Well, this is embarrassing. You probably came here looking for photos of me in bunny ears, yelling at a tiny TV screen in a karaoke booth. Instead you find yourself burdened with a task. WAIT, DON’T LEAVE, I NEED YOU TO DO SOMETHING!
This silly little blog of mine has only gone and got itself nominated for a BOPS award (whatever the hell that is). So I need you to click here and vote for me. PLEEEEEEASE (whiny voice). You can select ‘Skip this category’ and ‘Next’ until you get to the Best Family & Lifestyle Read, and then you just need to select The Airing Cupboard. You know, because that’s mine. I suppose you could vote for one of the others and not tell me. Or you could lie about it. But let’s assume you’re not MEAN. You’ll vote for The Airing Cupboard, and then you’ll just need to give your name and email address at the end to prove you’re not me doing it multiple times. Not that I’ve already tried to vote for myself fourteen times. Never happened. What?
Please do it! If I win, I promise I’ll get pregnant again and give birth live on Twitter.
OW THIS HURTS.
I finally got around to taking a few photos of the sitting room. Now look, it’s not finished, ok? I’m still missing things like curtains, pictures, and maybe a mounted head of some description to go above the TV (this Rhino would look particularly cool). We also need to get a mirror to go above the fireplace – the one that’s pictured is too small and normally lives in the hall.
So here we go.
Here’s another dodgy photo of the Badger (taken by husband – clearly I’m the talent in this household), but it illustrates a point. If you ignore her angelic face and glance down at the bottom-left of the photograph, you’ll see Teddy. Stuffed in a box. Staring at his mistress in disbelief.
Let me tell you about Teddy.
This is going to be a bit of a rant, so first of all, I’m sorry. Second of all, I’m not sorry. I’m sick of defending my right to eat real food. And – just so we’re clear – I’m not judging anyone on their food choices, it’s the ignorance that bothers me. Not to mention my absolute rage and frustration when people comment on the way I eat. Or the way I feed my family. Especially when I know that I have – more than likely – spent more time reading and researching food and nutrition compared with the person who is judging me. So here we go.
Read the rest.
I’d love to do a ‘weekend in photos’ post since I have very little to say but still an inkling to BLOG, but I have no photos (and STILL no phone), so I’m going to waffle on a bit and you can feel free to read it or not. I’ve got your stat either way, sucka.
[Picture of me pointing at you accusingly]
Friday evening was…
Your name rhymes with silly. And you are. Even at 7 years old, you are still a giant puppy. You go mental when the doorbell rings, greeting guests with your patented divebomb approach, your paws tap tap tap-dancing on the tiles. You treat each and every tennis ball as though it were your long lost love, and no, you won’t give it back, and why should you? Even if it spoils your own fun when we’re out throwing balls and you have to be coaxed and cajoled (and occasionally manhandled) into giving them back. You shed like a fucker in the summer and I curse you as tumbleweeds of black hair float down my hallways, but you know what? You are completely worth the hours of sweeping. Although I wouldn’t have said that when I was 8 months pregnant.
We’ve had you since…
Now that I’ve attended a grand total of THREE toddler groups I feel I can grossly generalise and pass judgment on ALL toddler groups. Even that really nice one that you go to where everyone is SO friendly and you’ve made MILLIONS of lifelong friends, blah blah blah, LIAR!
Ok, so you remember how I was rabbiting on about the awesome shelf ladder? Well, we hit a bit of a snag with it. If you look at the picture above, that’s my kitchen. And the plan was to take down the grey shelves on the left and put the new bookcase there. But here’s the problem: when we assembled the bookshelf ladder thing, we realised that the lowest shelf was going to end up smack in front of that power point you can see just to the right of the guitar. SHITE! So, we talked about moving it (ugh, could you be arsed?), we talked about removing the lowest shelf (but, but, but noooo), so we thought screw it, we’ll just find somewhere else to put it.
When we got married in July (arrrgghhh!), we got some awesome and incredibly generous gifts from friends and family. One of them was a voucher for Arnotts (a department store) and frankly, I can’t believe I’ve managed to last this long without spending it. SIX MONTHS?! Britney could have had about fourteen annulments by now. Anyway, we decided it might be a good idea to take advantage of their January sale, so we thought we’d better go and spend the crap out of it. You know, because that’s what you do.
Read the rest.
So, you might recall that we got married back in July (OH GOD PLEASE NO MORE WEDDING STUFF WILL IT NEVER END), and we decided to postpone our honeymoon. Or rather, we have a toddler so a honeymoon is basically impossible. But anyway, we need a holiday; it’s been over two years since we’ve left the country, call it whatever you like. So for the past week we’ve been scouring websites trying to come up with ideas for our trip.
Dieting in January? WHAT A BLOODY CLICHE. But still, after stuffing my face for about two months solid (Christmas starts as soon as the pumpkins start rotting – am I right?), I need to sort myself out. Call it masochism, call it getting healthy, call it getting thin because that’s the point. What. Ever. Either way the biscuits must go and I have to return to the shape of the woman my husband married. Why am I doing this? Let me clarify: TWO WEDDINGS AND A HOLIDAY IN THE NEXT FIVE MONTHS. Do I really need to explain further?
Read the rest.
I did my wrapping today. I’m pleased with the results. This year it’s style over substance, which means my cheapy gifts are encased in expensive wrapping paper and ribbons. Oh, and this is not a post about Christmas. This is about something else. Sorry if you came here for Christmas.
This is not going where you think it might be going.
On Friday we went to my Godson’s 2nd birthday party. Little Logan. Or ‘Wo Wo’ as Amelie calls him. My sister threw him a little tea party and we ate cake. Fairly epic cake, in fairness. I have to admit she’s set the bar reasonably high as regards baked birthday goods for our little ones. I now have six months to work out how to kick her ass on the baking front. And I will. But it was a very nice try, Cathy, well done.
Read the rest. It’s THRILLING.
Me: The baby definitely has the shits.
Him: Ah shitz! How many?
Me: Two more violent stinkers since this morning.
Him: Did you get any under your ring? Yuck!
Me: Gross. No.
Read the rest