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| The stuff they don't print in books about motherhood. |
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| My attention has been diverted from biscuits for the past couple of weeks due to a super-fantastic development at the local IGA. What could possibly divert me from my neverending quest to alleviate my near insatiable appetite for biscuits? Fourty Nine cent honeycomb Kit Kats, that's what. Mmmm... 'shattered honeycomb in smooth milk chocolate over a crunchy wafer finger'. Delicious. Now it's long been established that Kit Kats are in a somewhat grey area in the great biscuits-versus-chocolate debate. I believe we have decided to put them in the chocolate category, yet I always feel rather biscuity when I eat them. I know they're found in the chocolate section of the supermarket shelves, but things have been known to swap sections before. Wagon Wheels always lived in the chocolate section when I was younger, yet now they're classed as biscuits. Who made that decision? Why was I not consulted? Perhaps this time I will take matters into my own hands and make a pre-emptive strike. Don't be surprised if you go shopping and find that someone has moved the Kit Kats to the biscuit section while you were sleeping. Biscuits/chocolates eaten today: 2 Honeycomb Kit Kats. | ||
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At least it's not Slytherin... Biscuits eaten today: 2 Shortbread Creams, 1 Tim Tam | ||||||
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| I've been watching the television machine and I've learned that the idea of cavemen doing all the hunting and gathering during the Ice Age is a myth. Apparently cavewomen were perfectly capable of getting their own food while looking after their children. I've known for a long time that I can do both of these things on my own, but I've become quite used to having a man-slave about the house. I think that a long time ago, women decided that they would make men feel important. They pretended to be incapable of providing for themselves so the men had to take over and go out to gather food each day while the women stayed home and put their feet up. We created a whole race of man-slaves to do our bidding. Soon we can replace them with robots. Mwahahahaha... Biscuits eaten today: 3 Tim Tams. | ||
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| Why did the starfish blush? Because the seaweed. Amelia had seaweed for breakfast today and she thought it was fantastic.
We went to an art exhibition yesterday. There were 3 large wooden benches painted yellow. That was it. We stayed for about half an hour, admiring this work of art. I won't write any more about that in case my partner stumbles across this blog. He's an artist and I try to appear interested in these things. (Thankfully I am actually interested in his own artwork, but the work of those around him tends to underwhelm me without fail. I'm a secret philistine and I'm not yet ready to come out of the closet.) Luckily for me, the exhibition I saw yesterday was located in a building directly opposite a biscuit factory. The air was filled with the most delicious aroma. I could have stayed and sniffed all day. Ahh, such bliss. Biscuits eaten today: 1 Tim Tam. | ||
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| So many people I know insist that women are good at doing two things at once while men have to concentrate on one thing at a time. I think I must be a man. This morning I decided to eat my breakfast while steaming some vegetables for Amelia's lunch. Quite simple, yes? Well apparently not. I ended up pouring muesli into the steamer. Not just a little bit either. I poured a whole pile in and watched it for a while thinking that everything was going to plan. Oh where have you gone brain of mine? We used to be such good friends. Why did you abandon me? Me tired. I go now. Biscuits eaten last night: none (but I had 2 pieces of banana cake and 2 pieces of chocolate cake) | ||
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| So far, Amelia has eaten broccoli, pumpkin, banana, avocado and oats. I let her feed herself, but I'm not sure if that's such a good idea: The good news (for those people within smelling distance) is that I now have to have a bath every day. I have also introduced a 7pm bedtime (for Amelia, not me) so I get time at night for some adult entertainment. That means I have a few hours to drink a glass of wine and shovel biscuits into my mouth. I knew my flimsy resolve to give up biscuits would never last. Biscuits eaten yesterday: 3 Montes (and they were goood) | ||
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| On Tuesday while I sat quietly in the loungeroom reading Harry Potter and minding my own business, I was rudely awakened from my daydreams when a mouse ran across the room. I jumped into the air and squealed like a girl. Ok, I swore like a sailor, but that isn't as ladylike (and you all know that I am a lady). My dutiful manservant swaggered in to assess the danger and after laughing at my girly reaction, he attempted to usher the creature outside while I stood out of harms way on the couch (because of course, a dangerous mouse could never climb onto a couch). The mouse however was not stupid (there are far too many cats outside) so he ran into the fireplace and never came out. I spent the rest of the day with one eye on my book and one on the fireplace. In the end I gave up my mouse-watching vigil and chose to believe that he had travelled somewhere else by floo. Biscuits eaten today: none. | ||
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| Do Kit Kats count as biscuits? Surely not. Kit Kat fingers eaten today: 3 | ||
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| I believe that when something horrific happens to you, you should share it with somebody. In that way, the horror is somewhat lessened because that person can share your pain. I choose to share my horrific moment with you. Yes you. Here goes: I had been told by a number of people that it's perfectly normal for a baby to not poo for up to 5 days. 'How wonderful!' I thought to myself, 'I wish that would happen with my baby'. Well, it happened. Those 5 days were indeed lovely. But when the poo finally emerged from her innocent little bowels, I thought it wouldn't stop. It was a horrid light-brown sticky foul-smelling sludge that covered the entire lower half of her body. That poo had made its evil way down into the bottom of her pants where it pooled at her feet and oozed in between her toes. I went to get a wet cloth to clean her with, and she grabbed her feet with her hands and tried to put them in her mouth. It took a long, long time to clean up that poo, but I stayed there and breathed in the near-lethal fumes and wiped and wiped until every last remnant of poo was gone. I don't think I can ever eat gravy again. Oh the horror, the horror... Stalks of broccoli eaten today: 2 | ||
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| I've been avoiding this blog because it's far too biscuit oriented. (You probably haven't noticed, but there are subtle references to biscuits all the way through.) You see, I've decided to drastically cut my biscuit intake. It hasn't actually worked so far, but I'm going to make a concerted effort as of today. I know what you're thinking; why on earth would I even contemplate such a terrible thing? I shall explain: My daughter will be 6 months old tomorrow and if all goes well with her mid-year review, she will be allowed to start eating food. I don't want to do the whole mushy-puree baby food thing, so I'm just going to let her eat some of whatever I'm eating. As I don't particularly want Amelia to be a diabetic morbidly obese 6 month old, I'm going to have to start eating well. Sure, I can still sneak in a biscuit and a cup of tea while she's asleep, but I'm going to severely limit my intake. After all, it's quality not quantity that counts isn't it? You see, I'm a good mummy - as long as she stays away from those wire hangers... Bisccuits eaten today: None (yay!) | ||
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| I have taken to bathing every second day. Nobody has called me stinky-pants on the days that I don't bathe, so I'm going to assume that it's ok (though perhaps people would comment on the olfactory impact of my pants if they knew how many times I wear them between washes...). Since I began to use the bath at this frequency, I have noticed that ants are fatally attracted to the rim of the bath. Before I fill the bath, I have to wash away a handful of dead ants. This happens every single time. It never happened when I used the bath every day. There are no ants anywhere else in the house. I never see any live ants, so maybe they come to my bathtub at night to die. Why is it so? Does anybody have any theories? Biscuits eaten today: 3 Tim Tams (with Jaffas). | ||
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| I'm so very excited! I got five hours sleep last night! Five hours in a row! I need more exclamation marks!!!!! (Have been waking up every hour during the night for the past five and a half months.) I'm off to buy a packet of Mint Slices to celebrate. Please feel free to share my joy. | ||
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| I was quite excited yesterday, as I went biscuit shopping. More specifically, I went Shortbread Cream shopping. The Shortbread Cream is the king of all the cream-filled biscuits. Others come close, but none can surpass the velvety goodness of this ruler of the creamy biscuit kingdom. Some choose the Monte Carlo for its sheer size. I confess I do enjoy the delightful jamminess of the cream filling, but the outer biscuit shell is too crumbly for my liking. I've lost many a chunk of Monte Carlo into the watery depths of my cup of tea. The Shortbread Cream though, can withstand a good few seconds of hot tea without compromising its structural integrity. The end result? A party in my mouth to which everyone is invited. A tea-soaked Shortbread Cream is second only to a soggy Tim Tam explosion. The only other possible usurper to the throne of the Shortbread Cream is the Kingston. The Kingston is quite a good biscuit. The cream filing is divine. In fact, I have heard that it is actually made in heaven (from angel poo). The downfall of the Kingston however is twofold. The first is simple - it is far too small. It's barely enough to constitute a single mouthful. The second became obvious to me after watching much biscuit eating on past biscuit days at work. Men do not eat Kingstons. Not even gay men. Not even English men. I'm not sure why. Perhaps it is because they are too dainty (the biscuits, not the men). Perhaps they have an adverse effect on the Y chromosome. I think more research needs to be done to find out the exact cause. I shall suggest it when I return to work. Surely they will give up on their frivolous HIV research and devote some time to this Kingston dilemma? And this brings me back to the sovereignty of the Shortbread Cream. It is perfect as it is. No research is needed. No improvements can be made. It is all it ever needs to be. Long may it reign. Biscuits eaten today: 3 Shortbread Creams | ||
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| Yesterday the Kebab Shop Man told me to go home and prepare for a mighty storm. Normally I agree with all the pronouncements of Kebab Shop Man, for he is commonly known as the Nostradamus of the inner west. This however was his first meteorological prediction so I was somewhat skeptical. Upon my arrival home I received an email from an English gentleman warning of the apocalyptic storm approaching. I was beginning to warm to the idea, but I was still somewhat dubious. Englishmen you see, cannot be trusted for they are all drunken hooligans who tend to embellish the truth in order to impress the ladies. The only way to confirm these dire warnings was to hear it from someone on the television machine, as they never lie (except for that wanton harlot Naomi Robson, but I digress...). Some guy on Sky News told me of gale-force winds and pounding rain. Later, Tim Bailey predicted winds of 100kmh. I took the washing off the line and waited for the impending doom. I'm still waiting. It was very disappointing. Not as bad as the Halleys Commet Anticlimax of 1986 but disappointing nonetheless. On a brighter note, I learned from CNN that there has been some flooding in Texas and they had to use rubbish trucks to rescue some people from a trailer park. Hehehe... trailer trash. Biscuits eaten today: 1 Scotch Finger | ||
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| I'm writing this entry from the depths of an ice cave in Antarctica. Ok, I'm in the kitchen but it's mighty cold in here. I think my partner is descended from polar bears. He's outside hanging a load of cold wet nappies on the line. Soon he will plunge his bare hands into the icy cold depths of the poo bucket. I always have to use gloves to do that. Not because of the poo, just to protect my delicate lady hands from the cold. I think it's time for my annual winter hibernation. I shall remain inside unless absolutely necessary. There will be times that I'll have to leave the house for emergencies like re-stocking the biscuit cupboard, but I plan to spend the majority of the winter months within a 5 metre radius of the heater. That is something of a dangerous plan too, for I have recently purchased a new heater and on reading the instruction manual I have discovered the following alarming piece of information; "This heater is hot when in use". If only I'd known before I bought it... Biscuits eaten today: 1 Scotch Finger. | ||
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| I recently read a story in a newspaper about a woman who is having a baby. If the baby is a girl she will give it her own last name. If the baby is a boy, it will have her husband's last name. I think that's a fantastic idea and everybody should do it. Except me. Unfortunately I couldn't do that to my daughter because my last name sucks. I'm actually getting married just so that I can rid myself of my surname (and also because of the love and all that crap). It would all be so much simpler if we had numbers instead of names. I would be 796 because that sounds both distinguished and mysterious. Biscuits eaten today: none (but don't panick for it is but mid-afternoon and there is still an abundance of biscuit-eating hours left in the day). | ||
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| When I lived in Brisbane, I once had a shower (yes, just once). When I was drying myself after this momentous occasion, I looked down and found that an enormous spider was also enjoying the warm snuggliness of my towel. After that I always made sure to shake out my towel and thoroughly inspect both sides before use. A couple of years later when I had moved to Sydney I figured that there was less wildlife about and my towel inspections were probably no longer necessary. Less than a week later I stepped out of the shower and dried my face and when I pulled my towel away I saw some long thin things hanging over my eyes. I looked in the mirror to discover that they were the long hairy legs of a gigantic huntsman. And so the towel inspections began again. More time passed, and my vigilance started to slip. This morning when I picked up my towel I also picked up a vast handful of spider. Now I don't usually mind spiders, but all 3 of these towel spiders have been as big as my hand and they have made me scream like a girl. Let this be a lesson to you all - Be ever vigilant with your towel inspections. Here's a picture of today's towel spider. I took him outside and poked him with a stick:
Biscuits eaten today: 3 jam drops, 1 tim tam. | ||
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| I have just finished baking some jam drops (thanks Angela for the recipe) so I'm quite excited as I get to eat them while I type. They're actually rather fancy because I've used wild fig and vanilla jam. Not sure I believe that the figs are wild as they're usually such a placid sort of fruit (though I suppose Mr Shakespeare always had something lewd to say about them). The important thing of course is that they are full of sugary biscuity goodness. I also made a new friend for my daughter. I call him Biscuit Man for rather obvious reasons:
Biscuits eaten today: 5 jam drops | ||
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| I have very sad news for all the rat lovers out there. The rat that lived in my compost heap is dead. I heard a mighty battle taking place. There was much shrieking and moaning and wailing. Unfortunately, it was all over by the time I got there so I can give you none of the gory details. All I can report is that a cat ate the rat. It was a very Dr Seuss moment. Poor, poor rat. There was so much I didn't know about him. What was his name? Did he have a wife and kids? Was he carrying the plague? I never even got a chance to poke him with a stick for he was not very amenable to that sort of thing. On a brighter note, I went biscuit shopping yesterday. Biscuits eaten today: 5 Wafer Bites. | ||
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