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.
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.
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:
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
So why then, do people insist on calling me Colleen? Colleen? Are you serious? I don’t even look like a Colleen.
Polly, Molly or on occasion Dolly I get – it rhymes, but Colleen? Jesus.
Last week I was at a book launch, I agreed to go along as a guest of the author thinking ‘perfect, we will be best friends all night, I’ll pick her brains about France and we will drink champagne until the tab runs out. Yeah, NO.
I rocked up only to realise I had not thought the whole situation through. I didn’t know anyone else there and the author was busy welcoming everyone in. It suddenly dawned on me I would be forced to either spend the night alone with my phone or attempt to make friends.
I made my way to the bar, grabbed a champers and stood in the middle of the room, willing someone to look at me. An older gentleman caught my eye and I gave him a smile he simply couldn’t refuse. He said hello and I launched into a story about how the venue was actually a nightclub, did he know. Stellar conversation starter on my part I must say. Well, that started what turned out to be a very valuable friendship for the evening, or so I thought. He introduced himself as Peter and I told him my name was Holly.
“Colleen, lovely to meet you”. “Oh no”, I replied, “It’s actually Holly”. “Yes, yes, Colleen, so what do you do?”
Well what does it matter now, Peter. You’ve just ruined everything.
Unfortunately, the situation got worse. Peter was one of those people who knew everyone there, and I mean everyone. Being the friendly and helpful gentleman he was, he proceeded to introduce me to everyone he knew . . . as Colleen. So in the end, after attempting to pull every other person aside and correct them, I just embraced it.
So I put to you the question, what is your name and what do people decide they want to call you?