Stealing Flowers

Spring Flowers image via Johanna Laskey

The other day I was in my garden, and saw someone out the front of our house - just outside our front fence. I noticed they were loitering, so I stood watching. They were there for a long time, and then I realised - they were picking my flowers from our garden.

Who does that?

I coughed - which was code for: "I am here, I see you, get the hell out of here - oh and PS - it's bad luck to steal flowers." 

Except this woman, with two children, kept picking my flowers - despite seeing me - she had just moved to where another shrub obscured her even further.

Now who does that? 

I know you might think I'm a bit crazy, but I walked to the front of our place - right out to the footpath, to find the woman, and one of the children madly pillaging our garden for our flowers. Finally, once she saw me standing there - she crossed the road, and walked up the other side of the street.

Er... Last time I checked, stealing flowers from someone else's garden was not cool.  

I know it's not scandalous, but I felt pretty outraged that this woman so blatantly just picked my flowers. If I want flowers, I want to pick my flowers (but I like them in the garden) - but mostly I buy myself a cheap bunch from the fruit & veg shop.

Do you steal flowers?

Go Climb A Cactus

I saw this image on Haus of Hinton's IG feed. 

Ever have one of those days? Gosh. I totally need this t-shirt. It's got my name written all over it. I've adopted this now - if someone annoys me, I'm going to tell them to 'go climb a cactus'. It says so much without saying too much, if you catch my drift?

What do you do to shake a bad day? 

 

An Anti-Ranty Tanty

I was talking with Andrea of Fox in Flats about the uprise in ranty blog posts.

I hate ranty blog posts. Andrea hates ranty posts. Do you hate ranty posts?

Hate. Them.

If you're in a bad mood. Sure. Write about it. Then delete it.

The negativity that seeps out from those posts is, as my friend Britney famously once said, toxic.

I feel so angsty about ranty posts, I've taken it upon myself to put pen to paper and pen this ode.

An Ode to Cranky Pants Super Social Media Stars:

Angry, cranky ranty-pants
Why so angry?
Tanty pants.
You go social
It goes viral
Down you go in a cranky spiral.
Megaphone blogger mega-cranks
Might as well call the army
- send in the tanks.
Share your bad mood
With the whole world.
Status update to Mr Z'berg
To tell the world it's a big turd
Share your mood with your blogging brood
You're so mad with the world -
Why not delete it?
Tweet your peeps
and let them know you've got the poops
I want out of these cranky groups.
Pin this, update that, tweet those, and
Facebook your foes
I dare you - breathe deep touch your toes.
Life ain't so bad you got to broadcast.

When Small People Won't Go To Bed. And Steam Comes Out Your Ears.

I am like this hamster running on one of those wheels. Running. Running. Running. And getting nowhere fast. 


Tiny is totally punishing me lately. 


All week she's been a reluctant sleeper, there have been raised voices. There's been hollow threats. And a threat of punishment (and I struggle with this because I can't think of anyway to punish her - because her response is always so non-chalant).  Once she's finally wrestled down to sleep - I find myself in the middle of the night pushed to the edge of the bed - with no covers on me. Cold, uncomfortable, and with no pillow.


This week her bed linen had been changed after an accident, and had literally been replaced, when she came out to me and told me her bed was wet. 


She denied denied denied, then blamed it on the Doctor and said he wee'd on her bed. I told her that the Doctor didn't do it (because I know the Doctor better than she does), finally she admitted that no, the Doctor had nothing to do with it. Instead she had been playing with water on her bed, and now her doona was wet through. 


I was pretty cross. 


It was one of those nights when you're like a jack-in-a-box, up and down, up and down, putting the smalls back into bed. Then they come out again. And so on for around 15 minutes. Then the steam starts to pour out your ears, and you walk them back and tell them once more - don't come out again. It's late. It's bed time. 


So this is where we were. I stripped the bed again when there was an almighty crash. I peer into the Doctor's bedroom and he's inadvertently smashed his bedside lamp. Glass everywhere.


If someone was checking my blood pressure, I think that cuff thing they put on would have been torn to shreds as I turned into the Incredible Hulk. 


Seriously. The bed humdrum is killing me. And not softly. 
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Images - despite being totally unrelated were something that made the smalls and I laugh today. We went to visit my sister, Sarah at Calico + Ivy today, and en route to get some smoothies, we spotted a plane vapour trailing his way through the sky. 'Marry Me'. We stood with our mouths agape looking skyward, causing other pedestrians to do the same. By the time the pilot got to me the marry had blown away and looked like a mangled version of the word. Whoever commissioned that - I hope they got in quickly. 

I'm In A Bad Mood

I need to watch this film. Pronto.

Life With A Small Feral Beast

In the immortal words of Katy Perry, she's hot then she's cold, she's yes then she's no, she's up then she's down, (and I'll ad lib the rest) she's cranky then she's happy, she's hungry then she's not. She's charming then she's feral, she's on the floor limbs flailing, then curled up playing cubby houses, she likes Barbie then she doesn't, she wants to cuddle, then she's in attack-mode, she's sleepy then she's wide awake.

School Blues (Before We Even Get There)

I am having the school blues. Yes, yes, my school days are well and truly behind me (but I still get those sweaty HSC dreams), but there's a nightmare ahead of me. Of us.

The Doctor starts school next year.

I can barely believe it.

I always imagined myself with a baby, a toddler, a preschooler, but never a school-age child. Yikes!

I attended my first school open day of the local school. It lasted two hours. Two hours of juggling the Doctor and Tiny. Sit down. Get back up. Watch some dancers. Watch some singers. Sit down. Listen to one - two - three - no let's skip the counting, we listen to six people banging on about how great the school is. And one 6 year old playing the violin. And then another Kindy class singing about ducks. Stand up. Watch the school band. Sit down. Stand up. Go for guided tour.

I know I sound whingey. Because I am being whingey. I wanted to see the school. Not an eistedfodd. Both my children were irate by the end of it. And so was I. I wanted to go home and eat Vegemite sandwiches. Not be sandwiched into a very small room with very crusty parents.

I didn't even love the school.

So I rang the school that I have heard loads of good things about and got 'Sue'.

Sue is the 'office lady'.

I am pretty sure that Sue has also done a lot of courses in 'how to be a complete biatch'.

I began the conversation with, "We've just moved into the area, and I realise I've missed the open day, I hoped there was some chance I could come and have a look at the school."

Sue goes off the line. Comes back on the line: "Enrollments start in October."

Me: "Er, I was kind of hoping to look at the school before October."

Sue: "So you want someone to show you around."

Me: "Yes that would be awesome."

Sue: "I'll see if the Assistant Principal can call you back."

It's been three weeks and no one has called me back. However, in the interim I went and looked at a local preschool for Tiny and the ace lady who runs it happened to ask me about schools and I mentioned the conversation with 'Sue'.

She grimaced and said: "I know the Assistant Principal, she will be appalled by 'Sue', I'll call her."

Shortly after she came back to me and said: "I see what you mean about Sue." She couldn't even get past Sue.

Turns out Sue told the preschool director that the assistant principal of the school was 'too busy to waltz families around the school'. That is a direct quote from Sue the Poo.

Apparently Sue is the gatekeeper.

It's a public school.

We are out of their area. I've heard awesome things about this school. I'm working up my courage to 'waltz' myself up to the school and demand a look around.

Thoughts? Feedback? Friends, Romans, ladies of the round table - what to do about a boy named Sue? Shall I start crank calling Sue in my spare time?

The Last Straw

The bad news is this peeps. Nibbles de Boing Boing has not yet been returned and is taking up precious room in the laundry.

You may be wondering what's so precious about the room in our laundry, but when you see me doing Twister-esque moves to get in and out whilst carrying a basket of wet washing, then you'd understand.

But the thing Boing Boing doesn't understand is this.

I walked into the laundry to discover that somehow his mysterious boing boing powers allowed him to pull my NEW AND MY FAVOURITE jeans into his hutch and has nibbled big powerful bunny incisor holes into the front and the back of the leg.

I am not Bon Jovi. I do not wear rips in my jeans. The only way to rectify incisor holes in jeans is to:
a) deem them 'boots-only' jeans and wear my boots Puss-in-Boots style
or b) cut them off Daisy Duke style and scare the neighbours.

Back to the Mysterious Boing Boing. He doesn't understand that I am the only one securing his welfare. I feed him twice a day. I top up his water. Top up his hay. Change his hutch. Try and negotiate a pat here and there sans bitey bites.

And that bugger just ate my favourite jeans. How is this going to fare for Nibbles?

The Over Talker. The Opposite Talker. The Disinterested Talker

There are people in my life who fit in to each of the following categories (and thankfully most don't fit in to any):

• The Over Talker: Talks over the top of me. Interrupts to talk more about themselves. And no matter what I say, will just continue to butt in so that they can talk. Usually about their favourite topic. Themself.


• The Opposite Talker: Someone who - regardless of your point-of-view will take the opposite stance, for no other reason than they want to butt heads with you. Take for example:

Me - 'I can't stand this heat, I don't cope with 43 degree days.'

TOP - 'Oh these days are so lovely, the sun is brilliant.'

Between you and me, I know very, very few people who thrive in such heat.

• And finally, but by no means conclusive of 'types of talkers' - I give you, this, possibly the most difficult to converse with - the Disinterested Talker: Doesn't care what you're up to, doesn't give a toss that you're not feeling well/you grew an extra head/or an Ewok just crawled out of the toilet, they will not engage with any of your conversation, and will always find something else to talk about - even if it's as banal as the weather. Even if it's as scintillating as talking laundry.

And what happens if these three merge in to one person? It's a difficult conversation. Trust me, I speak from experience.

How do you cope with these kind of conversations?

image via

Papa, Can You Hear Me?

I really hate being disconnected from the internet. It makes me feel anxious. Even if I've got nothing to do, I hate the idea of not being able to switch on. So the past couple of days have seen me in cold sweats, and thinking about heading to the library to log on. Only thing is, the library was closed. More cold sweats, more heart palpitations.

I won't even venture as to how we came to be disconnected. Otherwise it might perpetuate more cold sweats and me turning cross-eyed.

I've been making radical changes here at Chez PMM. I went to Ikea (and braved the oodles of other shoppers) to revolutionise our kitchen with one of these. I put it together myself. Am I proud? Heck yes.

But just in case you've been wondering what my NY resolution will be? Well I'm not a big fan. I usually forget them by the next day. But this one is a keeper: do my pelvic floor exercises three times daily. Now folks, there's something you can not regret.

image via

Blogtoberfest Day 27: Hello. My Name Is...

Hello friends. My name is PMM. And I have road rage.

I despise all those toffy-nosed mothers who drive huuuuge 4WDs and then try to talk to me about carbon footprints. But most of all I despise them because they hog the road, then underneath their ten kilos of eye make-up they shoot me evils because I keep trying to edge them out of the way. I hate 4WDs in the city. Where are you 4WDing to my friend? Up the gutter?

I despise their road-hogging when I'm trying to fang it with only minutes to spare when I pick up the Doctor from pre-school. I shake my fist at you sisters and your road-hogging tendencies. You don't own the road just because your car is a beast and probably costs more than the sum total of my life earnings. I don't care!

Someone give me one good reason why 4WDs should stay in the city, and I will not object, this is me, PMM - Mayoress of Cranky-ville.

PS - Ever used Evening Primrose Oil? Super good. But check with your GP before taking it.

Mutton Vs Lamb

You know, last night I did one of those last minute mercy dashes to the supermarket. Well, really, I went to do the fruit and veg (because all we had were some oily granny smiths and an ignored navel orange) and then thought that I best go to the supermarket for a few bits and pieces. My trolley was full of fresh goodies, I headed to the supermarket, got my things, and then headed to the check out. Just to make it clear, I went to the express check out.

I stood there while the woman in front of me and the woman behind me chatted. They knew each other. They were tight. The woman in front of me had a trolley full of fruit and veg too, and had done the same as me. Grabbed a few supermarche items and gone express.

The woman behind me had a basket full to the brim.

I know you're probably right now twiddling your thumbs thinking dear PMM please get to the crux of it. Stop rabbitting on.

So the woman in front, she went and got served - bye bye friend.

I stood at the front of the queue, with trolley in firm grip ready to pounce, when the woman behind me piped up, "You do realise this is the express aisle, don't you." I thought I'd misheard her and said, "pardon" - then realised what she said and said, "Yes I do, and I have seven items, thank you."

There we parted ways.

But man oh man, I had steam steadily pouring out my ears. I was fuming. Why is it that people think it's their right to try and bring you down? I had seven items. The aisle was for 12 items or less. You do the math.

It was one of those cases I wished I had a faster brain. Afterwards in the car I was hoping to drive past her, cool as cucumber I could roll down the window and give her the community service, "You do realise you look like mutton dressed as lamb, don't you?" Then squeal off in a blaze of burnt rubber*.

I wish my brain worked faster. Have you ever wished your brain worked faster (as opposed to wishing Brian worked faster?)?

* I am a safe driver.

totally irrelevant image via

When Punks Turn Into...Punks

via

The Doctor and I are totally butting heads with one another. He wants to stay at home, I want to go out.

I want him to have a sleep. He doesn't. Then he goes to sleep for two hours and is in a much more harmonious mood. Thangyouverymudge.

He wants to dessert. Doesn't want dinner.

I want to walk. He wants to drive (50 metres down the road, Al Gore where are you when I need you?).

He wants to watch TV. I don't want him to watch TV.

Oh it's a tangled web we weave.

He's 4 going on 14. Why oh why are we butting heads?

The Big Question: Cake O'Clock

The Doctor's birthday is in just two sleeps. Two sleeps 'til I am the mama of a four year old. Sheesh.

The big question is, what cake does he want? I have to make two. One for his actual birthday. Another for the birthday party. He's already told me he wants lotsa lotsa cakes.

I'm consulting everyone's favourite just to be safe. But there's still loads to choose from.

I've been looking on Flickr for inspiration. The problem is, there's too much inspiration.

And party bags? Party games? Talk about party pressure. Experienced mamas - and any inspired creatures, gimme some tips, gimme some inspiration. Gimme me, gimme me, gimme.

In other breaking news, Tiny has been punking me up a storm of late (Ashton watch out). She's teething with the best of them - I think there's four teeth coming through at once including two eye teeth - yowsers). So she's been super grumpy - and for good reason. Here's one glimmer of the usual Tiny. One of my friends gave her the greatest little red coat. Tiny is obsessed with it and seeks it out at every opportunity. She finds it, tries to put it on, can't, cries out, and I pop it on and she's happy. She found its little red hood today - and wanted that on. That made for one happy Tiny. ('scuse the wee mess in the background - didn't see that did you, you were blinded by Tiny's cheeky smile).