Poo. And Other Fabulous Words.

I'm diarising poo here. 

Tiny is romping ahead with her reading and writing and it's all starting to click.

Which means numerous times daily, she tells me she can spell poo. P- double O. POO! She thinks it's hilarious. I think it's hilarious. And it now means we're both on poo watch. 

Which is why I took a photo of this awesome graffiti - the best of street art really. No pseudo-pumped-up tag. It's just POO. 

You might screw your nose up and think "PMM, don't encourage the poo talk."

Well I will. And I can! Because anything that encourages Tiny to read and write, and anything she can conquer - well it's WINNING! And poo is a funny word. I don't care who you are. 

Clive James

Saddened to read that Clive James has said that he believes he's lost his battle with leukemia, it made me think of his rich, almost iconic voice.

Such a clever, witty and intelligent man. I vividly remember being transfixed by him. Laughing out loud before anyone LOLed.

I had a bit of an obsession with The Clive James show in high school, and loved him. I kept coming back for more.

I just had to find this clip of Margarita Pracatan performing on The Clive James show back in 1996. In fact, I watched this just a couple of months ago because I often think of Margarita Pracatan. I know. My mind is an unusual place.

From essays, poetry to reviews, the man has a wonderful way with words. I think that's why I was drawn to him.

Looking for some Clive James clever-ness? Here. Here. And here.

Listening to? JustB Top 10

It's been a long time between posts. Long time for me. 

To keep you company while I whittle a new post out of a keyboard and a computer, here's my Top 10 With a (Licorice) Bullet over on JustB. 

It'll get you dancing, to be sure to be sure.

Disclaimer: I am dismayed I did not include any TLC in the mix. Here's some TLC to make amends to TLC. I love TLC. I mean, how could you not love TLC?! It baffles me daily. 

Are You Cereal?

Want to know what I think of supermarket music? Want to know why there should be royalty in the shops (just not that Prince up there)?

Then click over to JustB today for my scoop on how I can make your shopping adventures a heck of a lot happier.

image via Zimbio

Over at JustB - Curse of the Yummy Mummy

Please join me over on JustB today - I'm talking about the curse of the yummy mummy.

Come over and play. Please.


image of an original yummy mummy via The Seattle Times

More From Yesterday: PR Tips

Yes. You Gotta pay the writer. Suck it up. If you want us, we're worth it, then pay us.


You'd never go to the car mechanic and think they'll do it for free, right?  A lawyer? A doctor?  Nope.
I studied writing at uni. I paid my time for Patsy Cline.

Same principle applies to writers.

This is via my awesome friend Carrie. Thank you Carrie!

Is Blogging Pre-Meditated?

Since PottyMouthPapa has started blogging, we've had some interesting topics.

Such as - is timing pertinent to blogging? Is there a rhyme and reason for blogging? Is blogging pre-meditated?

For me, I blog daily when I can. But I usually don't plan my posts. I don't have a chart where I have to tick something off. I'm certainly not so organised. Blogging for me is usually digesting something that's happened that day (or sometimes the day before, or sometimes what's coming up). I usually sit at my computer tutor with no idea in my head and then bang out some words.

Sometimes my posts are crummy.

Sometimes they are good.

And sometimes, when I am really good, I hit all the high notes and 'publish post' with a spring in my fingertips.

PottyMouthPapa on the other hand is much more organised. He researches his blog posts. He times them. He sequences them. Me, not in a million years. I have drafts sitting back there in the Post tab still waiting to get a go at going live.

If I were to look at getting organised, then perhaps I'd invest a small amount of dosh in this notebook from Notemaker. Because that's the joy of being organised. Great stationery.

Baking & Writing

Are you looking for other ways to help? Gosh I just keep coming across some of the most amazing things. People are so clever. Baked relief? Amazing

And check out the good folk over at Authors for Queensland. If you love writing, reading or are just a word nerd, then this is the place for you. Check it out homegirls!

E to the GADS! Day 29 of 30: Thank You Letters

Oh yowsers, you might be wondering how my thank you letters are going. Me too friends, me too.

I've made a list, and I'm checking off my numbers as I post. So far I am up to 10 posted, 13 in the works - I better get cracking since I only have 1 measly day to go to complete this 30 day challenge. And given my track record, I am going to do this one. It's achievable. It's not easy. I sometimes feel a little awkward, but being grateful is a good thing - and I love the written word.

It's a lovely ritual, to write a letter.

The actual writing of the letter. And a thank you note is particularly nice - because you can relive whatever you're thanking your thankee for, all over again. Of course, I need to write with a particular type of pen. My handwriting is horrible in ballpoint. Loathsome. So it must be a fine tip. Yes. It must.

The addressing of the envelope. Sometimes I get crazy and try and lavish some crazy loopy writing. Or make it look particularly beguiling. Sometimes I leave it classic.

The licking of the envelope. The sticking of the stamp.

And the physical posting of that envelope. My smalls take turns to post the letters into the oversized red boxes. Precision is needed to aim it through the slot. Imagining the route that little letter will take.

The arrival. Upon receiving the note, the thankee can tear into that envelope, or perhaps they're swanky and own a letter knife.

But back to more pressing matters. Do you have a preferred pen? Bics make my writing messy. I love an Artline Felt Tip. I am dedicated to the cause.

Life Is A Box Of Chocolates

It's just a shame that sometimes the box of chocolates are left in the car. In the full sun. Melted chocolate is good. Liquid chocolate, not so much.

But life is a cabaret old chum, except for when you get a hole in your fishnets, and your tap shoes run out of taps.

If you were to be author of one of these overused sayings, how would you end this:

Life is a...

Today, mine would read: life is a really fast rollercoaster, zipping up and around, upside down, sideways, backwards, and then a prompt stop. Whiplash never felt so good.

Birds Don't Whistle, They Just Sing

It's Friday. Halleluljah! I wish I knew ya! This is the weekend, so roll up your sleeves and step out into the sunshine, feel the rays on your back, whistle while you wander. Whistle while you work, is that what I can see, a vague smirk? Do something that makes you squirm, don't even contemplate getting a perm (unless you're Dan Single, and you're ready to mingle or you just want to eat Pringles.) Walk barefoot on the grass, say in your best Scottish accent, 'my you're a fine lass'. Eat a cake or two, look at the sky so blue, don't go around sniffing glue, when you were small - did you say boo hoo? It's the weekend, it's time for freaking, let's go!

title of post from Angus & Julia Stone

image via The Sartorialist (wish I rolled out of bed looking like this, instead I am lily white and growing my hair out - ack! the pain.)

Autumn, It's Love

Autumn, I used to write you love songs. Your very own sonnets. I used to scrawl little ditties, scratch out lyrical miracles. I walked inner-city streets in the creaking dusk, look around, chalk the walls with my love for you. I wrote of you, I romanced you, I loved the way you swept in, shooed Summer out with the sweet of your cool. And then I left you for the suburbs.

But I still think of you. I think of lying in my own bed, fresh linen gracing the sheets, humming songs out of tune. My bones would ache from walking, or dancing into the smallest of hours. I'd climb into bed. And I would always, always leave a window open so you could creep in while I slept. I love the way you wrapped yourself around my limbs. The way you rushed across even the most scarce of my bare skin.

Autumn, I wrote you poems. I loved you. I love you still.

Rest In Peace:: JD Salinger

"I love to write, and I assure you I write regularly. But I write for myself and I want to be left absolutely alone to do it."

Sunshine Blogging

I'm sitting by the window with the sunlight streaming through. The windows may be dirty but the sun knows it's way by rote. Some asked for proof that Spring is coming. Packing its bags from one part of the world, to wing into our part of the world. If this sunshine isn't enough, I don't know what is. But here you have a list that I am busy compiling:

- the birds are singing

- the cherry blossoms are starting
- the camellias are still blooming
- the magnolias are on their way in
- shy jonquils and daffodils are making an entrance
- I can stand to be oustide for longer, even hanging the clothes out is becoming more bearable
- the sun is hanging out with us longer

I found these books on my recent sojourn. They were 20 cents a pop, part of that haul. I didn't take them all, I didn't want to be greedy, but the illos are so very good. And the content? Timeless.

Let's Find Out About Spring - Martha & Charles Sharp, illustrated by Laszlo Roth (published 1963).

Here, let's take a peek together, shall we?

'When is spring? Spring is when it's warm enough to put away winter coats and hats and ...go out in lighter clothes.

Spring is when you can ride bicycles, go skating and play ball.'

Hey - it sounds pretty good to me.

Have you noticed any seasonal changes in your 'hood? What are they?

Green

I met this green-eyed guy once. He was ridiculously cute. Beautiful actually, cute doesn't do him justice.

We were at the same party for NYE. I'd just rolled up and decided I was going to pretend I was French for the night. I don't know where this harebrained idea came from (it could have been the alcohol - nooo, say it ain't so), but I know very little French.

I met this green-eyed beauty, went and made him a punch (three parts vodka to one part punch) which he refused to drink. I kept telling him to drink it. He wouldn't take it. I introduced him to a group of people (who incidentally - he already knew and I didn't) as my husband - and then I forgot his name three or four times.

We chatted and chatted. I finally lost my silly French scheme and merged into myself. We relocated inside from the balcony, looked at the fish, kept chatting and then I whispered in his ear, 'I'd like to kiss you' to which he replied 'Well why didn't you?'. And then he kissed me.

I like green-eyed boys who become my husband.

Go Green friends!

Stamina

What happened to me? Once upon a time I used to go dancing on tables, night after night. Eat pizza lying on the couch with my best friend. Drink a cup of conversation for lunch. And be ready to do it all over again. Week after week after week. I like to think I was party personified.

But please note, all of the above is written in past tense.

I have to tell you - I am completely knackered. My back aches. My head is tired. I just want to curl up in bed. Is this normal after two birthdays in three days? Or am I just going soft? I'm not even thirty yet.

We spent yesterday morning at the aquarium, and then raced home so I could bake.

And bake I did. Oh and I haven't even told you about how I picked up a baking dish that had been in the oven for 20 minutes at 230 degrees. With. My. Bare. Hands. I didn't mean to bake my own damn hands. That's for shiz. Needless to say, I am sporting some very, very achey breaky sore hands today.

Please get out the world's smallest violin and play a little solo for me.

The worst thing is, I still am not even remotely organised for the par-tay on Saturday. I've barely done a scratch. Someone, send me Martha Stewart. Someone, send me my old stamina.

I've vaguely worked out the menu (thankfully the party is in the afternoon so I have a little more time up my sleeve).

In fact, gulp, I am madly looking for a tiger costume for the Doctor to wear, because his party theme is party animals. Talk about lastminute.com. Straitjacket? Sedatives? Gurney? All sounds good right about now.

Nevertheless, cake was consumed last night, and the Doctor decorated his own. A highlight of the day to be sure, to be sure.

PS - How cool is she? Going to any Sydney Writer's Festival events? Do tell!

A Crazy Outta Control To-Do List

Do you ever have days where your to-do list is just not going to-get-done? Today is one of those days.

- Wake up

- Prep morning tea & lunch for the Doctor

- Drop the Doctor off to pre-school

- Fruit & veg shopping
- Vaccuum

- Mop

- Breathe

- Get a flat tyre fixed

- Fruit & veg still sitting on floor in kitchen - unpack it now girlfriend!

- Cook dinner (for tomorrow night)
- Tidy the Doctor's room

- Change bed linen

- Washing

- Somewhere in here, get some work done

- Play with Tiny

- I won't continue in case you click away

Do you ever feel as though you agree to take on too much, and then feel like you're suffering in order to make everyone happy? Well that's me right now. I think I need to cut back and learn to say no. I think if I did that, the boulder currently resting on my shoulders could roll off. And that would be an ace thing indeedy.

And tonight friends, sewing restarts. I decided to go back. It's a good excuse for me to ensure I have some 'me time'. And I'm not going to stress about it this term. It's going to be easy sewing. Just learning some techniques me thinks. And my teacher promised she'd teach me how to smock. Coolio. I think tonight I might start work on a cushion for the Doctor. I promised him yonks ago, but never got to it. I've been trawling my copy of 'Bend the Rules' for inspiration. Inspiration-a-go-go.

Today for your viewing pleasure, a little bit of eye candy in the form of the Doctor's scarf I've been working on. And some fabrics I'm thinking of including in his cush.

Long Drives

I know this road by rote. I know where the road curves and highlights the perfect arc of mountain against the sky. I know where the cows take shelter when it's too hot. I know the perfect place to spot crows by the side of the road, feasting on roadkill. I know where the Highway Patrolmen take their naps while they monitor speeding cars. By heart, I know the train crossings, I know just how long it is 'til the next town. I know by each town, how long it is 'til our final destination.

We travelled this road countless times when we were growing up. To visit my grandparents. To visit family friends.

On a long drive, I can feel equal mixes of excitement, adventure, pure unadulterated giddiness and homesickness. I can feel like I am free as a bird. Possibly even freer. With a full tank of petrol, the road is our shining star, to follow it whichever way we will.

If you're travelling over Easter, travel safe.

More Long Drives over at Meet Me At Mikes.

A Vested Interest

I've started stitching some little singlets for Tiny. I've never made anything for her, except the pom-poms, and this is only small. But from little things..

Stitching is like keeping time. I know when things are made because of the size or the style of my stitch. As I learn, I evolve my work, it's just small. It's just little. But little snippets of my creativity might just make it into my little people's lives when they are older.

More little things over here.

School Lunches

I ate Vegemite sandwiches almost every single day of my school life. From Kindergarten to Year 12. I loved them. My Mum tried to mix things up a bit by making celery and cheese sandwiches - which invariably got all hot and sweaty by lunch time, and became largely unedible. I don't like sweaty sandwiches. And I have to say, celery sandwiches are a little unorthodox in my book too.

When I was older I got a job to help pay my bills (read: so I could go to the canteen whenever I wanted), to bankroll my own dream lunches.

I never ordered. I was never that organised at high school. Truth be, I never wanted what was on order. I didn't dig on the potato pies. Or the meat pies. Or the fishburgers. Yikes! Instead I liked to see what fate threw at me that day. Usually, I ate an apple pie for lunch. A chelsea bun. I know both my sisters loved those buns too (and I'm not referring to the PE teacher if you know what I mean).

School lunches were where the social side of school played out. You know, who were you going to sit with, were you going to brave going down the back, did the rough kids throw food at you as you walked past (thanks for the apple that hit me in the head that time), handball for the Year Sevens, Year Eights were too cool to be seen doing anything, Year Nines were dodging Year 10s and so on. Sometimes lunches were spent watching the boys play football/basketball. Sometimes we made daisy chains. Sometimes we hung out in the library. I liked books. (I still go to the library.) And for some, lunchtime was canoodling time. Or rather, it was make up or break up time. But not for me. Nope. I liked chatting with my friends, hanging out in the darkroom, and surprise, surprise, eating lunch. And talking on a Walkie Talkie to friends in a different building. Mobile phones were not around, or they were, but heck - who can fault a Walkie Talkie?

Year 12 meant less and less school lunches, and more of a drive home and bunker in to study (or Oprah) for the afternoon. Or afternoons with our drama class rehearsing. Or working on our final art projects. Or just hanging out in the common room (I hated that room. It always smelt like sweaty boys and afternoons of studying history). And then the era of my school lunches ended.

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