I don’t divorce him I may possibly kill him. With a blunt spoon. Slowly.

Seriously.

Mayday.

Or at least a supply of ready-matured old kippers, please.

Home is where my luggage isn’t.

Alternatively entitled ‘What I Did On My Holidays: The Extremely Edited Edition’.

Dear Internet,

Did you miss me?

I am HOME, praise-be-the-jetlag-that-permits-me-to-be-a-grizzelling-insomniac-in-my-OWN-bed, but I shall be brief.

Because, well.

I’ve just spent several days travelling with two small children. One of whom is now officially A Climber of anything not nailed down and, additionally, is a lover and not a fighter and thus half the plane have been snogged to loving death. The other requires a fairly hands-on approach for different reasons.

Jen can attest that I do not exaggerate when I make cracks and Saag and Naan’s temperaments. She’s now seen the evidence first-hand.

Regardless, coming back to the fact that we all inconveniently can’t have the same amount of night and day at once and the issues this may or may not cause the average frazzled thirty-something travelling with twins, because I think I had a point to make.

Ah. Got it.

I have indeed learned that it is true that relatively small and unobtrusive time zone changes, designed to be gentle to the smaller traveller, actually suck much MUCH harder than the big ones where you just suck it up, grit your teeth, and push on regardless until collapsing in a sleepy heap at the other end.

THIS version has had me trying to explain to two fifteen month olds that it is dark and not breakfast-time on accounts of it is THREE-Bleeping-AM ForTheLoveOfAllThatIsHolyAndWhyWon’tEitherOfYouSleep?

Also, my (and please note ONLY my) luggage did not make the last connecting flight and is due to arrive some time today in a more leisurely fashion. Presumably after enjoying a nice lie in, a cooked breakfast and taking in the local scenery. Unlike me.

I’m quietly convinced this means the universe hates me, because now I have to go and retrieve the blasted container of fresh underwear, toothbrushes, MAKEUP and clothing without having the prior benefit of access to the aforementioned items.

So, do excuse me.

In summary, I went to WALMART and I LIKED it.

Is that so very bad?

Discuss.

Gone Fishing.

….to the land where you all talk funny and persist on driving on the wrong side of the road.

Could you all try the left for, say, the next two and a bit weeks? Thank-you in advance and all of that.

Also, I would like to request a few jargon amendments for you all:

The ‘bathroom’ shall temporarily be known as the ‘dunny’, or ‘can’, and in a pinch, possibly the ‘bog’.

‘Diapers’ are now ‘Nappies’. Don’t argue.

The plural of ‘You’ is now ‘Youse’. None of this ‘y’all’ business, okay?

Vowels will be returned to the words from which they have been stolen, for example ‘coloUr’ needs it’s ‘U’ returned immediately.

Also, psst, it’s al-ooo-min-eee-um. Try it on for size, because you always cut a bit out of that word. Refrain from any references to ‘Al-oo-min-um’, if you can.

Finally, ‘Thongs’ are something that goes on your feet. Also, in  reference to the item below, Naan likes to eat it. Consider your collective selves warned.

Any questions?

Another open letter to the world at large.

Dear World,

It’s Geohde and I have a bone to pick with you.

Yes, again. Do try and pay attention this time, please.

I propose a small lesson in milestone attainment.

Are you ready, class? Here goes:

FORTHELOVEOFALLTHATYOUHOLDHOLYANDPOSSIBLYMANYTHINGSYOUDONOTASWELL being SMALL or, ahem ‘Tiiiiiiiinnnny!’ does not mean a child is not entitled to ambulate bipedally if the fancy takes her. Trust me, the fancy takes her many places indeed.

The little snot machine is always running off in the supermarket and getting herself almost inextricably jammed in the soft drink fridge or under a shelf. The park is a veritable treasure trove of escapism from parental supervision. Our own street is an item that has the distinct potential to prove that road safety is learned, and not instinctive after all (even if it would be more useful than an inbuilt fear of moths), any day now if I am not continually vigilant.

The kid gets the whole walking idea, trust me. She’s been at it for some time now.

Small does not automatically equal ‘four legs good, two legs bad’.

Little people can walk, too, even if the pavements are much closer to their bottoms that the average experience.

Please let Naan do so in public without so much gobsmacked attention, or at least be fair and congratulate Saag on sticking both fingers right up her nose at once while she jumps backwards.

Now THAT’S talent.

Love,

Geohde.

BOTW, edition 11.

BOTW, more comprehensively known as Blog Of The Week (ish, usually very ‘ish’). I post because giving back just a little bit of unsolicited niceness to others makes the blogosphere a friendlier place.

Once again I commence another un or semi-solicited blogaview. Blog of the week, the eleventh spin of the carousel….where does the time go?

Ta-Daa!

And so it begins again, the eleventh edition of BOTW. Double figures it is! Not sure what I’m talking about? Click on the logo to be taken to the reasoning behind my unsolicited blogaviews and previous BOTW’s.

BOTW. An unsolicited admiration of blog-ness. An acknowledgement of the road travelled. Putting my excessive Google Reader activity to good use. On some level, we all write to be read, don’t we?

This week (roll with it, please, and try not to point out that my personal sense of time must be rather distorted if I think I can continue to get away with calling this sort of frequency or rather INfrequency ‘weekly’.) I choose to review:

CharmingB!tch: by Deels and Shannon.

Firstly, the quickfire version:

In a nutshell?

A brilliantly sharp, witty as hell and at times tear-jerking blog about two truckers, life, kids, infant death, pregnancy loss and now, ovarian cancer.

The clever search terms version?

Guardianship, Children, Parenting, Pregnancy, Infant Death, NICU, Grief, Loss, Miscarriage, Ovarian Cancer, Surgery, Marriage, Difficult Family Stuff.

In more detail:

Again, I shall not over-revise The Charming Ones’s history (In case I stuff it up. Check out their blog for the story in their own words rather than my clumsy paraphrasing), but I shall borrow from their very well written ‘about’ page.

2005: Great except for round 1 with MRSA infection and Katrina eating my whole house.

2006: Banner year that included getting pregnant (and not finding out until 10-12 weeks along), getting married to my baby daddy and giving birth in September to Jackson. He was doubtlessly the most precious and perfect baby in all the land but sadly he died a little over a month later. It’s been incredibly hard as I think there isn’t a comparable loss to that of a child and if there is, in fact, anything worse I hope we never experience it or even hear of it, to be honest.

2007: Today though we (Deels and I) are doing our level best to get on with getting on. My sister and her family have already moved to the North West and we will be following them (along with my parents) shortly. Hurricane Katrina fucked us up but good and it’s time for a change, as much as I do dearly and truly love the South.

Deels and I are back on the road (he’s a trucker, too) and that will be evidenced amply with terrible quality camera phone pictures until we upgrade to a proper digital camera. I also love my new bras with what is likely an unnatural passion. Plenty of proof posted already and you can expect regular updates.

And now, as of October 2007, another update. We made the move to the Pacific Northwest in April. This was after I quit my job (all dramatic like, heh) in March and we bought a house (one mile from my sister) site unseen in Vancouver. Moving was great, initially, and things seemed to be, finally on the upswing. I started therapy and then the final blow to our combined dignity was (another) unplanned pregnancy that ended in miscarriage and with Deels getting a (planned for but obviously delayed) vasectomy for his birthday in June. The miscarriage made me again sick with systemic MRSA and a hostage to a port and intravenous drug therapy for months on end. About this time my sister went into inpatient rehab and we had a truck-ton of responsibility for her three kids during that time. Good times, had by all, right?

Picking up from the studio in Portland, we separated in January of 2008 because D had an affair. I know, right? Was horrid. But we lived apart, fixed ourselves, worked too, too much and made things right again. Just in time for my dad to break not one but BOTH ankles in March 2008. And for my sister to chronically relapse, regardless of three trips to rehab in one lonely year. Her husband was also revealed to have a substance abuse problem his own self so we got guardianship of the kids and hauled ass back to Mississippi. Just after getting there, we discovered my former sister in law (I know, I know you need a chart to keep up with this shit) is in the throes of meth addiction so her 14 year old daughter lives with us now, too.

You tired yet? Fuck I am just updating this piece, dang. So. Yeah. Back to Mississippi, moved twice in a MONTH (w/o D being there either time, btw, b/c I AM BAD-ASS) and how we’ve settled into a 104 year old house that is both lovely and awful, is drafty as all fuck but full of so much character we think we’ll stay here awhile.

I mean unless the cancer means we’ll have to move. Ha! Gotcha. Yeah, shortly after all this kid collecting, moving cross country and such, I was diagnosed with Stage 2 Ovarian Cancer. It sucks, hard, especially b/c D is back over the road and home really sporadically but it was caught early, is treatable and a year from now will be just another fucked up memory buried amongst so much joy.

So. Yeah. That’s us and our family (C-14 girl S-6 girl H-5 boy J-3inJanuary-boy) – We rock pretty hard given the circumstances, I think.

I have to confess I’ve been lurking this particular blog for some time, mostly because they’ve been through the absolute wringer and the story really pulls at me. I don’t know of many people who can write about cancer surgery and be as funny as hell at the same time, I just don’t.

Care to read and support?

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Want to see YOUR blog featured? Like to be in my blogroll? Let me know in the comments section below and I’ll gleefully add you, after all a girl can never have too many hyperlinks in her sidebar.

Family Planning.

Dear Internet,

I may possibly indulge in just a little bit of light hearted sarcasm today, or at least (to put it another way) say things that I do not really mean merely in order to make my point.

I am working on my Manners and Deportment in public situations which by definition kills my fun by precluding me from being intentionally rude.

This means it is officially out of order to splutter and holler ‘You want to know WHATTTTTT?’ almost exactly as if somebody had asked me my feelings with regards to fell.atio on a particularly crowded train (due to express the next ten stops) whenever I am quizzed about my future reproductive career. Minus the blushing, obviously. Oh, and the almost irrepressible desire to make some crack about Italian Opera not being my kind of music.

Fell.atio is just such an awfully flowery word in just that kind of cultured, snobby opera sounding way. Or at least I have always thought so. I do welcome other opinions on the matter.

So, since I have digressed enough, let me regroup.

I am trying to explain why it is I feel I need to whinge to the Internet at large about people publicly taking an almost proprietary (You’re not getting any younger, you know! Wink, wink!)  interest in my future plans for my uterus, and therefore indirectly at least, a vaguely creepy curiosity about my probable future trysts with a transvag.inal ultrasound probe.

So. Take note.

The best, the very best, time to ask a woman when she plans to spit out more children via either a natural or scalpel-generated orifice is ABSOLUTELY at that fun point in a supermarket visit where both spawn are screaming at dental drill frequency in the pusher over custody of a bag of unpaid-for grapes (which they only have succeeded only in ripping open and squashing half the contents all over themselves), precisely half of the shopping is already up on the conveyor belt, a badly timed spouse has chosen to call with a particularly urgent request to nick back inside to acquire bog roll, something essential has just turned out to be missing a barcode, andyou’ve just realised that there is no way to bend down and get the remainder of the groceries out of the pram baskets without showing an almost professional degree of Plumber’s Crack.

Really, keeping it to a look of stunned horror and the quip that I thought I got time off for good behaviour for having a two-for-one deal in the first place was quite restrained in the circumstances.

When it rains.

Otherwise known as ‘How do you know when your child is ready for toilet training?’, a helpful primer in one easy step.

Listen up, Internet, it’s simple.

When your fourteen month old takes the, ahem, golden opportunity to piss all over you on the change table, right when you are dealing with a messy explosion from the other main active orifice, it probably isn’t time.

For oh-so many reasons.

Especially if she doesn’t stop cooing at you while she’s at it.

Geohde.

PS. It turns out that girls can indeed generate enough of a stream to hit even the longest-upper-limbed parent. Don’t ask me how I now know this. Also, never EVER duck down to get something of the change table unless you are generally in favour of receiving unexpected mouthfuls of fresh off the press WARM infant urine.

Don’t ask about THAT, either. The rain is Spain may fall mainly on the plain, but around these parts it also falls snack-bang in your open gob.

The central requirement.

Dear World,

I hate to be all pissy with you again, yes again, about this matter, really I do.

But it seems that you just can’t let it go. I have begged of you all under my breath on more occasions than I care to count in the last year to please refrain from presumptive gender assignment of my children, sadly to no avail.

You just can’t resist calling a baby without hair a boy, it would seem.

Gleeful erroneous cries of ‘OOOHhhh TWIIINS! A BOY and a GIRL, how positively LOVELY and generally splendiforous to have one of each!’ abound whenever the Twinmobile and I venture out in public.

You do tend to gush a bit, world. You could work on that, you know.

Even when I’ve coated both poor infants in head to toe matching pink in an attempt to subtly clue you in that there is no penis in the pram, you can’t help it.

Actually, you can’t help it almost especially when Naan is wearing a bleeping pink skirt and a t-shirt that all but says ‘Proud owner of a v.agina’. I do consider my views on the dress of my spawn relatively open, but trust me when I say I wouldn’t do that to a son of mine.

At least not until he was adult enough to independently decide he’d kind of like to get around in that fashion. Then we’d crack out the Master.Card with gusto. I like to shop.

To be honest I never understood exactly why people coat their daughters in pink until you all decided to summarily change Naan’s sex without consulting us first.

I have seen the wang-free-code light and now I own a lot of pink.

Just ride with it, please world. They’re BOTH girls. Trust me on my analysis of this one, will you?

I mean, sometimes you even have the temerity to exclaim ‘No!’, try to correct me, or look shocked when I gently explain that bald heads and Y chromosomes are not synonymous, even before the age of sixty.

One year is a wee bit early for the old male pattern to strike even the most unlucky of chaps. Just ask my husband.

So, in conclusion, to the three cretins who yesterday all exclaimed ‘Did you see the TWINNNSSS? They’re a BOY and a GIRL! Look! Over THERE!’:

1. I’m not deaf.
2. It’s rude to point.
3. No, they’re not.
4. The central requirement for boyhood (loosely speaking and with exceptions) is having your very own willy.

Now shove off, will you?

Love-and-iodised-salt,

Geohde.

I just wouldn’t…

No, really.

I wouldn’t be the vaguely revolting blogger I seem to be if I did not duly release a Tale of Poo on the unsuspecting Internet once in a while, completely unbidden.

I just wouldn’t.

I do so hope that you all know what you’re in for, now that suitable warning has been issued, and the more delicate constitutions and/or current eaters (most especially of unfortunately brown items as chocolate) can cease and desist.

As an added bonus, I can inform you that this particular Poo Story involves Saag, Naan, another baby and an adult.

You could say it got about a bit.

Let me explain.

To put it another way, let me explain what I have now learned about changing the (as hinted at heavily above, um, log-filled) nappy of another infant in the presence of Saag and Naan.

Don’t.

At least don’t do it at ground height, lest you wish to become witness to Saag reaching in and helping herself by grabbing the fun brown toy right out of said nappy. Then running off waving the blasted thing in triumph. Very closely followed by a squawking Naan, hell bent of having her piece of the action, too.

Insert brief tussle between the protagonists and a change of fecal custody, followed by five horrified adults getting it together enough to howl a belated chorus of ‘nOOO…Ohshshshisthhhit…ohNOOOOOOO’ as the mother of the poo-grower concerned reflexively snatches it out of Naan’s victorious grasp without really thinking matter through all that thoroughly.

Then you can watch the expression on the poo-wrangler’s face change to sheer horror as she looks down at the contents of her own fist and back up at the rest of the room. Slow realisation dawns.

By the time the poo-whisperer is up to the point of screaming for help because her hand is literally full of shit, everybody else is completely useless in the assistance department, having gone strangely red-faced, tear streaked and being fully occupied choking back howls of laughter.

I must say that I found apologising for my children making off with a turd one of the strangest apologies of my parenting life to date. I don’t think the laughter made me very convincing.

If it helps any, I cleaned Saag and Naan’s grabby paws very thoroughly afterwards.

More things that annoy me.

Ack, I hate spring. 

Rebirth? Not so much. Joyous beginning anew? Nope. Same whatsit, different bucket Chez MII. Gazelle-like leaping about fields? See below. Fertility? Please don’t make me laugh.

I’m typing this missive with a visual field more commonly associated with the ‘before’ picture in blepheroplasty advertisements for bloodhounds.

Additionally, everything on  my beleagured anatomy that isn’t red itches anyway and therefore soon enough will be. When I get around to scratching the buggery out of it.

In other words, my eyelids are (interestingly if it’s not YOU itching like mad) hive covered and swollen. To the kind of fun dimensions used as cautionary photographs in hair-dye packets for those optimistic unsuccessful attempts they make to convince punters to allergy test before gleefully coating the scalp in dye.

On the plus side, it’s hard to have wrinkles when your eyes are swollen shut. On the minus side, however, they’re practically REALLY swollen shut. To the point that my racial origin is difficult to determine. I have to work tomorrow.

Pollen can just suck my proverbial.

Wait.

That didn’t precisely go as planned.

In an attempt to avoid a spate of comments pointing out the obvious, let me try again. Since I don’t actually have a ‘proverbial’ to suck, then pollen can kiss my ASS.

Before my morning shower and AFTER my morning something else.

That is all.

(Zyr.tec. Stat.)