So I blog away here and post up pictures of lushious desserts and wonderful dinners and I'm all lah-di-dah and aren't I just the Best Chef Eva.
The pale browny bits you can see are egg. Slightly burnt egg. Okay, burnt enough to taste burnt-eggy. Have you ever tasted burnt egg? There really is nothing quite so revolting. The last time I ate it I was about 5mins pregnant with Miss Five and hurling everytime I moved. Hubby made me an omelette and burnt the crap out of it, but being all newly-wedded bliss etc I choked the horrible thing down, and then loudly barfed it back up again. Ah pregnancy how I miss you.
Today I had my revenge on hubby, because not only were the eggs burnt, but there was WAY too much chard and it was seeping brown liquid that looked a lot like the stuff that come out of the bottom of the worm farm.
I resorted to feeding the family raspberry icy poles and left-over green butter icing from Miss Four Tomorrow's birthday cake. Oh and toast.
Even the dog won't touch the stuff. He just looks at his rather full bowl and then looks at me as if to say, "you're kidding right? RIGHT?" Thus far I am not kidding, but he'll get some kibble when I get motivated enough to go and wash-up.
The Christmas Tree is still up, in fact the Christmas table cloth is still on the table and covered in Christmas crumbs. Every corner is full of empty boxes and scrunched up scraps of festive paper and hubby, the kids and I are eating our way through leftovers and lying barely conscious in front of kids movies. The washing pile is gargantuan, the playroom looks like a tip, and every spare bit of surface is covered in clean piles of china and cutlery waiting to go to their rightful homes or cupboards.
I went shopping for a chicken coop yesterday and came home with an aquarium. (I seriously did. I'll post photos tomorrow, well if I find the camera - its under something, somewhere, maybe - hubby took the one above on his phone for the nitpickers out there).
'With-it' is not a phrase that would describe anyone in my house right now.
But its good. A warm, laidback summery holiday vibe. (Well if you ignore the tired crabby children and constant bickering and whining for food that is ladened with sugar and none of that healthy shit thankyouverymuchindeed).
And on a final note...
Dear person who got my blog when googling for Brothels in Umina. Given all the hand-painted signs along the roadside from Gosford to Umina saying MASSAGE and a phone number with no other contact details leads me to believe you are probably the type who couldn't organise a shag in a brothel even if you tried. My suggestion is to shut down the computer and go and join an A-grade football team, that way you'll get a root and won't even have to pay for it, though you might have to do it in front of your team-mates. But hell, you think sex is a meaningless transaction anyway, so what difference would an audience make?