exhibit A (or why I should drink less coffee)

I don't know what it is, because the decaf I drink is pretty good and tastes much like the real deal, but then I see the green lid, nescafe espresso jar and my neurons go nuts and I can't help but toss the decaf aside in favor of all its caffeinated goodness. At least three times a day, which is AT LEAST two times too many for my pansy little addict's system. These last two or so days have seen me so tired too, that I've really relied on the beans to get my ass off the seat, which is likely when it's the best time to give it up. I mean, when one is that amount of exhausted, one really shouldn't be using coffee to get that extra bit of zoom out of one's body when the zoom just isn't there to begin with. I think the last week or so has finally caught up, and if I reflect back on the week or so following the last two surgeries, and if I bought a stupid vowel and got me a damn a clue, I'd realise that it's the week AFTER the week after surgery that really knocks me around. I think (again) because I don't (can't) really take it easy, that crucial week directly after being knocked unconscious multiplies on itself so I fall twice as hard the following one.

My brother is in town at present, after being out of Australia virtually constantly since April or May or sometime, so his wife organised a dinner with them, my mum, and me and Daniel. I practically cried when she called and said "we're all going to mum's, be there at x-o-clock, bring the floor show (aka Daniel)". "Okay" I said, "but I am NOT running around after that kid!". I'm never usually able to be so....assertive? with my family (I KNOW! Me! Lacking assertive powers! What the big eff?!) but I was so exhausted when she called that the visions of an evening spent running getting up and sitting down and getting up and sitting down repeatrepeatrepeat and saving Daniel from either destroying the priceless trinkets collected by the owners of the house mum is staying in, or from frying himself by sticking a fork in a non-childproofed power point exhausted me even before we got started. See, whenever we go to my brother and sil's house, a house, I might add, with open cellars, unfenced pools, huge non toughened glass walls, totally accessible displays of expensive glassware, electrical cords openly running in and out of their big, fat assed computer, and possibly a Molotov cocktail or two stashed under the sofas, they all sit around like logs and I spend a few hours saving Daniel from certain death-and I'm not one of those panicky mothers who about shits herself whenever little schmookie trips on a shoelace. Oh no no no. I let Daniel get in all manner of situations before intervening (call child services!)(although I do stand a safe distance away, pumped and ready to leap into action should the need seem to be arising)(note: "seem" not "when it's already too late and he's mid plummeting headfirst into the cement slab floor", for I am that amount of responsible) but at their place? MY GOD, so you can imagine how relaxing it is for me when we get together to sip (amazing) wine and chill out.

Need a hint? It's NOT.

ANYWAY, Wednesday night went okay and my sil took my desperate commands to heed and made sure I didn't have to do much at all except eat a delicious array of curries from one of the restaurants her family owns. My this is an interesting story. ANYWAY, I was so tired that by the time we got home, I was feeling so ill that I chucked Daniel into his cot bed, turned his sleepy bye music on and let the kid fend for himself, then I dragged myself out to the sofa and DID NOT MOVE until about three am because, had I even blinked, I swear I would have tossed my cookies. I thought I had food poisoning to be honest, but as no one else, including the midget (who ate buttered chicken and rice like a true curry eating champ) felt even a smidge of nausea, and because it followed me around all yesterday, and because I was so frieakin' tired again too, and yawned, god help me, the yawning okay, I'm retiring this boring assed story RIGHT NOW.

Among the many things I would like to be (rich, an astronaut, a superhero) one of them is to be platinum blonde. I would simply adore to go bleachbleachbleachybleach blonde. I blame my latent ho' who, for what it's worth, hates my natural coloured mop o' ho hum. The drawbacks to my desire to look like a two bit whore are the upkeep, my aversion to change and the fact that my hair would fall right out of my head. I'd be the baldest platinum blonde around. Which kind of defeats the purpose. And the reason behind this seemingly Where The Fuck Did This Train Of Thought Come From? is that my friend's son just bleached his hair so fucking blonde that the hairdresser had to soak his head in milk afterwards to prevent his skin from shrivelling up and peeling right off his skull. I LOVE IT. FakeName P? You are SO lucky. Boys always get that kind of luck though. The eyelashes, the hella good hair. It's so unfair! I don't quite understand it, then I wonder if it hasn't got something to do with to call The Peacock Theory. Boy peacocks have got all the pretties: the feathers, the froofy bits on top of their pretty heads, the feathers, but I bet they're as thick as shit so need the fanfare to get the girls interested. Meanwhile, the peahens slop around looking like shit and probably wishing their tails were awesome too. They're ugly, but I bet they've got quite the brain inside their dowdy little heads to make up for their housfrau outer shell. Then again, they can't be too smart because they fall for the pretty boy who with that amount of froo froo? Have to be as dumb as a box of rocks, so okay, scratch that argument. (Look over here! a segue!) Which reminds me, years and years ago my friend was in England, Kew gardens? Cue? Whatev. Point being, it was some famous gardens where men are men and the peacocks roam free. Who knew peacocks could fly? Not me, that's for sure, but they can, and one flew overhead and pooped on her head, and peacocks being considerably more than bantam weight do massive poops so my friend was literally knocked off her feet and her day was kind of ruined. You know how usually you can smoodge off a bird poop with a hanky, some spit and a bit of delicate tapping and blotting? This one needed a high pressure cleaner. Ha ha HA. Okay, not as funny on the retell, but man, I HOOTED when she told me that story.

God, where was I?

How out *drumroll* my face? I've got an interesting stripe of purple and yellow across my cheeks but apart from that, I look entirely normal. Hang on, lemme see of I can take a not too disgusting pic...

gratuitous baby photo

Okay, it' s pretty disgusting, but it'd be a LOT more so if the mirror I used wasn't so "soft focussed" (ahem) by its patina of crud. And, holy CRAP! Tell me my house doesn't look so cluttery. My god. I hate the clutter. How did that happen?! Yannow, maybe I should take some (all?) of Daniel's finger paintings off the walls (YA THINK?) and try removing all that SHIT stuck to my fridge. While we're talking hate, the other things I hate are the (not pictured) craptastic toys all over floor and my scrawny chicken neck. Good christ. What IS that thing and where did it come from? Mars?! Jesus.

(PS, the collection of lighters? Are to light my dumbass stove top)