Wild weather and f*!#ing Matt Damon.

Since Friday pretty much the whole of Queensland has been subjected to some pretty violent weather. It started with a cyclone in the Far North a couple days back and whilst the silly fucker waned, it then has regrouped and decided to head on south, subjecting the whole coastline and inland to semi-cyclonic conditions.

Last night 5 tornados were reported along the coast! Now I know these are pretty common in some countries but they're pretty much unheard of here, so it's pretty unreal, and not in a good way. They have cut a swathe of destruction along the coast and so many people have been evacuated, not knowing if they will have habitable homes to go back to.

Meanwhile in Toowoomba we haven't seen the sun since at least Thursday, although it was just rainy and slightly windy...until last night. Since then the wind has been whistling, the rain has been bucketing down and all in all, it's getting a bit scary.

Being a Cairns girl in my younger years, I'm pretty familiar with cyclones and quite frankly, this type of weather is almost more destructive than some of the smaller cyclones I've gone through. It doesn't help that for the first time in my life, I have a broken window in my bedroom that the real estate has been dragging their feet on fixing! I've managed to patch it with a glass door from my entertainment unit with some cardboard but it's certainly not a perfect solution and some of the rain, not to mention the whistling wind, is still managing to get through.

E and I went for a drive to the shops earlier this morning and I don't think I went over 40 kph, it was that intense. There is debris everywhere and half the roads are covered in water, and we're in a reasonably high area here. Our yard is a total mess, with small branches everywhere and the leaves...but at least we can stay safe, warm and dry inside without threat of going under any time soon. After our small foray outside, we won't be venturing out again, it's getting wilder if anything.

Stay safe, everyone in the south east...

So anyhoo, what's a girl to do with a couple of days of being housebound?

Well check out the internet of course. I've caught up on a few movies (currently halfway through Snow White and the Huntsman...much better than I thought it would be so far...) and then stumbled on a news article where Matt Damon hijacked the Jimmy Kimmel show the other night. I've avidly followed the 'feud' ever since Sarah Silverman declared that she was f*!#ing Matt Damon all those years ago in a sketch that went viral...and viral again...and then viral again. Not to mention 'bumping' Matt 1,024 times...

So of course I went and found the showing of 'Jimmy Kimmel Sucks' and watched it and laughed my ass off. I was watching it going, oh that's my favourite line, I'll mention it in my blog, but then another would come, and another...

Although Nicole Kidman's pearler of 'I mean, he f*!#ing sucks' is right up there.

As is Matt's 'tonight I am Luke Skywalker and Jimmy is the Death Star...big and round and easily destroyed through his garbage hole'.

And former sidekick Guillermo 'no I don't like Jimmy. He's a dumbass'.

So if you haven't yet had the pleasure, do yourself a favour and click the link below, you won't be sorry. Watching poor Jimmy gagged and duct taped to his chair whilst Matt has Gary Oldman, Nicole Kidman, Amy Adams, Demi Moore and Reese Witherspoon (complete with two enormous bags of alcohol) all squeezed onto 'his' couch is a highlight.

As is watching 'sidekick' Andy Garcia cycling down Hollywood Boulevard on a pink bike, clutching a bottle of Jack.

Best. Jimmy. Kimmel. Ever. He's never been funnier.

Best way to spend a rainy Sunday...

Bec xx

Don't feed the trolls. I'm looking at you, Speidi.

So I find it really interesting that Celebrity Big Brother in the UK is suddenly being talked about on news websites both in Australia and the USA for like, the first time ever.

Why?

Um, cause the loathsome 'Speidi' have been 'cast' and are cutting a swathe of drama wherever they turn. Shocker.

Personally I prefer to refer to them as 'The Pratts'.

What's more disturbing is that even I have been suckered into this nonsense, reading the daily recaps on the official CBB blog and am now suddenly familiar with previously unknown to anyone who wasn't strictly British, ahem, 'celebs'.

What is it about this duo that is so wrong on every single level known to mankind, yet we can't stop watching them? If we thought it was bad enough to see photos of the ridiculously overinflated and enhanced Barbie on crack Heidi conveniently 'dropping' something on the beach just as the camera snaps, then giving them more airtime in any format is just wrong, wrong, wrong.

You're feeding the trolls!

OK yeah I watched The Hills. I admit it. Lauren was awesome. And I loved that you could see they originally hired Whitney to be Lauren's nemesis however the tables were turned when the two actually became friends.

However, the most awful and pitiful part was watching a spunky, funny and vivacious Heidi morph into this sad caricature so desperate for fame and attention that she underwent a gazillion surgeries in a day just so she'd be paid to tell her story on a magazine cover.

The lengths she and her hideous partner in crime, Senor Pratt, have gone to in a desperate bid to stay relevant have been as laughable and downright sad as her short-lived music career (for further explanation, refer to her song 'Higher'. Enough said).

So the questions I have are, why for one would any show anywhere want to cast them in anything, anytime, anywhere, instead of letting them stay under the rock they've been forced to make home since they've lost all their money, kudos and dignity?

Secondly, why are we now tuning into this stupid and heretofore invisible TV show to watch them inflict their patented brand of horror on the UK? Seriously America, if you wanted to go to war with Britain there are more humane ways of doing it. This has international conflict written all over it.

There is a huge debate within the house among the other housemates as to whether the Pratts are being real or simply acting the part of celebs on reality television. Poor buggers. They didn't even see it coming.

The thing is, there is no 'real' Heidi or Spencer. Let's face it, they're no more real than Heidi's mammoth boobies. They don't know anything but being part of a 'cast' of a reality show.

It's actually really quite sad. Watching from a distance with no desire to have ever been famous for being a total tool, I find it incredibly disturbing that there are little freaks everywhere so desperate for fame, for fame's sake. They don't care how. They don't care what they have to do. They just want people to know their name, for better or worse.

Spending their lives 'trolling' for fame. What a waste.

And the worst thing you can do is feed the trolls. Everyone knows it.

Case in point: when everyone simply ignored the Pratts, they went away. We've really not heard much except the odd bizzarro and not-at-all-staged bikini papp shot of Barbie. I mean, Heidi. Pitiful but not enough to make me lose my lunch.

So why feed the trolls, Britain? Really? Is it worth the ratings? The international press?

Oh what am I talking about.

I just hope you've cashed up on your insurance when the rest of the housemates sue you for pain and distress.

Bec xx

On getting old (but not growing up). Ageing is a bitch.

So you may want to look away for like, this entire year.

Why?

I've mentioned before that my 40th birthday is looming in 2013 and with every day I feel myself venturing into mid-life crisis territory. And seeing as I've got until September until 'D Day' I'm growing slightly concerned about my mental state, seeing as it's, you know, only January.

So there's my disclaimer: read on at your own risk.

Now I'm not the sort to get maudlin over age or anything, I sailed through my 30th like it was nothing after all, and only mildly panicked at age 38 (where suddenly I could no longer get away with clinging desperately to referring to myself as 'mid 30s' and realised I had ventured squarely into the 'late 30s' category).

(Now we will not talk about the year I turned 31. That was an anomaly. An aberration. And will heretofore be referred to as The Year That Shall Not Be Named and scrubbed from any and all history books).

Getting older is a funny thing. For starters (and all you young'uns take note) YOU DON'T FEEL ANY OLDER.

Not a skerrick. Seriously.

I think mentally I've stalled at approx. age 27. Wise enough to know better but young and dumb enough not to care.

I've talked to my grandmother about this strange phenomenen and she, at the ripe old age of early 90s, wisely said that if I thought that was odd, try being 90 and thinking you're 43. Particularly in the morning when your brain is telling you to leap out of bed...

Something to look forward to.

So anyhoo, I think I'm 27, I act like I'm probably even younger and happily have enjoyed people thinking I was way younger than I actually am.

My favourite being at age 27 and announcing I was pregnant, some of my 3-year long workmates telling me I should perhaps reconsider becoming a 'teen mum'.

I have a favourite photo (below) of my son and I taken Christmas Day 2011 (in which our lovely receptionist told me she would think I was 25). So it was with a bit of a fright that I regarded Christmas Day 2012 photos and realised in the short space of 12 months I suddenly looked OLD. Like way old! Sure I hadn't gone to town with the makeup a la 2011 but still...!!!

Christmas 2011

Christmas 2012...eek!

I had a chat to my stepmother and she said that she thinks we have small pockets of accelerated ageing and I have to agree. It's really weird to expect one face in the mirror only to have some old hag that looks vaguely like you staring back at you.

(Note to self: do NOT look in the mirror at 3:30pm today as per this article as apparently we look our oldest on Wednesday afternoons...eek!).

Sadly it's happening more and more often. And when I told everyone at my work that it was my 40th this year, they have all just looked at me and said 'ok' instead of the obligatory 'NO WAY!!!!! I thought you were 30!'.

Boo.

Sure, if I cake on the makeup for a night out, I reckon I can still scrub up alright but mornings are becoming horrifying. In fact, sometimes downright nightmarish (usually when caked on makeup has NOT been scrubbed off the night previously). A total horror show.

Sadly also over the past few years our conversations have turned to two major subjects, the first being our attitudes towards plastic surgery. On this topic we used to have two very separate camps: the first totally pro and the second vehemently anti any surgical 'assistance'.

Strangely enough, and coincidentally aligning with strangers appearing in the mirror, some of the anti camp have started to climb the fence and over the years are becoming less and less opposed to the idea of returning our faces and bodies to those we enjoyed effortlessly not that many years before.

The second subject is the whole 'mutton dressed as lamb' debate.

It's an odd one and a very fine tightrope to navigate. On one hand, we want to maintain the 'young and cool' image we've always enjoyed (truly!) but at the same time there is nothing more sad than seeing someone desperately trying to hang onto their glory days when they should really, really hang up the fishnets (speaking of, I'm a big fan of the fishnets...so question: when is it too old to rock these???).

My sister lost a lot of weight a few years back and became extremely skinny (biatch) and it was a huge issue. I mean, just cause she could fit into it and looked a million bucks, did the top and bottom match?

It always takes me back to when I was about 25 and working for a company where we had this 40 year old woman employed there. Now this chick had the best body I've ever seen...hands down. And on Mondays to Thursdays she looked amazing in her corporate wear that was conservative enough to work well in the office but definitely showed her figure to its best advantage.

However, 'casual Friday's' were a whole different story. This chick would turn up ready to 'work' in skintight hipster jeans, crop tops with 'Sexy' emblazoned on them in rhinestones, acres of flesh on display and huge wedge heels, all the better to exhibit off her toe and belly button rings.

One day I saw one of our young guys holding his hand up and squinting like he was staring into the sun. When asked wtf he was doing, he said he was ogling this chick but had to block out her head because otherwise it all just looked wrong. He likened it to one of those 'what's wrong with this picture?' puzzles.

Don't get me wrong, she was a beautiful woman and didn't look 40, but she definitely looked like a woman from the neck up and Christina Aguliera circa 'Dirrty' from thereon down.

Important lesson learned: mutton dressed as lamb is sad, sad, sad. And just because you CAN wear it, doesn't mean you SHOULD.

So anyhoo, back on point, this is my internal struggle every time I go out and every time I am going heavy on the cats eye.

The cat's eye is my other issue: it's my thing. I have enjoyed a very long and very intimate relationship with my black eyeliner and don't want to ever stop (the only relationship I will ever have with anything cat....refer previous post The Accidental Cat Lady). But again, just cause I can, does it mean I should? Or should I just say 'fuck it', and rock the cats eye in my 90s when I'm blind and shaky and pretend I'm making a Monet statement????

So this ageing thing is a total bitch. And seeing those two photos side by side was enough to make me run straight to the beautician and beg them for help.

I am now enrolled in a 'skin course' where I am getting sanded, buffed, cheese grated, serum-ed, moisturised and polished until people start saying 'there's NO FREAKING WAY you're 40!!!'.

I have declared war.

So there.

And I will not stop until I either win the battle or have a complete mid-life crisis mental breakdown.

Whichever comes first.

Place your bets.

And to finish...I give you Christina in Dirrty. Why? Well, why not?

Bec xx

Bizarre Monday's and bad hair days. And outsourcing.

Happy Monday all!!!

What a weird day. I've had the funniest and most bizarre morning in the history of working as an assistant, and I'm so sad that I really can't tell you about it or else I'll probably get fired!

Suffice it to say, in future when a rather forgetful someone from my work texts me late Sunday to drop by their house to collect something for work because they're not coming in...I'll be sure to call ahead. Enough said (no I didn't catch them naked and/or in a compromising position) No really, enough said.

One day, when I'm retired from the assistant biz,  I'm gonna write a book about being an assistant and I can guarantee it will be a gut-buster and a bestseller. I think I've previously mentioned about helping my boss unload his rifles, yeah? Well it only gets better. My book will probably be the antithesis to The Devil Wears Prada though, as through some excellent selection processes on my part, I've been fortunate to not have had a boss from hell (at least never for long), however I have been known to attract some seriously...um...eccentric...characters in my time.

I wonder what that says about me?

I love my job though and it is the variety that keeps it interesting.

So #firstworldproblem of the day: I may need to rethink what I put in my handbag seeing as when driving one of the company vehicles earlier today, the car kept demanding that I put the seatbelt on my 'passenger'. Oh dear. It would make an excellent set of my own version of brass knuckles, however, should anyone ever decide that I'm a prime mugging suspect.

Look out.

Now onto something that I simply cannot NOT comment on, because, let's face it, every single human being on the planet is going, 'crap, I wish I'd thought about it first'.

So a highly paid software developer has been busted for outsourcing his own job to China at a fraction of his salary...FOR YEARS.

Quote of the day:

'Quarter after quarter, his performance review noted him as the best developer in the building'

Brilliant.

I would have been more impressed if he'd someone managed to wangle a work-from-home arrangement as quite frankly, his daily schedule seems mind-numbingly boring but otherwise...hat's off fella.

See the hilarious story here http://www.news.com.au/business/worklife/software-developer-busted-for-outsourcing-own-job-to-china/story-e6frfm9r-1226556262107

Sorry, for some reason my 'links' button, nor my 'open brackets' key on my keyboard appear to be working today so a full copy/paste jobbie is in order instead.

Sadly for me, I haven't managed to sublet my own job yet, and despite my current boss' eccentricities, I do believe he may work out sooner rather than later should he wind up dictating to an entirely different person at some stage. Maybe.

So I have to say that despite the 'interesting' morning I've had today it's been really, really hard to get going today. I didn't sleep very well for no reason whatsoever, I spilled breakfast AND coffee down my white shirt before even making it to work - hence a reason why I wear white like about once a year - and I'm having a bad hair day.

I tried this new shampoo and conditioner, some Nioxin stuff I got on special at Hairhouse Warehouse, which is super expensive usually and supposed to be like this miracle stuff that will sprout me Miranda Kerr hair in no time - as long as it gives me the face, body and husband as well, then a worthwhile investment - but sadly my initial report is even whilst blowdrying my hair felt really sticky and just yuck. I've been reading today on the internet - a completely productive use of my time - that you need to shampoo for 60 seconds minimum so I'm thinking maybe I didn't do it for long enough so I'll give it another go. I've yanked it into a dodgy ponytail today just so hopefully people don't notice that I look pretty darn crappy.

Speaking of not looking crappy, and I'll be writing a whole post on this sometime this week, but I'm staring down the barrel of my 40th birthday - September - and watching my friends succumb to the curse one by one. I think it's forcing the mid-life crisis and one of those things in the firing line is my skin. For years I had wonderful skin however when hitting my early 30s, my skin decided to rebel and I developed adult acne. Horrible, embarrassing and just ugh.

So anyhoo, long story short, I went and got myself cheese grated - aka microdermabrasian - the other day and have signed up for a course of them along with some 'cell renewal' stuff that will have my skin looking better than it has in a decade, or so I've been promised. I may or may not post some pictures, I'm horribly self conscious about my skin so like to avoid pictures that highlight it.

So there's my Monday. I'm missing my E who is still with his grandparents....boo. He's back Wednesday just in time to start high school next week...egads...

Hope you're all having a wonderful day!

Bec xx

The accidental cat lady.

 

Cats.

Not a fan.

That is an incredibly nice way of defining my attitude towards the feline species. If I'm going to be less politically correct (and a whole lot more honest), I would say I hate the little fuckers.

Let's put aside the fact that I'm deathly allergic and look at what cats offer to the world.

Um...still thinking.

Someone (clearly a cat lady in training) said to me she loves cats because cats own her, she doesn't own them.

Sorry, I don't buy it. Does the cat pay rent? Does the cat buy it's own food? Does it have opposable thumbs? If the answer is NO, then sorry what?

Not to mention the horrible things always make a beeline for me to rub against my legs and...UGH...wrap that horrible tail around my legs. I swear, I'm a cat magnet. It's horrifying. I have nightmares of cats crawling across my face at night (chasing the mice).

The only way I'll ever like cats.

I have so many stories of how I became a cat-hater that I won't bore you with them all. However I will relate the story of 'cat', the mangy stray who came a-crawling through our window and stealing food when I was young.

Whilst I was all for closing the windows and an advocate for the purchase of a big broom, my sister decided to feed it and it stuck around. It's a demonstration of my feelings towards the species that 'cat' never received a name other than 'cat'.

I must say, this cat and I learned to tolerate each other. It had clearly been abused and didn't like humans, and therefore didn't do the horrible wind-under-the-table-and-curl-tail-around-legs trick so familiar to many a cat. We mildly disliked each other from a distance and that was OK by me.

Until...

Many years and many a house-move later, my sister and I moved to a house in Cairns. Within 15 minutes, the cat had promptly disappeared next door and never returned. Seriously. It would sit on the dividing fence and just give us that disdainful 'fuck you' stare that it had perfected. Horrible little fucker. When my sister went to move out, we chased that effing cat around the cul-de-sac for ages before finally giving up and letting it stay with the neighbours. I'm sure it's not there anymore, it probably deserted them too.

Thus confirming my theory.

Ungrateful bastard.

So I think it's pretty clear that I'm a serious cat disliker.

So it's been somewhat to my dismay (well not somewhat at all, it's total dismay) that I have somehow become an accidental cat lady.

I noticed about a week after moving into my place at Toowoomba last year that I had an extraordinary number of cats hanging about. There's at least three separate furry rats that I'm aware of, all of whom look pretty well fed and domestic so I'm assuming they belong somewhere. To someone other than me.

So go home!!!

There's even a Siamese who has decided to take up residence on my front porch.

They saunter past me as I'm sitting in my outdoor area, nose and tails in the air giving me that look of 'wtf are YOU doing here'.

How rude.

Anyhoo, yesterday was a particularly hot day and I came home and realised out the back of my house now smells like a men's urinal.

Nice.

So is there a cat repellant on the market? I don't want to kill them I just want them to eff off back to where they came from and then eff off some more.

I did think about setting one loose in my house to clear up the mouse problem, but seriously, ever since I put the traps down the mice seem to have packed up and left. And frankly, I'd rather the mouse than the big furry rat.

My friend has a Sphinx (a hairless cat). It's called Noodle, cause it's..well...nude. I'm thinking maybe I should acquire one of these to chase off the others but frankly, it kinda weirds me out. I'm fascinated and repelled in equal amounts.

So what's the solution? I know I'm nearly 40 and single but I refuse, and I mean refuse to become the 'cat lady'. Not the least cause I hate em. I mean I joked about going as Crazy Cat Lady to Halloween last year, but I was kidding. Seriously.

Recommendations please?

Bec xx

What not to wear during a heatwave.

Clearly I'm a fan of the 'serious news' on news.com.au that I read pretty much daily, and today being no exception.

Um right.

Well I do read it daily but you know, I will confess that you're more likely to find me trying to quickly click of a screen like this instead of something about the Middle Eastern conflict - I ain't no Kim K.

So a heatwave hit us like a sack of shit on the weekend and apparently has decided to come around for a second go over the next few days. Farking summer.

Clearly then the news websites are tackling the big issues of what to wear to the office when it's stinking freaking hot outside. Or more pointedly, what NOT to wear (sorry Trinny & Susannah for whatever copyright I just stomped all over).

There's even a list of rules which I'd like to examine one by one, because, you know, this is serious shit.

Strapless tops. well no argument here. pretty much the only people in Toowoomba who wear strapless tops are the ones who probably absolutely shouldn't. Hotpants ditto. Leave em for the clubs, or, you know, like NEVER. Who likes short shorts?

Bathers worn as tops/crop tops etc: well duh! Unless you're gunning for the next Sports Illustrated cover then does this really need to be said? And refer to the first rule above. Going to work should not have to involve me having to bleach my eyeballs. I think it's an Occupational Health & Safety issue, ie. MY pain and suffering, not to mention mental anguish. Frankly I don't make enough $$$ to a) have to look at you and b) to pay the therapist I will need for the rest of my days to recover.

Mini skirts/short dresses: there was a girl who came and did some holiday work with us once. She wore these like TEENY flouncy dresses. Look, she had fabulous legs and she became immensely popular with like, every male person in the office. But honestly, we just used to look at her and say, 'how embarrrassing, she forgot to put her skirt on again today'. Funnily enough she wasn't offered permanent work. Enough said. If you can't bend over or sit down without showing us what you had for breakfast, then save it for Friday night.

Sheer fabrics or tops that show side boob: Refer to above. There really are not too many side boobs in Toowoomba that I'd like to see at the best of times, and if I would, then I'll just take myself to the shopping centre to view the Cliffos and amuse myself by trying to distiguish between whether I'm looking at side boob or just another roll of bingo wing. And even Miss I'm Usually Dressed Unsuitably At Every Occasion And Proud Of It can understand that the sexy chiffon number is probably not the vibe I'm going for in the workplace. I mean, I have to work with these people, probably best if they don't know exactly what my tits look like.

OTT cleavage: OK so I'm gonna debate this one a bit. As a girl with...ahem...assets, trying to cover these suckers up makes me look matronly. Yes I'm nearly 40 (!) and yes there is a line but sorry all, the only way to try to make the girls look pretty is to show em off. Haven't you watched What Not to Wear? Ladies with...er...assets are encouraged to wear V necks or wrap dresses that enhance the girls and give you a youthful appearance. Yeah OK there's a line. I skate on it some days. Deal with it. Having said that, I did change out of a particular dress for my work Christmas Party due to a fear that I may actually fall out of my dress and have looked at a couple of girls with some rather daring cleavage thinking, um, honey, every boy in the room (that you have to go to work with) has now seen you practically naked. Ugh.

Thongs: before my American readers think, OMG what the...?, thongs in Aussie terms are what you'd call 'flip flops'. Apparently this is the #1 officewear faux pas and I'm afraid I'm going to thoroughly disagree with this one and will argue longer than you can even be bothered listening to. I'm sitting in my office right now wearing a fetching wrap dress (see above) complete with an adorable pair of sparkly black thongs with a little bow on them. I'm rather offended that the article says 'no-one wants to see your bunions'. Excuse me, my feet are beautifully buffed, polished and pedicured (almost) all the time and I have pretty feet. Bunions???? It's one of my best features (sad life I lead) so there. They're CLASSY thongs, OK? (oxymoron or what?). Don't judge me.

So there.

At least I'm not a bloke. Poor buggers apparently have to wear long sleeved shirts, like ALWAYS. Shorts are acceptable if worn with closed in leather shoes and a tailored shirt but otherwise, tough luck boys. Ugh.

Look I totally agree that you shouldn't rock up to work looking like you're about to hit the beach, but allow us a little latitude when it's stinking outside, OK? If you want the three piece lined suit 24/7 then either hire someone else or get used to the drowned rat look that I'll be adorning during the hotter months. Nah, just hire someone else. I did the corporate thing for many years and quite frankly I rocked the thongs a time or two there as well. Personally I'm loving my new workplace where the rules are basically that there are certain areas where I have to wear covered shoes for safety, and that's about it. Otherwise I will flit about in my pretty thongs whenever I damn well please.

And should I choose to recreate my own Desperate Housewives moment mowing in the dark whilst wearing a pretty dress then that's quite OK too. Sorry neighbours.

Bec xx

#dumbblonde101. This chick MUST be a blonde.

So I've been lamenting some of my own truly idiotic moments lately but am now feeling oh so incredibly intelligent and SOOOO clever after reading of this moron who drove 1,500km across Europe instead of 61km to the train station.

Why?

Because the Tom Tom told her to.

Man, I'm a rocket scientist compared to this chick.

So what was her first clue?

The foreign language signs didn't faze her, neither did stopping several times for fuel and to get some sleep during her 60 hour trek.

Hmm.

It was only AFTER she'd driven through all of France, Germany, Austria and Slovenia, finally landing in Croatia that she realised 'Toto, I'm not in Belgium anymore'.

D'oh.

Meanwhile the poor friend was still hanging at the train station waiting for her ride and this chick's son reported her as a missing person...

Ultimate blonde moment. I bet the family will never let her live that one down.

I feel much better now.

Happy Wednesday :)

Bec xx

Get a job. My rant of the day.

OK so I'm gonna get on my soapbox here for a bit. I don't usually drag out the old soapbox...well OK that's such a whopping lie I'm surprised my nose isn't growing, but I may perplex a few of you here cause it isn't about VPL or the topknot or fashion crimes requiring bleaching eyeballs...for once.

In this instance I read the news, which you know, is always a bad idea. And I read an article which has me majorly pissed and of course, feeling compelled to write about it.

So there you go you poor suckers, you get to be the recipients of today's rant.

So for you overseas readers, in Australia we have something called the Single Parenting Payment, which is pretty much significantly more than the unemployment payment. Like $110 per fortnight. Essentially it's a welfare payment to allow you to stay home or work part time while your raise your child.

Anyhoo, the government has...shock! horror!...decided that when your child turns 8, you will now be put over to the unemployment payment, thereby 'encouraging' those who have children of school age to, you know, get a job.

Sounds reasonable right?

Well to a large amount of non-working single mothers, apparently not. In fact, they're so irate that they're marching on Parliament House tomorrow to voice their opinions.

This may be an unpopular view, and I might be going against all my fellow single mother sisters but I just can't see how or why someone should feel like they're entitled to be a stay-at-home parent on the government's dime when their kid isn't even at home for the majority of the day.

Please don't get me wrong, this isn't a rant against stay-at-home mums (in fact I envy you having the choice to do it) but seriously, if you're on your own and unable to afford to stay at home, then you should work. End of story. If you're partnered and you make a choice to stay home because you're lucky enough that your partner can support all of you, then have at it. I'm jealous.

Personally I've been a single mother for the most part of E's life, who is now 12 years old, so I think I'm pretty qualified to have an opinion on this.

I also worked every day of my adult life up until just a few days before E was born, and quite frankly enjoyed getting a salary. The parenting payment, whilst pretty generous by government standards, simply wasn't going to work for me and I wanted to make a better life for my son than it would provide.

So I went back to work when E was quite small, like about 5 months old. Part time mind you, but still, I was out there working instead of letting the government provide. I then continued to work part time until E was in pre-school, at which time I returned to full time work and haven't looked back since.

Some have argued that I'm wrong and let daycare raise my child, and God knows I have carried a lot of guilt about not spending as much time with my child as I would have liked. However, as my stepmother pointed out (who as someone who worked three jobs as a single parent to fund her child's private education, also knows damn well of what she speaks), instead my son has gotten a role model who is teaching him a strong work ethic that will carry with him for life...monkey see, monkey do.

And what was the other choice...to stay at home, accept government benefits and have just enough to put food on the table? To me, there was no choice.

I came from an environment where my mum was expected to stay home and give up work after marriage, but just wasn't cut from the cloth that allowed her brain to do it. So I had the role models of two working parents and spent a fair amount of my time with babysitters, after school care, summer camps and the like. I certainly don't feel hard done by at all, in fact I revelled in the independence, and as the days go by and I see that my 12 year old is strong, independent, street smart and admiring of his mum for working hard to provide him with a good life, then the guilt lessens just a tiny bit.

Anyhoo, I'm getting a bit off topic. According to this article, apparently this decision of the government is going to cause 'massive social issues'. I mean what?

Excuse my ignorance but wouldn't the 'massive social issue' be the fact that all these mums are NOT working, thereby letting their skills date and becoming unemployable??? I mean, one day the kids are going to be 18 and the government won't give you a free ride any longer and then what? Not exactly demonstrating the winning formula to the kids, now are you?

Not to mention the self esteem issue. I get a lot of my self worth from my job, not to mention interaction with other human beings that you just don't get from hanging about the house and watching daytime TV. I feel useful, and like I'm contributing to society, rather than being a drain on it.

So my advice to these fellow single mums who plan to march tomorrow (and seeing as it's school holidays I'm wondering where the hell the kids are and whose looking after them seeing as being with them is such an important role???)...find a better use for your time and life and open up seek.com.au and GET A JOB.

Or get a degree. Get some skills. Get some self respect.

I guarantee one day your kids will thank you for it.

*stepping down from soapbox. Rant over.

Bec xx

Not growing up or getting old with the 50s Housewife...old school style!

Awesome weekend!

It was a heat wave up our way, with temps hitting about 39 degrees at one yucky, sticky point, with no relief to be found anywhere.

So what's a girl to do when her child is away visiting the grand-parentals than hit the shops for her first look at the post Christmas sales?

Well I have to say the sales totally bite the big one. I don't think anything I saw around the traps was any less than it is every second week during a 10-20% off sale. Boo!

A few notable exceptions though:

Colette, oh how I love thee. You're the sushi of handbags - cute, lots of variety, delicious, stylish and affordable...even more so when you mark selected stock down by 50%. I'm loving my fire engine red little bag and enormous electric blue tote that I scored for a grand total of $52. Yes indeed.

Myer - I generally have an issue with your pricing however when I spy a gorgeous fire engine red dress (a wrap dress, but of course) marked down from $140 to the princely sum of $35, how can I resist? Never mind the 5 other wrap dresses in my cupboard...I will make room. I will make room. Amen.

Total score!

OK so that takes me to about 10am Saturday morning and even in the air con I'm starting to sweat and my hair is not even feeling like hair anymore...

So backstory on the hair: in Brisbane I had the most gorgeous hair place which sadly for me came with the price tag to match. Achieving this lovely head of mine definitely comes at a cost. However I had promised myself many moons ago when I was working part-time and broke, that when I went back to work full-time that my gift to myself would be a regular 8 weekly appointment with my gorgeous salon.

Oh how I looked forward to that day, and it was a treat that I never denied myself for 6 plus years.

Then...

About a year or so ago prices just skyrocketed to the point that I could barely afford to live and feed my child, let alone part with $285 hard earned dollars to (ahem) 'enhance' my natural look.

So I had to make the tough decisions: the expensive hair had to go.

(yes I cried).

Since then I have to say I've been bodgy self dyeing (with better results than others) when I can't stand it anymore and getting a haircut at the cheapest place I could find whenever my hair looked so bad I couldn't bear to look in the mirror. As an aside, sometimes you REALLY get what you, ahem, pay for (or not pay for, more to the point). It's a bit depressing when you walk OUT of the salon feeling worse than you went in. I'm just sayin'.

So anyhoo, back on point: lately my hair has just been so vile, it's stringy and sticky and feels dirty even when it's not. The bottom inch or so felt like straw. My gorgeous fringe non-existent. To combat, I became the proud owner of about a gazillion pretty headbands to a) get the strings off my face and b) to try to deflect from the sad state of my locks.

So Saturday morning I was feeling hot and bothered and having a particularly bad hair day. I went to the bathroom, caught an unfortunate glimpse of myself in the mirror and decided this had to stop.

In I walked to Oscar Oscar and said that I was having a hair emergency. Fortunately for me, someone had just cancelled like that minute...it was kismet.

One keratin treatment and quite possibly the best haircut I've had in forever later by a beautiful girl called Jess (who is about to shave her head for Shave for a Cure and will likely look knockout, hair or no), I now have not only a new hairdresser but a brand new girl crush as well. Bring on my next appointment, complete with fixing the 11 different colours I've had through my hair in the past year or so...

I love you Jess.

Even the sweltering heat and the disheartening prospect of trying on a zillion dresses which didn't fit right could take the 'swish' out of my gorgeous hair for the rest of the day.

OK so moving onto Sunday...

I was 'persuaded' to drive to Brisbane, lured by promises of icy cold DC (diet coke for the uninitiated) together with DC cupcakes by Miss Housewife herself (aka Cathy, aka Betty Detox) for a total girly gossip session blog business meeting. Yes, we have big plans for this blog in 2013, so God help you all.

So I hit the road, air con on blast to negate the effects of the heat streaming through the windows, music blaring (see Daggy Roadtrip songs, oh yeah).

DC and guacamole...all the essentials

Pulling up at the housewife's lovely abode, it's totally stinking. I mean, OMG, if Toowoomba was a hot box, Brisbane was an effing sauna. Gah. I was dying of heat exhaustion wandering up the garden path. Ugh.

So meanwhile the housewife hadn't yet baked and not wanting to sit in the sweltering kitchen for even a second, I suggested she put off the DC cupcakes for another time (your son's Australia Day party - I'm holding you to it).

So icy cold DC in hand, we then proceeded to lay on her bed with our heads practically in the fan gossiping and Facebook stalking I mean talking serious blog business. Just like old times.

By the way, check the housewife's Christmas present score - a Laura Ashley apron, just for those special 50s housewife Friday sessions. It works perfectly with her patented black and leopard print fashion style. Unfortunately the cooking sherry wasn't included, but I'm sure she will improvise nicely.

Many hours later (which seemed like 5 minutes) I departed back for home, sides hurting from laughing and not even remotely gossiped-out.

And yes, we talked about the blog. I mean, as in, as I was leaving, 'oh shit, we were gonna talk about the blog'.

Oops.

One of the most exciting things was planning Cathy's 40th birthday party in March, where she'll be recreating the nightclubs of our teenagerhood complete with a dodgy cellar venue and goth decorations. I mean 'classy goth'. There's a difference.

Bring it on babe, I can't wait.

The title of our blog was something I came up with in desperation back in the beginning when I had to call it SOMETHING and didn't really know what. Funnily enough it's become more fitting and more apparent every day that it suits us and our blog down to the ground. It never becomes more clear than when we're together, giggling like the immature little mini me's we were back in the day, and even reflected in our home decorating styles. Cathy pairs (and very successfully) beautiful candle and flower decorations, and skulls. Lots and lots of skulls. Me, I have a penchant for pretty old style china teacups and saucers interspersed with Monster High dolls.

As you do.

It really does seem that we'll never grow up. Or get old. And that's quite all right by me.

So to leave you with yesterday's daggy roadtrip tune that just barely escaped my previous list, simply for the attribute that it didn't quite make the 'daggy' cut. In fact, Wendy James was and is one extremely cool chick. Who seriously doesn't care.

Hope you had an awesome weekend! Stay tuned for some exciting 2013 plans for our blog...once we finally stop gossiping and discuss them.

Bec xx

I'm a natural blonde. Please speak slowly. #dumbblonde101.

So today, for about the third or fourth time in six months, I locked myself out of one of our office computer programs because I repeatedly entered the wrong password.

If you type the wrong password three times, you're locked out for 24 hours or else you can contact our Finance Department to unlock you immediately.

If you're REALLY special, you can then sometimes lock yourself out promptly within minutes of being unlocked. Well I'm sorry, three times and you're out? That's simply not enough goes. On a particularly blonde day I would say I need at least 5.

Now I'm becoming (in)famous within my organisation for forgetting my password and I have just been advised that our Finance Department actively look forward to it because I apparently keep them entertained with my email communications, ie:

First email upon being locked out:

Hi lovely ladies

Is this something you can do to unlock me? Apologies, it’s a blonde day…

‘sorry your account has been temporarily locked as you’re an idiot’…

And today's effort:

I have stupidly managed to lock myself out again due to repeated incorrect password entries.

Is it possible to unlock it so I can code our expenses?

(there has to be one in every organisation and it appears I get the title).

and...

Thank you - perhaps I should change my password to dumbblonde01, then I may not forgetJ

So clearly today I'm on fine form. I'm a bit 'special'.

At least I can go home knowing that I've made several ladies' days, having had them in stitches, albeit at my expense...

Happy Friday all.

Hope you're enjoying your #dumbblonde101ness as much as I am today.

Cheers

Bec xx

Lessons I have learned from The Jersey Shore.

So the 'shore' is officially done and whilst some would argue that it has definitely lowered the bar in reality TV, no-one who watched can deny that they learned a thing or two along the way.

Love them or hate them, or more to the point, love them AND hate them, for five or so years this group got paid to party in a sick house on the coastline and entertain us.

And in typical car-crash viewing, this they did.

A la Honey Boo Boo, sometimes this show required it's own dictionary, and occasionally could've done with it's own subtitles (especially when meatball Deena got on the sauce. Which was always).

Thankfully someone did - what would we have ever done without the official Jersey Shore Dictionary, folks?

And then along the way, one went to rehab, most went to the slammer, and God help us all, Snooki became a mum. Oh. Dear. God.

So here's the lessons I have learned from this 'cultural phenomenon' (yes, the host of the 'Last Round' actually said that without laughing. I didn't cope as well):

• I didn't even know what a guido or guidette was before the show. Now I am enlightened, fascinated and horrified, all in equal parts. Apparently a guido is someone who spends more time on his hair than I do, with the result looking like some bad Aussie soap from the 1980s. And from the amount of cologne and perfume being sloshed about, clearly you can smell a guido at 100 paces.
• I also learned a new term for an unattractive female - the grenade. Apparently there's a 'war out there'. Lovely.
• Guidos and guidettes also tend to dance like they're having some sort of episode, which is apparently very cool. Personally I was tempted to call the medics on more than one occasion and will probably have a car crash if I ever drive along the Jersey turnpike.
• If I took a shot every time Mike referred to himself in the third person and/or simultaneously showed his 'situation' then I'd have been in rehab alongside him.
• Whilst it's perfectly OK to wear a top as a dress with nothing underneath whilst dancing the Jersey turnpike and also fine to pee in public whenever necessary, splitting your pants when wearing underwear is embarrassing.
• The cameramen must have had the most entertaining job in the world, considering how much the show needed to be censored. 
• Snooki is only entertaining when she's smashed. Being pregnant apparently makes you 'disabled'.
• Apparently acting like a total tool for 5 years makes you rich. Guidos with money, a lethal combination.
• I would NEVER be paid enough to be the poor cleaners who had to sort out the aftermath.

So there you go. See, you can learn something from everything, even the Jersey crew. Who knew?

Bec xx

Farewell holidays and nanna naps. How I will miss you.

My holidays are officially over!

Yesterday was my final proper 'holiday' day, seeing as I don't work weekends. And back to the grindstone on Monday....(cue mournful music here).

No more sleep ins. No more nanna naps. No more staying up far too late for no reason whatsoever and then repeating steps 1 and 2 all over again.

The past two weeks have flown by and suddenly it's nearly over and I'm scratching my head wondering where the time went. There were so many things I wanted to do this past fortnight and I've barely ticked off any...

Luckily some of the things I did manage to check off the list were catching up with people dear to me, including my sister and her family in Brisbane and also checking in on Willow and her adorable kids the other day for a good and well overdue gossip.

Priorities, right? I'd rather pop off this mortal coil leaving the housework undone than miss seeing those I love.

Speaking of the bloody housework...I finally emptied the mailbox after about a week or so and found another notice for a rental inspection...OMG that's like 4 inspections in 7 months! I definitely have the most overzealous agents in the biz...having said that, if I'm every a property owner I'll definitely be looking them up as they clearly don't let anything get past them.

So on that note, E and I had to kick up the planned cleaning spree into high gear. Luckily he's old enough to help out with most stuff...although I must say his usual vacuuming methods do leave something to be desired...after a 'proper' vacuum by yours truly today it was pretty clear that near enough is good enough for this kid. Half assed all the way.

Aww, he takes after his mommy, I'm so proud. Genetics are a wonderful thing.

I've also 'attempted' to tidy up my garden which includes finally mastering the whipper snipper in properly edging the lawn and making a half assed effort to cut back the copious hedges around my property. Without a ladder and a chainsaw I'm pretty limited in what I can do, I must say. See dad, I really DID need that electric hedge trimmer.

Hedges = 1. Me = 0.

I can't trim my own hedges. Go figure.

God I'm boring, I'm almost looking forward to going back to work.

I can't believe I just said that.

What a crappy way to end a wonderful holiday huh? Although as I sit here able to see the floor in my bedroom for the first time in some time (don't ask) and have actually folded, clean clothes in cupboards rather than heaped in piles in the laundry. What a novelty! (as an aside to show you how bad it's gotten, I had all E's clothes folded and put away yesterday and last night he complained that he couldn't find any pyjamas in the laundry as he's so used to going and sorting through the piles haha).

So clearly I need to stop living like a teenager because I have a near teenager who's becoming just like me...terrifying thought.

I guess this is not the most opportune time to say that now the Christmas decorations have been packed away, my mantelpiece now displays a rather fetching tableau of Monster High dolls? Oh well.

On the mouse front...we've not caught any but the house has been suspiciously mouse activity free ever since the traps went out. No scratchings, no sightings, no nothing. Perhaps I've attracted a more intelligent form of mouse who decided to pack up their bat and ball and get the hell out now that they've outstayed their welcome? Time will tell.

Mouse = 1. Me = 0.

I will not surrender!

On a sad, sad note, I just read that Charlaine Harris is writing the final True Blood novel, like ever. No more Eric (Sookie I can do without). She could've warned me to take some valium before reading this news. Tragedy.

So hope you've all been having a lovely weekend or holiday, if you've been lucky enough to have one! I have one more day to whip this place into shape and then attempt to get myself out of bed before 8am on Monday. God help us all.

Bec xx

It's a jungle out there.

So it's been stated that I've either been on holidays for too long or simply not long enough. Reading between the lines, I think my 'friends' may or may not be telling me to get a life. My plans for my break were to finally organise my house properly and unpack my final few boxes...well it's only been 7 months, after all! 

Instead I've been actively avoiding anything to do with housework thinking I've got plenty of time to get it all done. Now suddenly tomorrow is my last 'official' holiday day, as I'm back to the grindstone come Monday morning and all I've managed to achieve is your basic general wipeovers and managing to take the Christmas tree down. Oh and keeping up regularly with all manner of celeb gossip (please don't get me started on the Kim/Kanje offspring. The only thing worse would be Courtney whatserface and her granddad husband procreating. God help us all).

So today at approximately 5pm after reading about how LeAnn Rimes calls the papps on herself, how being overweight (but not obese) can actually improve your lifespan (see I knew there was a reason) and the tragedy of the paparazzi who got hit by a car and in a further attempt to ignore the inside of my house, I got on a roll and decided to attack the garden instead. Or should I say jungle.

Note to self: do not ignore garden for 7 months, like ever again.

It's seriously a jungle out there. I have heaps of hedges and trees which are pretty much out of control and the only time I have cut them back during my tenure in this house is when I couldn't back my car down the driveway without brushing against them. I feel like I can't go outside without some sort of sad safari suit and a machete.

So question: how does anyone actually LIKE gardening? Two bottles of weed killer exhausted (and could have done with a third) and mowing the lawn and I was over it. Truly. And I've barely even started. I've declared war and will be preparing for battle, complete with pruning shears, definitely probably perhaps tomorrow. Or the next day. Or sometime in the near distant future.

As it was, I feel grotty and filthy and cannot get the smell of weed killer off my hands. Ugh.

I asked Santa for an electric chainsaw-ey thingame that does your hedges in one fell swoop for Christmas but clearly I was a bad girl in 2013. My stocking was empty. Not even a lump of coal for this little black duck.

I then asked my dad and he laughed at me and told me to get off my ass and get busy with the shears instead.

Huh. Sucks to be me.

So I have a friend with a gardening business (unfortunately Brisbane based and refusing to do house calls to Toowoomba, slack bastard) and am simply in awe of how he spends his days. Seriously, gardening sucks. It's the only time ever that I've missed apartment living.

So another resolution for 2013 is to save some money so I can outsource. Or find a man (as per my stepmother) and make him do it instead. Ugh, there's another jungle altogether.

But either way, it's a jungle out there man, and I've discovered I'm more of an indoors girl. Only not in my indoors where I have to clean, more like, say the mall. Who am I kidding, I always knew that.

Priorities.

I'm thinking of even cleaning my blinds instead. God help me.

Bec xx

Man or a mouse?

I have an embarrassing confession to make.

I have at least one, and possibly two, mice in my house. And I'm not talking the technological variety.

I first heard some scratching in my bedroom after my Christmas party where I successfully managed to 'quality control' copious quantities of Croser champagne, so wasn't sure if I was just hallucinating or whether the bloody neighbour had decided to get up early and garden instead of allowing me to sleep off my hangover enjoy a luxurious and not-often-enjoyed lie in.

However it was all confirmed when out of the corner of my sleepy eyes last week, I caught a glimpse of movement in my mirrored cupboard doors (bad feng shui, I know. I'm a renter, what can I say) and saw the little rat bastard scurry for all it was worth to hide underneath my lovely tallboy where it seems to have made itself at home.

Since then there've been sightings in my room, the kitchen, E's bedroom and the laundry for some godforsaken reason. We can't categorically decide if it's the same bloody rodent or a goddamn family.

Ugh.

Now the only time I've ever had a mouse in my house was in Cairns where I took the incredibly grown-up approach and promptly packed my bags and stayed with friends until my neighbour kindly informed me he had caught the offender.

Wussy? Probably. But just the thought of the horrible little things scurrying around my place makes me feel quite ill. Seriously, I am having nightmares about these things and their ghastly little feet crawling across my face at night. Eeek.

Just the word vermin turns my stomach. Vermin. Such an ugly, dirty couple of syllables, right?

However this time I decided to take a much more mature approach. I would simply be inhospitable and ask it/them to leave.

Google research (which is always right, don't you know) said that they hate peppermint oil, so we've soaked bags of cotton wool in the horrible stuff and left it lying around the house. We also cleaned everything and put everything in plastic containers to cut off the food source.

It kinda worked in the way that sightings popped up in heretofore unseen places. Little fucker(s).

Mouse 1. Me, well zero.

And then I took a lovely box of chocolates all giftwrapped to my sister's place the other day, only to find the little asshole had eaten through it and nibbled on some of the chocolates. How humiliating!!!

Mouse 2. Me, still effing zero.

So I've realised I have to bring out the big guns. However, here's my second uncomfortable confession: I'm a kinda girl when it comes to these things. Yep, I'm not a man, I'm a mouse.

Uh huh, totally squeamish at the thought of having to dispose of this crawling, scurrying waste of space, no matter how much it's starting to bug. Plus some of the ways to catch the little fuckers according to the internet sound downright barbaric and there's no way I'm 'finishing off' a half dead mouse cause the bloody trap didn't work properly.

Ugh, squick. Yuck.

Anyhoo, thanks to Google (but of course) I have now found the answer in a self contained trap that has a little indicator when the mouse has been caught and then you throw it away, trap and all.

Sorry Mickey but you've driven me to it. The chocolates were the last straw. I gave you the opportunity to leave voluntarily but you've left me no choice. Big guns it is. So who's laughing now????

So it turns out I might be more of a man than a mouse after all...well kinda. Time will tell.

Bec xx