Exercise overkill

Gym meme

It’s highly possible I’ve been hit by a truck.

This was my first thought Thursday morning as I awoke from my slumber, feeling as though I was stapled to the bed. I threw back the duvet cover and thought ‘brilliant, my arms still work’, but when it came to moving my legs it just wasn’t going to happen. I quite literally had to hold onto the side on the bed base and lift myself to an upright position.

I stood up, and it was worse than I thought.

I then spent the rest of the day wincing when attempting to sit on the loo and just generally trying to not stand up once I’d sat down. I dropped my hair tie on the ground and opted to leave it there. The pain of bending down just wasn’t worth it. Hair down it was.

You see what had happened was this: Pump and Yoga . . . in the same day.

Mr Knees and I have recently returned from vacation (I do apologise for the lack of posts in the past month, we were super busy gallivanting across Europe and eating and drinking our body weight in cake and beer).

So, upon returning home I decided serious action was needed to make up for said uncontrollable eating.

First things first, food. I went straight to the supermarket and only bought salad ingredients. Perfect. I even went as far as looking in other people’s baskets and then back at my own and smirking at them. What a jerk.

I ate salad that whole week. Yes way. The weekend however, was a slightly different story. We won’t go into that.

Then last week I thought ‘right, it’s time to reintroduce exercise’.

So I started with a walk home. A casual 7.5kms, felt pretty good the next day so said yes to lunch-time pump at the gym across the road with one of my girlfriends from work. I played it cool, selecting the lightest weights, knowing I was likely to die during this class. I didn’t die. But by God those muscles were moved. There is no way I did not burn some serious calories. We did 5000 squats and several hundred lunges, followed by arms, abs, or in my case flabs, and all the other food groups, opps muscle groups too.

I left there feeling great, energised and ready to take on the world. I had semi-forgotten I had planned another date that night, yoga with another GF. But it was all good, endorphins had kicked in and I was going to SMASH IT.

I definitely did not smash it. I kind of just whined and faked my way through it, commenting at one point that I thought I might have broken my special parts and perhaps this was the worst day of my life.

I limped home, had a nice hot shower and called it a day.

So there you have it, how not to exercise.

But, there is a silver-lining. I now don’t have to do any exercise because I’m still learning to walk again.


Preparing for the future

Image I’ve decided that being an adult sucks.

Along with having to make my own breakfast, lunch and dinner, pay bills, spend hours on the phone organising 5000 types of insurance and sorting alarms to ensure I get to work (that’s another one) on time, I now have to worry about my face.

In the past couple of months I’ve gone from feeling like my face was perfect-ly fine to finding a wrinkle every other day.

What the hell.

I’m 27, surely I do not need anti-ageing cream yet, surely.

Well, according to cosmetic surgeons it’s simply unfathomable I haven’t started the prep yet, or even thought about it. I’ve been offered botox, for free, three times now. THREE TIMES. Gees, I know when to take a hint.

Call me crazy but I’m pretty sure I’m not in desperate need of having a hundred needles jabbed into my face. Anti-ageing cream on the other hand, is looking a little more appealing.

So, two weeks ago a girlfriend and I set out on a hunt to find a miracle cream, one to rid us of our big black eye bags and weary wrinkles. And, we were spoilt for choice.

Aesop proved to be a clear favourite, mainly because the shop smelt nice and the man serving was divine to say the least. After sampling all the testers we came across the eye cream. Now while I was looking for anti-ageing cream, the whole looking-like-you’ve-been-smacked-in-both-eyes situation, isn’t ideal, but the discovery of their eye cream was really something else.

We dipped our fingers in and smothered that creamy goodness around our eyes, making note at the time that yes, it was definitely working, we could feel it already. Then we looked at the price. It was $305 people, $305!! The whole container was the size of a pack of tampons for crying out loud.

Safe to say we left the shop, sad and disappointed but with amazing-feeling eyes.

Two hours passed and the shopping trip came to a close. We made our way to the car, handbags filled with samples, and conversing about how nice our eyes felt. Once in the car I pulled down the visor to look at my eyes in the mirror and I am not even kidding when I tell you I looked like a supermodel. There was not a black bag in sight. I turned to my girlfriend and she literally gasped. It was at that exact moment we attempted to come up with possible ways to get our hands on this cream, without having to hand over a week’s salary.

It was a solid 25 minutes of trying to work out whether or not our husbands would find out, and then convincing them it was all for them anyway and did they want a hot wife or one with bags and wrinkles?

So peeps, any recommendations of life-changing eye creams or anti-ageing serums that won’t smash my bank?

Happy Mother’s Day



Growing up my mum (Nikki) put the fear of God into me from a very young age. 

One look was all it took for me to stop doing whatever it was that was upsetting her, whether that was having the television up too loud, hanging around the kitchen asking what she was doing or standing too close when she was drawing her eyebrows on and not giving her enough elbow room to move.

How she came to have this power over me I’ll never know. She’s five foot five, size 8 and compared to me, tiny.

None the less, we grew up never seeing eye to eye and constantly bitching and moaning at one another, secretly, I think it was because we’re so alike.

But not when it comes to food.

That woman may be small but my God she can eat.

Nik, as Andrew (dad) and I like to call her when we’re trying to piss her off, has a very set eating regime at night. This starts with dinner at 6.30pm, which is filled with meat and at least five different sorts of veggies piled high onto a plate. She will then have seconds. Now, that amount of food will generally feed a normal size person for the next two days, but not mum. At 8.20pm, before the 8.30pm program starts, she will jump out of her chair, ask Andrew what he wants to eat with his cup of tea and make her way to the kitchen.

This is where the fun part starts.

The jug is boiled, not once but twice. Toast is put down and tea is made. The first course usually includes two pieces of toast, thick with butter and honey. The second round is usually savoury again, a mug full of shapes, and to finish it off it’s more often than not a bag of chocolate fish, like a whole bag.

If I ate like this I would need to be crane-lifted from my house. Seriously.

Apparently, she’s into “lollies and chippies” at the moment. I can only imagine how horrendous their food bill is. When I went home she had nine blocks of chocolate in the cupboard. NINE.

Mum’s also a fan of the list. She has a whole basket dedicated to lists. It sits on the kitchen counter, filled with pens and notepads just begging her to be filled with ridiculous messages she must remember to tell me, her 27-year-old daughter, who lives in another country. There’s also a special list which lives on the fridge. This is the most important one. It’s the one she will go off when I’m at home for a visit.

‘Moosey, have you been to the dentist? Did you remember to call the bank? When was the last time you checked your superannuation? It’s Judy’s birthday in September, don’t forget that.’ Etc, etc.

The lists I can deal with, I’ve grown up with them and to be honest I’m pretty sure it’s part of the reason I too, am obsessed with lists. How else do people remember to brush their teeth and go to work?

But where we differ greatly is in routine. And Nikki’s routines are not a joke. 

Night-time is the worst, it starts with the food, the boiling of the kettle twice and the routine of eating each food in order. It then moves to the checking of the house. She walks around, checking and double checking every lock and door before making her way to the bathroom and eventually into bed. But it doesn’t stop here. She then reads for a bit, gets back up out of bed and checks and re-checks the entire house again. She told me she can check the doors anywhere between 38 to 45 times. I think we might have an issue.

I thought perhaps these quirks may have to do with her star sign. Nikki’s a Gemini, but she will tell you she’s actually a dog.

According to astrology, Gemini’s are a mix of the yin and the yang, and are represented by twins. The Gemini-born are ‘intellectually inclined, forever probing people and places in search of information. They can be wishy-washy, too, changing their mood on a simple whim’. Now we’re talking. When it comes to mum there are definitely two sides – one’s a psychopath and the other’s everybody’s best friend.

But mum prefers to go off the Chinese horoscope, telling everyone ‘I’m a dog’. So I did some research.

‘The dog is very righteous, and always is the first to speak out against injustice’. True. You do NOT want to be the checkout chick at the supermarket who tries to charge my mum $1.99 for rice crackers, which were CLEARLY on special for $1.59.

‘The dog is an agreeable companion – when they are in a good mood. But when panic strikes, they can turn nasty, and bark till they are tired’. Hmmmm, yes.

Then I found this: ‘Dogs are born old and get younger as they age’.

Well I guess that explains why my mum turned 50 and in the five years since has had eight or so tattoos, not including the time she thought getting tattooed eyebrows would save her loads of time in the morning, you know – not having to draw them on and all that. Mum also loves a party, (and she can drink anyone I know under the table), she loves a dance and thinks she does a better rendition of Celine Dion’s My Heart Will Go On than Celine herself.

At my wedding she met one of my friends Dan. This is a friendship I should have been worried about, but didn’t give it much thought since, you know, I was getting married and all that.

Since then, almost every time I talk to mum she asks after him.

This is a segment from our last conversation:

Mum: How’s Dan? Is he seeing anyone yet?

Me: He’s good, yea kind of, I think we’re going out for dinner with him next week.

Mum: I would go out with him if I was younger, yip, he’s right up my ally. He’s funny, yes I would definitely do that.

Well mum, judging by Dan’s latest snapchat to me, he’ll be waiting in the wings.


But in all seriousness, Nikki may be one crazy mumma, but I wouldn’t change her for the world. She’s my best friend, my mum and my dog.

Happy Mother’s Day you crazy beautiful woman X

Food allergy anyone?


I am literally in the process of an evacuation.

I won’t go into too much detail, but I think it’s an important step in the “getting to know you” phase.

I’m undergoing an evacuation . . . of the body. 

Now, in recent months I’ve become one of those crazies who claims to be allergic to almost everything.

I have become the soy milk loving, gluten free, fructose intolerant nut-job I’ve always hated.

Well guess what people?

It’s fo’ real. They aren’t making that shit up.

Being on the receiving end of it I can tell you, is a whole different ball game.

Take for instance breakfast.

The first meal of the day is my fav and on weekends it’s Mr Knees job to feed me.

We went down to our local cafe on the weekend and what took place I can only describe as a f**king nightmare.

‘Hmm, I’ll have the porridge, no wait, it’s got milk and raspberries’ (those sweet little suckers are full of fructose). Umm, oh yea I’ll have the avocado smash, no wait, it’s got feta, and chilli, and do you guys do gluten free?’


And that was after I’d walked in and been one of those smug soy latte losers (sorry to those of you forced to drink that sticky bean juice).

It’s safe to say I won’t be going back there for a while, it took the poor dude serving us seven times before we were ready to order.

‘Ah, I’ll just have some air thanks’.

Anyway, doc says we’ve got an issue. So we’re partaking in this evacuation process to see what little gremlins are have having a wee party with my insides.

So far I’m one round of “digestion liquid” down with just two more to go.

Let the weight loss begin.

Women: The strangest of creatures

Exactly how I look when I wake up


I’m over it. I’m over being a woman.

I’ve always thought it would be better to be a man and I feel the past couple of days have really cemented this thought.

I think it comes down to the maintenance. It would be sweet if I just woke up and looked incredible, maybe like Mila Kunis (just throwing it out there), chucked on some clothes and went on my merry way but unfortunately, that’s not life.

What is life is shaving, ex-foliating, moisturising, make up, hair, nails, waxing, shoes, clothes, accessories – it’s too much. I want to go on strike.

Do you know how long, expensive and time consuming it is to be a woman? I seriously have to wonder how much time we waste doing weird woman things when we could be outside having a beer.

And it’s worse when we have an event.

I’m off back to the motherland in two days and the prep I have ahead of me is just plain daunting.

I’ve had to work backwards from the day of departure to figure out when I need to wash my hair and shave my legs, so that I’ve timed it just right. I’ve had my hair done (there goes five hours of my life I’ll never get back) and been waxed within an inch of my life. I’ve had to sort out what clothes to take, complete with accessories and different types of underwear depending on what pants/skirt/dresses I decide on, and I still have to paint my nails, pack, possibly fake tan the old pins once they’ve been shaved,and decide on whether it’s a heels or boots kinda trip.

Mr Knees on the other hand has just put a load of washing on and will pull out a bag on Thursday afternoon pop in some jeans, four t-shirts and a jacket and away he goes. 

WHAT THE HELL. Now I’m even more mad. And, he’s just had the audacity to come in here and say ‘did you not even hang my washing out for me?’ Ahhh Mr Knees, if I was you, I’d be walking real quick out of my vicinity because if I can reach you I WILL GET YOU.

See, and we’re moody, like super moody. The funniest part is when we know we’re being irrational but there’s not a single thing we can do to control it, we just have to ride the wave and let it be.

So I’m thinking about becoming a man. Not like forever, but just maybe for a week. Imagine a week of no make up, no nails, no hair washing, and all the other glorious things I have failed to mention, oooooh peeing ANYWHERE, brilliant.

Now I just have to convince Mr Knees it’s totally fine if he sleeps with a man for a week.


A great day for a laugh


So my dad calls me the other day and we got talking about his terrible jokes, I’m pretty sure I had said something about being hungry and he was like ‘oh hi hungry I’m dad’…yip, cringe, you know the one.

Anyway, what followed was this.

Dad: Why did Lucy fall off the swing?

Me: Because she had no arms. Dad, everyone knows that joke.

Dad: Ok, ok, I’ve got another one. Knock knock

Me: Who’s there?

Dad: Not Lucy.

I was hysterical. Why? I really don’t know, I guess I just wasn’t expecting it.

So I decided to ask my mum what her favourite joke was.

Her reply?

What’s an Irishman with a sugar cube on his head?

Sweet f**k all.

So there you have it folks, the reason my parents live apart.

I don’t have a favourite joke, but I really, really love other people’s jokes. I find it much easier to hear them, learn them and then tell them to other people all while pretending they’re my own. I feel like that’s completely ok.

With the Melbourne International Comedy Festival in full swing, I would love to know – what’s your favourite joke?

Here’s a few to get you started:

Why doesn’t Stevie Wonder see his mates anymore?

He’s married.

What happened to the peanut when he crossed the road?

He was a-salted.

Why does Beyonce sing to the left to the left?

Because black people have no rights.


Please note I am not a racist, I just find racist jokes hilarious.




Why it’s ok to give to charity

Throw another snag on the barbie, that bad boy is calorie free baby.
Throw another snag on the barbie, that bad boy is calorie free baby.

By the time you have finished reading this post you will have decided whether or not you are a good person.

Just kidding. You’re all shite. Kidding again, you’re all obviously amazeballs – why else would you be reading this.

I got chatting to some jolly chaps I’m lucky enough to call friends at work earlier today and realised we all have something in common, we all have various charities we’re passionate about, and by passionate I mean slightly psychotic.

So, I decided to give you all the down-low on why it is totes ok to give to charity.

1, When buying food related to charity, i.e. at a cake stall or sausage sizzle, it is completely calorie free, CALORIE FREE PEOPLE. You can literally eat as much as you want and, not only are you helping your chosen charity, but also effectively eating without the guilt.

2. You get stuff back. Now, don’t get me wrong – I am definitely not condoning only giving because you receive – BUT, getting stuff is always great and people generally love stuff, whatever it is.

3. It makes you feel like a good person. So even if you truly are a shite person, you will feel like a good one and you will know you did a nice thing.

I have loads of friends who love to give, whether it’s money or time, and they are generally pretty fabulous people, I guess that’s a given since they hang out with me, but seriously – if you want to be like the rest of us cool kids see the below for some brilliant charities that could always do with a hand.

Also, if you would like to donate to the Mrs Knees charity, one of my personal favourites, please note proceeds will be spent on shoes and designer handbags.

And, like one of my good friends said to me today, “even Honey Boo Boo* gives”.


Here Comes Honey Boo Boo is an American reality television series, which will change your life in all the wrong ways.


Some sweet charities:


Feed Melbourne

I am always hungry, and I mean always so this charity, which helps feed people across Melbourne who are unable to afford three meals a day, is one close to the heart.



Tour de Cure

There is no way in hell you will ever catch me riding 2000 odd kms on a bike, my bum would not be able to handle it. To my horror, and absolute delight, there are actual people out there not only willing to do this, but all because they are determined to find a cure for cancer.




A committee of bubbly volunteers who want nothing more than to raise awareness and funds for research into Motor Neuron Disease. They have a knack for organising some pretty raging events.



The Smith Family

If I hadn’t gone to school chances are this blog wouldn’t exist because I wouldn’t be able to string a sentence together, which is still debatable sometimes. Anyhow, these amazing peeps support Aussie kiddies to get an education.



Children’s First Foundation

This wee charity brings children from developing countries to Australia for surgery which is not available in their country of birth – bloody amazing.



Avalon Centre

Remember that time you were cold and you went home – to your house – and put on a jumper? Yeah, well not everyone can do that. Avalon Centre helps people who may have slipped through the cracks, and that my friends, is no fun for anyone.


Holly Hobbie, literally



I think I might have a problem. I think I’ve become a hobby whore.

Recently I started scrap-booking, no, I’m not 55, I saw a friend doing it and thought it looked cool. Turns out I had some spare time and nothing else on the calendar so thought ‘yea, this is great – let’s do this, people will definitely think I’m cool and crafty’.

So, away I went. Printing photos here, cutting shapes there, picking out paper, stickers, letters, books – you name it, I was doing it. I went hard for about a week and a half and, true to form, I haven’t looked at it since.

I bought two scrapbooks with the intent of completing one for myself and one as a gift. I haven’t even finished my one. Sigh.

I’ve left all the bits and bobs strewn across the dining table though, in the hope the guilt will eventually take over and I’ll start back up again. I have faith.

But it got me thinking about just how much of a freak I am.

In the past three years I have joined a book club (read at least one of those books but what I didn’t read I made up for in wine), been part of a craft group, started ballet, learnt Spanish (hola – that’s about as far as that goes), done personal training, attempted yoga, tried my hand at bike riding (more to come on this later), scrap-booking as mentioned and of course this blog.

I think it’s fair to say I need to do things all of the time. Just all of the time.

Lately I’ve been thinking about learning the piano and have been having dreams I become a famous water-colourist, so I feel these things need to be tended to.

I skyped my mum the other day to tell her about the scrap-booking situation and she’d just got back from Bikram yoga – and did I know what Bikram yoga was? I was like ‘when the hell did you start doing that?’ It was at this exact moment I realised I am my mother’s daughter. And so the cycle continues.

Funnily enough, I was named after Holly Hobbie (you know, the cute little red-haired doll) but for some reason I don’t think my name was meant to be quite so literal.

Never mind. I’m happy. I’m just not sure how long Mr Knees will put up with the state of the table before he cracks it and throws all my bits out. At least then I would have a reason to continue on with my grand piano plans.

How to get through the awkward kiss hello

Note: These lips are definitely mine.

I’ve decided to address an ongoing concern, think of it as a bit of a ‘life skill’ if you will.

The question on everyone’s lips at the moment is at what point do you kiss someone hello?

Fear not readers, I have the answer.

A couple of weeks ago I attended a work-related event to support a good cause and do a bit of networking here and there. When I got to the venue I was approached by a high profile female work acquaintance and her male colleague, who I’ve had regular dealings with in the past. I did the old eyebrow raise, to acknowledge I had seen them, and before I knew it a pair of lips had locked on to my upper right cheek.

Startled by the gesture I did an awkward ‘oh heyyyy’ and a bit of a pull-away-and-then-go-back-in-to-cover-my-tracks type thing to hide my surprise. HE HAD KISSED ME ON THE CHEEK PEOPLE. Talk about overstepping the mark. Gees.

I managed to sort my face out only to be super unprepared for it to happen again.

I’ve heard of people being ‘kissable’ but it wasn’t until that moment I realised I fell into that category 😉

This time, to make up for my sad last attempt, I rushed in to greet her kiss with one of my own only to smash our faces together making what was already an awkward move almost unbearable. I had a super sore cheek so can only imagine what kind of pain I had inflicted upon her. Never-the-less, I didn’t address what had happened and managed to bring up something about food and just swept over the issue.

This brings me to my second similar situation.

A few months ago a group of us were visiting a friend and her husband brought up the fact he wasn’t sure who he should kiss and when, because some of us went in for the kill while others lingered back.

I just told it to him straight: ‘I’m going to kiss you hello every time I see you’. What followed was a brief, but hilarious, recount of awkward kisses we had faced. The entire group joined in and then and there we worked out who would say hello with a kiss and who wouldn’t. Problem solved.

So peeps, my advice?

Do it, all the time, and then tell people while you’re doing it that you’re going to kiss them all the time. They won’t be freaked out, they’ll love it.

As for people you work with, or acquaintances? Just plant one on them too, get in there first and to make sure they don’t pull away put a hand on their shoulder so you can lock them into place. I shall never be caught out again. Brilliant.

Weddings: The gift that keeps on giving

As you all know I recently became a Mrs.

With this title came huge responsibility. After organising, designing and creating countless bits and pieces for the big day I thought my days of crafting were over, until I remembered I had to send out thank you’s.

Thank you’s are a bitch, I’m not going to lie. I really would just rather have flicked everyone a txt and been all like ‘yo, thanks heaps for the sweet presie – it’s totes awesome’ and left it at that. Apparently that’s unacceptable.

So, after the honeymoon I decided I would make it easy on myself and order postcards from the internet – custom made with photos of my choice. Excellent. Minimal work on my part and postcards don’t allow for much space so it’s a win-win, brilliant.

What wasn’t brilliant was the day they arrived.

I ordered 60 postcards and they all arrived, chosen photos on the front, a sweet little message from the newly weds and then I turned it over.


Right. Well, there you go. Apparently it’s not strange at all to order 60 postcard thank you’s with THE EXACT SAME MESSAGE ON THEM ALL, WHICH ALSO HAPPENS TO BE THE SHOPS SAMPLE MESSAGE.

So, needless to say my email to them went like this:

My husband and I recently ordered 60 thank you postcards from your store. They arrived today and have writing on the back which we did not request. All 60 of them have the same message – I’m not sure why I wasn’t contacted about this, surely someone would have thought it was strange to have 60 postcards thanking “Michelle” for the same gift?

Their response:

We’re sorry to hear that your recent order did not meet your expectations.
Upon closer inspection, it appears that the product design was ordered with the text at the back and unfortunately was printed that way.

No shit Sherlock, I know what the problem is, I want to know why the hell no one else thought it was just a wee bit strange. Or is it normal for people to have weddings where all their guests are called Michelle, and they all bring beautiful silver frames?

To their credit they sorted it quick smart, but it did leave me wondering how on earth some people get on in life.