What Was I Thinking?

So I went to Bikram twice last week. And the second time I lay there pondering why I felt I needed to be there, in that sweatbox. 

I lay down for much of it too - contemplating other things such as a quote I'd read: "The way you handle your sweat is how you handle life."

Apparently I wipe it off. And then take a good lie down.

The second class was not only a punishment by heat and stretching. 

Some foul-bottomed soul was unleashing eggy farts upon my area. So imagine this - if you will, hot, sweaty, humid. And the stench of a million years of everyone's sweat marinading in the sisal.

And then some arsehole - and I mean that literally, is farting almost at regular intervals. 

Some fart-breath foul-bottomed yogi had taken it upon themselves to egg it up and eat curried egg sandwiches before class. 

Are you gagging yet? My goodness, I was. I got to the point I was going to yell out and tell whoever it was that they should go drop their friends off to the pool. I felt like I should suddenly have Tourette's and unleash some wordy beast on their sweat covered hiney. 

Then I contemplated how unBikram that would be of me. Of how I should be accepting of someone's rank egg bottom trumpets. About how I should be at one with methane.

But I couldn't. 

And I haven't been back because some asswipe stole my yoga libido.

Namaste, Farticus, namaste. 

Oscars Fashion: Jessica Chastain (Who Is That?)

I'll just come right out and say it. Faberge egg.

I have no idea who this bird is, but I really, whole-heartedly, hate that dress. Like with a big sack of horse manure on it. I. Do. Not. Like. It.

Black and gold reminds me of that homebrand brand, and I've never been a fan of those colours together unless of course it's wrapped around a chocolate bar - Chokito for instance.

This on the other hand. Bleurgh.

And what's with the beading around the hippie-astrum area? Me no likey. Looks like she's carrying saddle bags.

Shame on the stylist that did this to her. SHAME ON YOU!

NEXT!

EDIT: I just discovered this frock is Alexander McQueen. I can't believe I said I hated it. But I do hate it. I STILL HATE IT!

A Wee Tiny Post:: A Real Piss-take

I am not proud to tell you that twice in two weeks I have inadvertently rubbed Tiny's urine on my face.

Tiny has a wee fascination with the toilet. Of course I madly deter it, and implore that the toilet is not to be toyed with. But as with most things, Tiny ignores me.

When Tiny was particularly peeved (pun not intended) for some reason or another, she went and pee'd all over the bathroom floor. I walked in a bit later and was greeted with the pungent whiff of an old man's urinal. Oh boy. I cracked open the disinfectant and a hot mop and went to work. Moments later, I could STILL smell that unmistakeable stench. Like super strong. And I couldn't figure out where it was coming from. So I did what any normal person would do, jumped into the shower. Maybe the urine stench had been transferred to my skin?!

I got out of the shower, grabbed a towel, dried my face and OH MY GOODNESS - WEE! That Tiny had wee'd on the towel, and then it was hung up, unbeknownst I went and wiped it all over me. I quickly got back into the shower, piping hotwater and scrubbed my face like it was nobody's business.

Filth.

Today we were getting ready to go to Puss In Boots, and Tiny was again messing about in the bathroom. Last night she was mincing toilet paper in the toilet, up to her elbows in toilet water (filth). Nevertheless, she was in there, I went to check on her, she had washed her hands, her hair was a little wet, but off we went to the movies.

During Puss In Boots Tiny felt a bit scared, climbed onto my lap and I was savouring her warm little body nestled into me. I was mkaing the most of her wanting to be close to me, because that Tiny, she is so unpredictable. I was rubbing my face into her usually sweet smelling hair, and whoa. That instantly recogniseable whiff of wee. Oh man. I sat there thinking about the fact that her hair was wet, that there was water all over the bathroom floor, and foolishly I had thought she had washed her hair in the basin. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

That girl had styled her hair with the acrid and germy toilet water. Can you imagine sitting in a darkened cinema thinking about what has now been transferred onto your face, and in tune with the uber stank of wee in your baby's hair?

Friends. It's not pretty.
It's filth.

I've once again implored that the toilet is not a play-thing, a wash-thing, or any other thing other than for wees and poos. No.

We've sanitised Tiny with a L'Occitane Lavender Bath and blitzed her hair.

I am just hoping that wee contains some kind of anti-ageing properties despite its pungent whiff. I can not wait to get into a steaming hot shower and wash that wee right outta my pores.

My Life Is A Toilet (And Other Untruths)

Tonight I walked into the bathroom to spy Tiny taking a drink from a cup. Given I know she struggles with the tap, I asked her where the water was from (hoping like mad she'd say the full bathtub).

"Toilet."

Egads! My Tiny little blue eyed girl is drinking toilet water.

And then Matt piped in with: "The only other animal I know that drinks water from the toilet is a cat."

Awesome. She's in good company.

It ain't San Pellegrino. Or Evian. Or even Mount Franklin.

Don't Go Back To Snotsville

Well hello there.

For the past week I've been in some sort of denial, and it's time for me to 'fess up.

I have a cold. Gasp. I am snotty, coughy, green mucousy, disgusting.

The Doctor and I got sick at roughly the same time. I lost my voice over the weekend and he wondered why I spent the next two days whispering. My voice is back, but only just. And so is that very charming night-cough. I am the Night-Cougher. Saucy.

I don't need to tell you it's not much chop when you are sick and have smalls. I don't have any brain capacity. I'm forgetful. I'm disgusting. I'm contagious. Even my teeth hurt. And I definitely do not want to have anything to do with tidying, cooking, or playing. Sorry. I just don't.

However, I did find these cute blocks at a garage sale a few months ago. We've been having fun making shapes with them, and the Cuisenaire blocks have been excellent for coralling the small square sheep.

What are you up to? Send me some e-postcards and take me away from downtown Snotsville!

Poo-casso

Chris Olifi's elephant poo paintings via

We are going through a transition here at PMM HQ. Tiny is letting us know she's around. With. A. Vengeance.

She's been throwing huge tantrums on a daily, let's say hourly basis, and really putting us through our paces.

Is there any downtime?

Currently no. She's been night waking as well which is driving us bonkers. I'm thinking of enlisting her early. Is that wrong?

Additionally to all the tantie-pantsing she's been banging on with, she refuses to wear clothes. As soon as we dress her (if we can dress her), she freaks out and takes everything off. Including her nappy.

This weekend this has resulted in:

- poo on the couch cushion

- me picking her up and smelling the distinct whiff of an incontinent old vagrant, only to realise that she's wee-d all over her bed

- a distinct wee puddle on the carpet

- a very distinct stain on the carpet on Matt's side of the bedroom where he's tried to scrub out her poo-tacular adventures

- the piece de resistance? Matt letting me know that while I was out galavanting with girlfriends, she'd very kindly done some poo paintings in her bed and really worked that pooint into the blanket and actually all the bedding. Phew. Must book in more outings with the gal pals. Narrowly avoided cleaning that up.

Mean Mama has now started rekindling the love of onesies. They are few and far between in size 2. Any other options friends?

Blogtoberfest Day 6: Escargot?

Little people have the capacity to do really big gross things.

Take yesterday when Tiny ambled over to me with a strange expression on her face. She is always shoving random things in her mouth. She thinks it's a hoot. I am always rescuing pieces of Lego, coins, googly eyes, crayons, you name it, Tiny wants to chew it. She opened her mouth. Nothing.

It was then that I noticed a snail shell neatly shoved over her thumb.

Let's backtrack. Earlier in the day I had asked the Doctor to remove a snail that I had spotted careening at a slow pace up an interior wall. I'd just thought he'd done it and moved on.

Apparently not. Tiny went for a taste test. So Frenchy, so fresh. So absolutely not chic. Poor Tiny. Slightly bubbly. Earthy. Slimey. Your everyday garden variety of snail. So not escargot.

image via

Possibly The Best Invention Ever

This week, not only was I hemmed in by the red dust storm that landed upon Sydney, I thought we'd 'get out' by going fruit and veg shopping. Strapped Tiny in, went around to strap the Doctor in, and then I saw it, just above Tiny's head. A very non-tiny huntsman. In my mind probably as big as my hand (in reality probably half that). In my mind as hirsute as a Greek man's back (in reality probably correcto mondo). And so there ended any outings for that day. The spider went missing and I could not possibly go into the car for the rest of the day. Or night for that matter.

And tonight, I saw a huntsman hunting around near the smalls bedrooms. Usually I run the opposite way, but I was feeling unusually brave and grabbed the Doctor's favourite gadget. The Spider Catcher. I can catch the hairy blighters, keep them at arms length, and toss them outside. No harm done.

Have I blogged about this before? Well maybe, I don't know, tonight I'm too lazy to check. But given I have a hunch 'tis the season for hairy spiders, I thought I'd report back and let you know, the Spider Catcher comes highly recommended. Tell 'em PottyMouthMama sent you.

Things That Go Bump In The Night

July really isn't our month. Last night I woke up to some strange noises. And then realised that someone was trying to break in. Thankfully I have a sixth sense for the dodgy (is there a TV series in that?). Half frozen in fear and pumped up with adrenaline I woke Matt and we spent the next few hours awake. Watching. We called the police.

I'm not wishing away my life, just July. I'm over it already.

If you haven't got the new Donna Hay Kids Magazine, there are some tops ideas in there to make the smalls salivate.

A Whole Day's Worth of Posting

I've been sitting here, opening up my blogger account. Closing it. Opening it up. Closing it. Trying to think what I can post about today.

There's not much, I'm afraid. Except to tell you, I've rekindled my love affair with afternoon walks with the smalls. The above is a shot of the Doctor on his trike, and Tiny's feet going skyward in the pram as I stride it out.

So I'll tell you exactly what's happening here. It's not thrilling. Trust me, I can certainly vouch for that.

Yesterday I spent about three hours tidying our pantry. This my friends is not a job I covet. But it had to be done, since for the last week I've been finding small elephant-like beetles coming out of there. Yik! I found the source of these pesky blighters and have removed them. Subsequently, I have spent the past two days on the search for them. Every time I find one is like a small victory. I run around the house with my undies on my head. Just kidding. But man, those things sure know how to breed. And what the heck are they? They've managed to eat through plastic, I've found them in a number of unopened packets - rice noodles, yep they loved them.

And on an even less thrilling front, the Doctor is still sick. I'm thinking he could work as a stunt double for a seal. His cough is as good as. Now I just have to bring out some fish and a ball to balance on his nose and it's a cert. We've clocked up five doctors appointments in the last three weeks. Yikes. This month is not Amazing April. It is living up to my Average April premonition.

Average April. I don't salute you. Not so far, anyway.

PS - Does anyone have a chickpea recipe that the kidlets enjoy? I'm looking, but not finding anything so far.

OH AND LAST CHANCE TO ENTER THE GEORGIE LOVE SUPER DOOPER GIVEAWAY. WINNERS ANNOUNCED TOMORROW FOLKS!

Day 6:: Hitting The Motherload

when you push this car, it's windscreen wipers work!

this car has got diamantes for headlights!

that little yellow citroen is uber cool.

Here in deepest, darkest suburbia things are not as they seem. Yesterday evening, I went to go on my walk, but a certain three and a bit year old decided he wanted to join me. After some time negotiating that no, he couldn't come, soon followed a rather large tantrum, I gave up. Therefore this six day walker went out walking with small fry (not to be confused with small fries) and a resignation that this was not going to be a puff-inducing walk. No. It was going to be a walk of discovery.

Off we went, completely rugged up. Have I ever told you about my penchant for tea-cosy fashioning beanies out of them for my son? No! Well I do. He has a few. Makes for pretty funny viewing because I don't sew up the sides, so little tufts of hair poke out. Cute attack.

Anyway, there we are meandering our way through an abbreviated walk. I decide to tackle a hill. Small fry decides he's going to run it. Then I spy a mountain of garbage. I'm not backwards in going towards a mountain of garbage. Throw out day around here can yield some pretty fancy treasures.

But this, this was the motherload. Dash that walk - I'm going rummaging!

Small fry scored an old ride on vehicle with a stash compartment. Something he's always wanted.

pretty pretty

I scored.. A bevy of vintage Christmas decorations. There was lots more. Oh yes. So much more treasure to rifle through. But it was getting dark and it was all too much for us to carry back. So I just carried the box of decorations, Small Fry beefcaking it up by carrying the ride-on.

When we arrived home I had a new spurt of energy. Tossed the kids in the bath with their daddy, grab my car keys and off I am with torch in hand to continue this pillaging of someone else's trash.

I parked so my headlights shone on the Motherload. I took my torch out. Checked no one else was around, and went for it.

A great assortment of old metal cars. Any small boy's dream come true. Might even be a larger boy's dream too. A great assortment of books, toys and treasures. I felt like an earthbound pirate.

fear not, simulated car chase only!



an old truck with swinging back door (one door is missing)

I shoved boxes, suitcases and more boxes into the car. This is what living is for!?

But the piece de resistance? Well I had found a rather large suitcase filled with sewing stuff. WoohooO!

I came home, checked in with my mother-in-law and told everyone not to have a coronary when they saw the garage. There were boxes. There were suitcases. But I was going to go through them.

This is where it gets exciting. So I'm checking out what I have scored. Old t-shirts (and y-fronts?!) still in their packaging. I was pretty excited about the prospect of vintage fabrics, so I went for the suitcase that was holding this treasure. The vintage fabric...? Well it was a pair of old man pjs. Poop. No - surely this is a bag full of treasure?! I delve further.. Hmph. Not the score I was dreaming of. Another pair of pjs. And you know what else?! An enema kit. Yes, that's right. An enema kit. No sewing paraphernalia. Just an enema kit.

So, if anyone needs an enema kit, please be sure to get in touch. I won't actually be touching it myself, but if you feel the need to glove up, let me know. It's yours.

This Is

Ridiculously late, I know, I know...

This is what gives me goosebumps, and definitely not in a good way.

I am scared of spiders. Silly I know. Huntsman spiders are hairy, harmless and they seem to follow me around. And in this house, there's only room for one of us. The unhairy, non-eight legged variety. Me. So they all must go where they're meant to be. Outside.

My fear started when my sister put my tracksuit pants on one day, and found a large huntsman in them. Crawling on her leg. Yuck. Yuck. Yuck.

Yuck. Even this photo gives me goosebumps.

Thanks to Juddie for making me freak out this week. And of course Angela for hosting This is...