It's not mess, it's art: apparently.

Master of the Bleeding Obvious has a busy weekend as was evidenced by the pile of shoes that had accumulated just inside the back door (the selection included shool shoes, a pair of docs, a set of heels and a few ballet flats-for those who are interested in that sort of thing). By Sunday night I was well and truly tired of tripping over them every time I came inside and suggested she might like to put the mess away or feel my wrath.
This threat was met with a deadpan: "They're not mess, they're an art installation."
Nice comeback.
The shoes were removed nonetheless.

No Sugar Challenge

I come from a long line of type 2 diabetics. (Cheers, forebears) Knowing my age and weight increase my chances of inheriting the family legacy last year I significantly reduced my sugar intake.
Things were going well but lately stress has seen sugar and refined carbs creep back into my diet...in some cases explode back would be a more accurate phrase.
In an attempt to get things back on track I have decided to join 50 days sugar free. It  sounds like a hard slog but my experience was that hunting down the hidden sugar in food was more difficult than the loss of sweetness.
Why not join me and give it a go, check out the details here: Natalie Carter's No Sugar Challenge

Melbourne Eathquake

I think this picture says it all.
Apparently this was the largest quake we've had in 30 years but the couple of quick shakes we felt here were barely noticed. The last quake at least cracked the plaster in our ceiling.
On the plus side at least nobody was hurt and the resulting damage is mainly mess than actual destruction.
In fact I'm a bit embarrassed to call it an eathquake at all, even if it did register 5.3 magnitude.

Wide Awake

Here it is the wee small hours and here I am awake-again. I've always been a bit of an insomniac but these days, or should that be nights, the problem seems to be worse than ever. I used to wile away the hours doing quiet housework but it seems my nocturnal floor mopping and shower scrubbing disturb the rest of the household-who could all, incidentally, sleep through a bomb exploding if it happened at seven on a weekday morning.
At one time I would have indulged in a bit of fiction writing to entertain myself but the muse has left me and I don't know if she'll be back. NaNoWriMo notwithstanding.
I could always read. I have a to-be-read pile that can be seen from the moon. Sadly nothing seems to be able to hold my interest for very long. My reading has been reduced to flipping through knitting patterns in doctors' waiting rooms.
Speaking of knitting I finally finished last year's project (a simple moss stitch cardigan) and I'm rocketing through this year's (a Debbie Bliss Riding Jacket, I love its shape). There's nothing like big needles and thick wool to speed up a project.
And so it goes on.

Messages from Beyond?

I returned from my daily pilgrimage to Woolies (bread, milk, peas and corn) to be greeted by the light flashing away on my answering machine.
Typical, thinks I. I'm only gone for fifteen minutes and that's when the world wants me.
I press the play button and wait to hear which of my many devotees desired an audience (mum or one of my kids wanting a lift home). What I hear instead is hold music-a bad synthetic rendition of a lesser know classic. After about ten seconds an unfamiliar male voice cuts the music off with a confused "hello...hello" then the line goes dead.
What's happening here?
Bizzare crossed-line fault or mysterious voice from the other side?
One is more likely but the other far more interesting.

Missing Time

I am not addicted to Bejewelled 3.
I can stop playing anytime I want.
The reason I can't remember Sunday afternoon is because I spent it in a state of deep meditation. It may have looked like zombie-brained game playing to the ignorant and uninitiated but it was, in fact, a kind of zen type contemplation.
Really!

Improbable Assumptions

Today my copy of the Fortean Times arrived in a plain black plastic wrapper.
I do hope the postman, and any neighbours that saw me carrying it inside, think it was some kind of kinky porn mag.
It would be fun to believe, that for just a momnet, I'm not perceived as a staid, middle-aged housewife. Not that anybody around here would notice or care to speculate about the contents of my letter box-even if it was kinky porn packaged in lurid green with "SEXYMART!!!" stamped all over it.
Not that I've ever been to Sexymart or have any idea what colour packaging they use. I really am a staid, middle-aged housewife.

The Ghost of Chistmas Past

The wrapping paper is in the recycling bin, the turkey carcass has been picked clean and the final cracker pulled. Christmas has come and gone again yet somehow I feel like I missed it.
Maybe the magic of the season was tempered by the lack of excitable young children in the house. Teenagers might enjoy the day but they don't have that same breathless wonder they did only a few years ago.
Perhaps over exposure to the commercial aspects of Christmas (the shops here were pimped out in tinsel and Xmas sales from mid October) somehow inoculated me against the charm of the season.
Or could it be that the Christmas cards from far flung relatives still trickling in through the post box have left me with a subconscious sense of not quite reaching the big day yet.
Whatever the cause, Christmas left me completely ambivalent this year.
I do hope it's not an indication of Christmas future.

Bah Humbug!

It just doesn't feel like Christmas.
The tree is up, gifts are wrapped. There's turkey in the fridge and fruit cake on the sideboard. Shops are crowded, television is a never ending parade of Christmas "specials" and carols are being played on the streets.
But the Christmas spirit is yet to move me. Somehow it all feels a bit hollow.
I'm drifting through the season in a dream-like state not quite wanting it all to be over but not anticipating the day either.
What ever happened to the thrill and magic that used to accompany Christmas? When did buying and wrapping gifts stop being fun and start being work? Where did this lethargic attitude to it all come from? Will it pass before the big day arrives?
I'll just keep on going through the motions and see where it all leads.

Size Matters

Apparently it's true what they say, size matters.
At least to men, anyway.
That's the only explanation I can think of. Why else would my hero insist on having the biggest one?
I managed to convince him that something smaller would be better.
And he agreed, eventually.
But only to something slightly smaller. As it was, it only just fit into the car.
I must admit though that I've got used to the size much faster than I thought I would.
Perhaps at heart size matters to us girls more than we like to admit.
Though it may be that after a week of watching the tiny tv the wide screen only looks huge in comparison. On the other hand maybe it is really massive. That's what you get for letting a man choose the TV.