Tired

The last couple of nights I've come home from work, Matt and I have fed, bathed and put the smalls to bed, and then I've crashed into a heap into my own bed. 

I am k-to-the-nackered. So freaking tired. 

And no. Before any wild speculation begins - not pregnant. 

I think it's the time of the year. There's too much on, work-wise it's chaos, school wise - there's loads on, and there's just lots to do leading into Christmas. I've barely even started my Christmas shopping. Ouch.

Plus our house is one big gigantic mess. You might have this idea that it's pristine with some clothes scattered hither and thither - but let's not beat around the bush. We live in a super tiny house that is so small you can very literally see into each room from the front door. And we've got no storage. I'm starting to think we should look for a new abode to rent. But I just can't muster the energy to think about moving pre Christmas. Meh. 

Anyway - it makes me think of this book Matt loved as a small boy, that we read to the kids, What-A-Mess. Often on my drive to work I see a lady walking two large Afghans and think of this book. And then I think of the messy state of my house. It's clean. And yet, it's a gigantic mess. But you should read the book. It's a funny book.

How are you going in the lead up to Christmas? Coping better than me? 

A Sordid Tale

This is a sordid tale. One of woe and yore, and all other old-fashioned sounding words that one does not bother with these days. But one should, shouldn't one?

And that is what leads me to this dastardly tale that will leave you on the edge of your seat. It will leave you with your nails chewed down to the quick. You'll be sitting on the edge of your caboose, spellbound. Gobsmacked.

I have a ribbon drawer. Yes. It is true, dear reader. I do have a ribbon drawer. In which I store... ribbon.

I put the ribbon in the drawer nice and tidy-like, just like any side-saddle horseriding woman would do.

And yet, when I come back out the next day, the ribbon is in a state of dissarray.

It's a true story. Not a long story. It's a perilous story. Not a scary story. But it's a story of truth, and gore, and I just know, you'll be sitting there right now with a dropped jaw, wondering just who unravelled all that ribbon?

PS - please vote for me in the Kidspot Top Fiddy Bloggers. I'll love you long time.

Mediocre? High-five!

I thought of a really flipping awesome post title and post tonight. And then flipping well forgot what it was.

So now we'll have to settle for mediocre.

We voted today. That was an event. Mainly because the SES people provided a service for dog owners to mind their pooches while they cast their votes. While we're not a family that has a canine, we enjoy patting other people's canines. In particular a five month old schnoodle. Or something like that with some crazy name that was crazy cute and crazy soft.

And prior to voting, Tiny was running and smacked her small noggin into the footpath and is now sporting a massive egg on her head. Yowsers. Poor Tiny.

The first time the Doctor got an egg, I freaked out and called the ambulance. Somehow he managed to pull the Kitchenaid mixer onto himself. I'd never seen anything like that egg. Called the ambulance, then hung up on them, then they called me back. I still wear the mother guilt badge for that, four years later.

We also enjoyed tidying the house. Ok that's not true. No one enjoys tidying the house - and I for one, certainly can vouch for that myself. However I tipped some boxes on the ground so now the mess is like an ocean of mess ebbing onto the floor. I'm guessing if I pick up a couple of things each time I walk past it will be gone in about 32 years. Here's hoping.

PS - Anyone who voted for PMM - expect your trenches to arrive in 2014. Or alternatively, voting is still over here... Maybe you can try and send me to Dunk Island? Alabaster in a bikini? You bet your bottom bippy.

image could be of our house. or alternatively it could be via The New York Times

History Never Repeats?

Yeah you tell yourself that buddy. Because apparently you don't know Tiny. Or apparently Tiny hasn't heard your song.

Here today we find ourselves back at this place. We were just here a few months ago (but I can't for the life of me find the post).

Beads everywhere. Not once. Not twice. But three times. I call it trust. Others might call (me) just plain stoopid. Whatever it is, it's a big colourful mess.

I'm (Not) A Celebrity (But) Get Me Out of Here (Anyway)

'We're not in Kansas anymore Toto. And I'm expecting a tornado through these parts any moment now. Oh wait, it looks like it's already been.' - (not) from the Wizard of Oz

Seriously folks, I am tidying up our house. I've been selling stuff on eBay. I have a boot full of goodies for the op shop. I am recycling like a maniac. And yet, our house looks as though a paper/clothes/toy bomb has exploded. Where oh where have I gone wrong?

I've lost my tidying mojo and am willing to live in this cesspit of debris because there are no homes for all this stuff. I've even discovered a box that hasn't been opened since we moved here four and a half years ago.

In times of mess and more mess, what's a gal to do? How do you deal with the clutter and paper traps?

Mama Punishes Herself

Sometimes I wonder about myself. I really do. I see Tiny doing something she really shouldn't be. But I think, oh well, she's having a great time, I'll let her go. And then I wind up picking up hundreds - maybe even thousands of these bead things from all over the ground (let's just say that life got a whole lot more colourful after these shots were taken). What's that saying about making a rod for my own back...? Next time I will not let Tiny get unruly with the beads. Next time I will hide the beads and not let her go crazy with the beads. Reminds me of this.. Yes. History does repeat itself.

But it's pretty.. And it reminded me of a weird dream I had last night of a rainbow that had grey hearts punched out of it. Weird. Yes.

Sorry for the dull nature of my photies. It's grey here. And I have no control over the sunshine.

Colours

I'm feeling a little under the weather. Sore throat. Head achey. Congested. My body feels... Oinky. But we're not here to talk about me. Are we?

So while I'm sitting here ironing the Mt Everest of ironing that's been collecting - and spilling over the basket, the Doctor is madly painting with his new watercolours.

He's making loads of paintings. He's prolific like Picasso. I try and hang up most his art works, but we're rapidly running out of walls. I've even dedicated a certain corner to being the Doctor's art gallery. It's full and we'll need a few sales before we can hang the next show.

The image above is a wiggly sea worm. POA.

As for Tiny, well. These days she's performing her own stunts. Won't walk. Will climb. What a massive punkrat. Yesterday I found her scaling the small ladder in her bedroom (excuse the mess - again - this time she created it herself - she's more into installations than paintings).

We're in a difficult limbo with Miss Tiny. She's decided not to go for two sleeps, which is what I call - a massive bummer. She gets herself ridiculously tired by the end of the day, in a filthy mood and consequently head butts the floor*.

If you don't have any children or would like to have another, now's the perfect time to add to start your collection. POA.

* Told you she did her own stunts.