Tess and I have taken a podcast hiatus for the indefinite future, but I realised that I miss blathering on about the things I've been reading, listening to and watching lately. So instead, I'm going to periodically bore you all to death with the random things I've been consuming.

A book...

Or two, or three. I just finished Caroline Overington's The One Who Got Away. Her books are much-hyped, and she is an excellent journalistic writer, but I was underwhelmed. Also on the finished pile: Jasper Jones by Craig Silvey (excellent, like an Aussie To Kill a Mockingbird), Everything I Never Told You by Celeste Ng (okay, not groundbreaking but suitable captivating) and Modern Lovers by Emma Straub (fun easy read about maintaining adult friendships). Up next is Clem Ford's Fight Like a Girl and the new Man Booker winner The Sellout, both of which look excellent.

A product recommendation...

MAC lipstick in Mangrove. It's a good orange-red for ladies who look weird with pinky-red lippie (me, I'm talking about me) and literally lasts all bloody day.

A show...

Catastrophe. Several people have recommended it to me lately, and it is SO GOOD. Like literally so funny I have to pause it until I stop laughing. Also, the fashion is excellent, if you are into that.

An article...

How To Invest In Yourself. I'm planning on bringing back the birthday list and this article has some good tips on actually getting things done.

A thing I've written...

Dealing with negative feedback

A podcast...

The Real Thing, an Aussie podcast by the ABC featuring stories from the 'real' Australia

A forget-me-not...

Archie was talking to Mum about my uncle, who passed away about 13 years ago.

A: Is he a skeleton?

M: Well, maybe.

A: Because skeletons are really good drummers.

M: Oh.


Archie walks past Jed and brushes his shoulder.

Jed: *dramatically throws himself on the floor.* ARCHIE HURT ME! You a BUM, Archie!

Archie: *looks at me, rolls his eyes* Sometimes brothers are crazy, mum.


IMG_9329 Jed is stuck in the doona cover. He and Archie are both laughing hysterically as Jed flails around, a tiny body stuck in a huge polka dot bag. “No help me! Jed okay!” as he clearly is not okay.


Archie turns four tomorrow. He wants me to sing him to sleep, so we snuggle under the (aforementioned) doona and curl our fingers together. I start with It’s a Small World, which I sang for hours and hours when he was a tiny baby, slowly sure that I was destroying both of us. He never slept well. Even now, he bends into me with sleepy eyes, but still wriggling and jiggling his legs. “I am very very tired but my body won’t sleep.” I understand that feeling, of exhaustion tipping into jittery wakefulness. We do some deep breathing as I rub his back, calling sleep in.


I eat baked chicken by the glow of the computer, shoveling and not tasting, but filling my hunger for words and news and stories and people.


There is a black wallaby in our front yard. It stays stock still as the boys yell out to it. “Wobbily! Do you have a baby in your pocket!” It turns and flees back down the hill to the river, bouncing comically through the scrub.


Someone has plastered the bridge and the roundabout with election campaign posters, or rather, anti-campaign posters. I feel a bubble of annoyance: surely this place, of all places, is above all that. I like to filter my news and thus my outrage.


We are going to Bali on Saturday. I sit in front of the heater wearing three layers as I pack the boy’s gear: three shorts, three t-shirts, a huge bottle of sunscreen, thongs, hats. I only have one decent bikini; it might be time to accept that I am 30 and have birthed two children and get a one piece. But my rising feminist streak wants to wear a goddamn bikini until I am 80 and a wrinkling, sagging old broad.

The one where I got pneumonia

Me, 22, in Turkey. With dreadlocks. I am having a one woman pity party today. I have pneumonia in my left lung. (which sounds much more dramatic than it actually is - the reality is just heaps of coughing and an achey chest), I have an extremely messy house/car/life at the moment, caught conjunctivitis in my right eye and have run out of tea. Drama.

But! The kids are at kinder and I have just got back from the doctors and am now drinking some god-awful ginger and turmeric concoction which literally tastes like dirt but is supposed to make me better, am loaded up on antibiotics and staying in bed for the next three hours until it's kinder pickup time. And I am going to HEAL this stupid lung with the sheer power of my mind, and modern science.

I'm also working on healing a whole heap of other shit: perfectionism, this food crap (always), the cult of busy, the need to have a Design Files-worthy house at all times. We are going to Bali in three weeks and my Bali body will look much like my current body: a pale size 12 sack of breath and blood. That sounds gross, right? But bodies are literally just a big ol' sack of bones and organs and mucous, which we drag around and abuse and prod and ignore. Our bodies create life and people and dreams and then cop flack for not looking like they did when we were 16. I'm never going to be all 'my stretch marks are empowering!' because I'm slathering the vitamin E cream like the next thirty-year-old mother of two, but jeez, I wish I appreciated this bag of bones more when I was 22 and jumping off a boat into the ocean in southern Turkey, or spending three weeks on a beach towel in Zanzibar, or meeting my future husband when I was 20 and wearing my mum's engagement dress. I had a huge blister on my toe which was bleeding profusely and preeeetty gross. He didn't care. Because when you are falling for someone, you accept their blood and gore, right? Maybe part of accepting yourself is accepting your own blood and gore, the phlegmy lungs and start enjoying the forced recuperation from the busyness.

Anyway, I'm back to watching Broad City and coughing like a 75-year-old smoker. And washing down Big Pharma with some ayurvedic turmeric juice. Whatever works, right?




A realistic bucket list

SONY DSCI have lots of lists of things that I want to do, or that I will do one day. Outlines for books that I haven't written, sketches of houses I'll never build, patterns for clothes I'll never make. I used to make a list of things on my birthday every year that I wanted to achieve by my next birthday, and it was an awesome way to make sure I stayed intentional and focussed. I never want to wake up one day and be 85, and think holy shit, what have I even done, you know?! I like the idea of making goals or plans, and just freaking making them happen. So life doesn't just drift on by... Anyway, I have made a rough list of things that I want to do in the next ten-ish years. Some of these are big, some are little, but I'm going to make an effort to get them all done.

In no particular order...

Write a really good book.

Obviously, as someone who has been in some form of paid writing gig since I was 18 but has only just begun calling herself a writer, I have always wanted to write a book. I know I can do it if I make it actually happen, it's just a matter of prioritising and focus.

Grow heaps of our own veggies and fruit.

I have gotten VERY into gardening lately (living on a couple of barren acres with heaps of water and potential will do that) and look forward to the day when my veggie garden is killing it and I can make a whole meal that I grew myself.

Go on a bike riding holiday with the kids.

We really want to take them riding along the Danube, or the Mekong, or the Mississippi, or basically any cool river. I reckon they will need to be at least 10 and 12 to fully enjoy it, so I'll start saving now for the trip in 2025.

Get really strong.

I don't mean fit, I mean strong. I want to get strong enough to kick down a door if necessary. Twice-weekly pilates probably won't cut it, so one day I want to concentrate on getting really freaking buff.

Buy art.

I own heaps and heaps of art. Prints, original works, reproductions. But I really want to buy an original piece of Aboriginal art. I always scout galleries whenever I get the opportunity and am just waiting to find a piece that makes me weak at the knees.

Get to zero debt. 

Including mortgages, credit cards, and cars. Totally doable if we go gangbusters. We don't actually have any real debt except the house, so will focus on hammering the repayments over the next few years.





6am. Archie bolts out of his bedroom, scratching the sleep out of his eyes. He slams his bedroom door with such ferocity that the picture frames rattle. “I’m so hungry, mum. I was just thinking about having weet bix with yoghurt instead of milk. Is that funny? Or not?” 9am. Jed is refusing shoes. He is full of rage, tears and snot and fury smearing his cherubic face into a snarl. I throw three pairs into the car and tell him a complicated story about Grandpa and motorbikes as I wrestle him into the carseat. He looks sadly out the window as we cross the bridge, still sobbing. “No ducks, mum.”

10am. The goat in our front yard nibbles the patch of Christmas lilies. We eyeball each other as I scull lukewarm tea on the deck. She uses her horn to scratch her matted fur, then turns her back and saunters down the hill.

12pm. I remember a conversation with the old owners of our house as I clamber up the hill to the washing line. “Snakes everywhere, ‘specially when it starts warming up. We found them in the compost bin, under the car. I stepped outside one day and a big tiger snake wrapped himself around my leg.” We laugh together but I feel cold as I scan the ground.

1pm. The program I use to do our business accounts is frozen. I slyly open up trashy websites and scroll through endless beauty advice. I contemplate dyeing my hair again, or eyelash extensions. Instead, I find a tube of hand cream in my bag and slather it on my dry, garden-worn knuckles.

3pm. I hear Jed calling me from the carpark as I walk up to kinder. “MUM’S CAR. Hi Mum. MUM!” He points frantically at all his friends, his teachers. His favourite ball. Showing me his day.

4.30pm. Archie is following me through the garden, holding the end of a hose. He is obsessed with rescue vehicles, outer space and knights. He pores over the birthday cake book. “I want the swimming pool for my party day, and the castle for my actual birthday, mum, okay?”

6pm. I clean the kitchen while the boys and their dad empty the bath of water, one splash at a time. Weetbix from this morning is cemented to the floor. I scratch my nails into it, then have a go with the Chux. “You could render a house with fucking Weetbix!”, I yell to Lee, not for the first time.

7.15pm. Archie and I lay in his bed, telling stories of knights who fly space rockets to rescue aliens. He smells of sweat and dinner. I pretend to tickle him but take a deep inhale behind his ear, my hand on his round belly.

8.30pm. I lay on my bed, idly scrolling through instagram. Other people’s kids. Impossibly clean rooms. Green smoothies. I wander into the kitchen and make sultana toast smeared thick with butter.

10pm. I shove my earplugs in and mutter “goodnight, honey. Love ya.” to Lee. His response is muffled but he pats me on the bum and we hook our feet together, facing away from each other as the twin glow from our Kindles joins the moonlight, and the world retreats into inertia.





2016-04-01 08.48.16So, we have had a huge month. We moved house on Good Friday, immediately all got gastro, then a week later I hosted a huge party for my 30th birthday. What a start to the year, amiright? It has been beyond hectic and I feel like things will hopefully start slowing down soon. Or not. My mind is chockers so consider this post a brain dump (I actually hate that term because DUMP is never a good choice of word).

  • Jed is sort of toilet training and is determined to do wees standing up. He is one year old and about three feet tall so it's not really working for him. Cute though.
  • I got my nails done for my birthday and they are this gel stuff, very fancy. I love looking down at them and feeling like a glam grown up.
  • We are all going to Bali in June and I literally own zero hot weather gear, so checked out the Myer sale today and found a pair of cute denim shorts on sale for $19 down from $80. And they were size six. I am not a size six by any means, so thanks Country Road for the positive boost.
  • My car is so insanely messy right now. It is filthy and I am horrified, but clearly not enough to do anything about it.
  • I am loving living here. We have seen rock wallabies and kangaroos in the front yard, a brown snake and heaps of cool little birds.
  • Speaking of snakes, Jed is pretty into snakes and whenever he sees a millipede he's like 'Mum! Snake! Sssssss!' That's all very cute, but yesterday he was up near our washing line (ie literally in the bush with a stunning view of the Dandenongs) and came down and says nonchalantly, "Snake up dere mum." Is is a millipede? Or a freaking tiger snake? We will never know.
  • I am doing quite a bit of writing over at the Creative Women's Circle blog. I love chatting to interesting dames about their creative practices.
  • I have been getting really into meditating using the Headspace program. It's really practical and simple, and doesn't have any of the woo woo shite that some other meditation apps love.
  • I want to do a bit of a reno update post, with pics of our new house, but we all know that it will be a crappy iPhone photoshoot so I'm putting it off. That said, the house is looking mighty fine and I am loving myself sick in this new space.
  • Archie and I spent the day together yesterday and it was ace. We don't get much one on one time so a whole day of library visits, cafe hangs and Legoing was perfect. He is turning out to be such a cool little person.

I think that's all. Now I'm going to watch Broad City and crochet in my dressing gown, like the 30 year old nanna that I am.



On power and violence

I've been following the wretched story of George Pell and Tim Minchin and the child sexual abuse by clergy in Ballarat. And Melbourne. And Sydney and small and large towns all across Australia and the world. And pondering how this ties in with bigger ideas of power and religion and abuse. Of masculinity and feminism, sexual violence, rape culture and again, power.

We seem to be at a precipice of change:  victims and survivors of long-buried abuse are taking the lead of a the generation of people who didn't grow up under the stifling social norms of the mid-century, and won't accept the what-will-people-think excuse.


The US justice system told Kesha that she must continue working with her abuser.

George Pell won't come home and face the music, and (surprise surprise) a Catholic right-wing columnist defended him.

Bill Cosby. Rolf Harris. Jimmy Savile.

One in three women globally are survivors of sexual violence. This number does not count the women who have been felt up in a taxi, had their hands unwillingly shoved down a man's pants, been leered at on a tram, had their bra strap flicked or their shirt pulled down or or or...  I am yet to meet a women who hasn't experienced any of the above.

I have two boys, who will one day become men and enjoy all the privilege that comes with their gender. The best I can do is mother those boys and teach them about consent, and power, and respect.

Here is a brilliant, wrenching post by Bec Woolf about how sexual violence begins with teaching men not to rape. 

And this article from the Good Men Project on how to do that, starting from when boys are toddlers. 


Go and give your kids a cuddle.

How to handle open for inspections when you have kids

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The auction for our Coburg house is tomorrow. Fingers crossed, y'all, that some megazillionaire comes up and decides to pay a mint for it. Chances are not likely, but I'm staying positive. This is the second house we've sold at auction (we auctioned the Northcote house  and NO ONE BID. Stressful much.), so we have pretty limited experience. We've bought three at auction but they were total dumps - with the exception of Yarra Yarra - so it was a whole other ball game as there were no pretensions about the value of the properties.

That said, I have quite a bit of experience with setting up a house for rental inspections, open for inspections, photoshoots and whatnot. Adding kids to the mix adds a new level of angst to the new process because no potential buyer wants to see a dirty nappy under the couch or unknown smears on the kitchen walls. Also kids = STUFF. There is plenty of other info online about adding value and prepping your house (here, here and here), but here's my top advice cobbled together from the last six weeks of OFIs + watching the Block.

Do one huge clean, then maintain.

We have found it easier to do a humungous deep clean before the first opening, then attempt to maintain that level for the whole campaign. Lee and I both set aside a Saturday morning and did stuff we don't usually do, like clean the skirtings and lights, wipe down walls, wash the windows and sweep the random piles of leaves out from behind the bins. Once that's done, it's much easier to give everything a quick wipe or sweep before each opening.

Get outta the house early.

If you can, try to get out of the house well before the opening. We gave our agent a key so we never have to meet him here before the openings. The main reason is that getting two kids out of the house can be a mission, and you don't want to hold up the opening because someone has lost a shoe or put a cheese stick in the toilet.

Pay attention to the garden and front door.

This a real estate mantra: first impressions count, curb appeal, etc etc. I think it totally makes a difference if you make the entrance and front path area look extra decent, though. Shake out your doormat, yank out the weeds and put a plant next to the front door. Easy.

Don't have a stinky house.

I listened to something the other day about the inventors of Febreze, the cleaning spray that dissolves bad smells. Apparently they thought it would be super-popular but the sales were really low and they didn't know why. They did some more research and realized that people get so used to gross smells that they don't think they have a problem. I have this secret fear that my house smells bad and I am so used to it that I can't tell, so I make sure to take out the bins, clean the toilets and light a magnificent candle before the opening. I sometimes spray lavender oil around, especially if Jed has had a blueberry nappy explosion recently.

Get rid of stuff.

Do a humungous declutter. Pack away anything that is too personal, too weird or too ugly. Make sure your indoor plants don't look too dead, try and hide any annoying cables and leave plenty of open space and clear surfaces. This might mean that your cupboards are bulging, but most people won't open the cupboards. And if they do, they will be punished by the avalanche of random clutter that falls upon them.

Be prepared for random questions.

Things that people have asked our real estate agent about include questions about nearby building developments, the wall colour, whether the deck and pergola have council permits and if the pizza oven is a fixture (because an oven made from 300+ bricks is pretty portable, right?). You will get weird questions. Be prepared for them.


By the time you get to the opening for inspections, it's usually too late to do any big painting or landscaping stuff. The most important thing is that your house looks clean, tidy and appealing. And doesn't smell weird. Good luck!

On bravery

2016-01-03 13.33.29I make new year's resolutions every year. And every year I fail. I actually recently found a list of goals for 2015 and guess how many actually happened? Zero. They were things like 'Give up carbs' and 'Run 3 x week and Pilates 2 x week' and 'Blog 3 x weekly'. Ain't nobody got time for that, especially not a mum of two little boys with a business, a renovation and a Netflix addiction. Clearly, something is really wrong with my goals. This year, after completing the workbook for The Resolution Project (and ending up in happy-ish tears) I have decided on two guiding affirmations, rather than strict but totally unachievable goals. They are...

Be brave,


I can do hard things.

A lot of the stuff that I don't do but want to (write more, take bigger risks, finally get more into roller derby, tackle my weird food shit) is based on a fear of failure, rejection and pain. By telling myself to be brave and that I can do hard things, it will help shift the day-to-day decisions I make about facing the hard stuff.

In light of this, I am planning on implementing a few strategies. This year is the Year of Hard But Rewarding Things - writing more, both here and elsewhere; weekly roller derby training; and the hardest one - no dieting. Wish me luck.

To being brave and doing hard shit!


2015 in review

pexels-photo This is technically my last day in the office for the year (which is not to say that I don't have stacks of work still to do) but from next week, it is all about cooking, wrapping, shopping and eating. Merry Christmas, baby!

The highlights:

Renting out our Brunswick house to my best friend.

Jethro turned one, started walking and developed his ridiculously feisty ratbag personality.

I did more freelance writing on all sorts of interesting topics.

I started running, then stopped, then started again, then gave up on being a 'good' runner and just embraced my sweaty, beetroot-faced style.

I got back into reading books and smashed through some epic reads.

Our Brunswick house was photographed for the Herald Sun.

I met some fantastic ladies through the podcast I co-host, The New Normal.

I dyed my hair pastel pink!

The lowlights:

We encountered some serious bedtime dramas with Archie for a few months, until I just let it go and enjoyed the snuggles.

My mum and grandma have been besieged with scary health dramas.

We moved house. Again.

We had no bathroom for a week thanks to our previous tenants and had a messy court situation to get recompensed.

Most embarrassing:

Archie dacked me (pants and undies to my ankles) in a busy cafe. #cry

Most spontaneous:

We bought another house!

Most improved:

Lee has been home a lot more and working less, thanks to our excellent awesome workshop manager.


It seems that 2015 was a hard one for lots of people, but when I look back over the past 12 months heaps of awesome stuff has happened. Here's to a happy, renovation-filled 2016.



Yarra Yarra

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I'm just going to ignore the fact that I haven't written anything here in, oh, FOUR MONTHS and proceed onwards...

On Saturday we bought a new house. Not just any house (apparently fourth time's a charm?), but a Robin Boyd-designed home - the Arnold house, named after Kelson and Ann Arnold who commissioned the house in 1963. We purchased it directly from the Arnold's kids after Ann's death in April this year.

The first house I ever lived in is about 200 metres up the road. It feels a bit like coming home and a bit like going backwards, but I know first hand that Warrandyte is an excellent place to grow up. We can see the river from every room in the house (besides the poky little bathrooms), have plenty of land for my grand plans of chickens and beehives and a robust vegie garden and a pizza oven and a mountain bike track, and are only a short walk from the bakery, the river and the playground. It is a two-minute drive or 15-minute walk from my parent's place.

To be honest, we didn't buy it because it is a Boyd. We bought it for the above reasons, but we can appreciate the history and significance of the home. People have done their PHDs on this house! It is magnificent. True, it needs heaps of work (No insulation anywhere! No storage in the bathrooms! No laundry!) buy god knows we love a project.

Above you can see some original photos of the house, and below are ones from the real estate agent of what it looks like today.





The first thing to do is insulate the ceiling, as there in nothing in there at all. As soon as we get access, we will rip down the Cane-ite ceiling tiles, shove heaps on insulation in and add a few downlights, then replace with new softboard tiles in exactly the same way. The house is full of hard surfaces, so while using MDF would be cheaper, softboard will absorb sound too.

We are planning on replicating and echoing Boyd's design as much as possible, especially in the kitchen and garden, whilst improving the functionality of the house.

I'm feeling in limbo at the moment... my mind has already moved house, but we still have to go through the process of tidying up our Coburg house and preparing it for auction in mid-February. The next six months are big for our little family - moving a house, selling a house, renovating a house, beginning childcare for Jed and kinder for Archie, more work hours for me (finally!) and a big phase of growth for the business. Fun times ahead!


If not dieting, then what? AKA The one where I overshare about my food issues

I have just started a book called If not dieting, then what? by Dr Rick Kausman. I randomly picked it up in Brunswick Savers because the title is kind of catchy, and seriously, I think this book will changed my life.

Since I was about 13, I have been on countless diets. Weight Watchers (twice), Atkins (constipation!), gluten-free (gross), vegetarian (oh hell no), vegan (for about 3 hours until I realised I couldn't eat cheese, chocolate or bacon #veganfail), paleo (missed bread too much), juice fasts (missed chewing too much), raw foodism (WTF) the Michelle Bridges one (ain't nobody got time to exercise for an hour a day), the I Quit Sugar one (Sarah Fucking Wilson) and some bizarre thing where I ate a lot of cottage cheese and spring onions and had to have monthly blood tests... and the weird thing is that besides my student exchange to France in Year 11 where I put on 12 kilos due to basically eating cheese and butter for several months, I have hovered somewhere between 65 and 70kg since I was about 17. For a 175cm woman who has had two kids, I am not overweight. Rationally, I know this. I even mostly like my body - it has made two incredible humans and allows me to do all sorts of cool things.

I am a rampant feminist and get such rage when I see magazine covers and advertisements that are aimed at making women feel like shit. I know that weight is just a number and that scales should be banned. I know that exercise and eating well should be about feeling good and being healthy, not being 'bikini ready' - whatever the hell that even means.

I've always had this feeling that if I just found the right diet, the right way of eating, then I would feel better. I would be able to calmly eat dessert without spiralling into a pit of guilt. I wouldn't automatically calculate calories in my head when assessing a menu. I'd be able to enjoy my food more and be disciplined and resolute and glowy. After getting halfway through the first chapter of this book, I had a huge light bulb moment. It isn't food or fat or diets that are the problem. It is my relationship with food, and eating more broadly.

I kind of had an inkling of this a few years ago when I went to see a nutritionist who specialised in eating disorders and appropriate eating habits. I ended up in tears in the first session and was so affected by the experience that I never went back. It brought up all my feelings about food and I realised just how deep this stuff goes.

Anyway, I've only read the first chapter so I'm sure there are many more truthbombs to come. There are loads of resources about mindful and positive eating on the If not dieting website.

Here's an article by Dr Rick about the realities of weight loss. Mind blowing stuff.

And another one about how a healthy relationship with eating is more complex than just ditching the diet.

I know this is a pretty personal post, I just needed to write it out. And god knows I've shared everything else on here, so why not my weird eating angst ?!


Things I Feel Guilty About

I feel guilty most of the time. Someone smart once told me that only good people feel guilty, so at least I have that. The stupidest part of the whole guilt thing is how I  feel guilty if I do something... and guilty if I don't. Oxymoron, much? Or maybe just moronic. I think my lesson here is to CHILL THE EFF OUT.

1. Sending my kid to creche twice a week. 

He gets so much out of it. Socialising, how to deal with other adults telling him what to do, more interesting activities than I do at home... at yet, I still feel enormous guilt about it. Mainly because he still gets upset on creche mornings, despite being fine five minutes after he settles in. I'm sure it's harder for me than it is for him. Dude likes to make his mum suffer.

2. Looking at my phone in front of the kids.

This is probably my biggest issue. Less mindful parental attention means more demanding kids means more rebellious teenagers means more drugs on the street means we're all going to die. I HATE how much I use my phone, and even downloaded an app (Moment) which tracks how long I am on my phone everyday. I am constantly checking emails, the weather, how many steps I've taken, the weather, my emails, Instagram, how long it will take us to walk to the zoo, my emails... so freaking boring. The app sends me a popup when I've been on it too much, which is making a big difference. But still. There is work to be done here, friends.

3. Not running.

Okay, I actually don't feel that guilty about this. I started the Couch to 5k running program and LOVED it for the first three weeks... then winter came, I got cold and wussy and tired, and um, couch-bound. The only time of the day I can run is 6am, before Lee leaves for work at 7am, and DUDE, as if me running at 6am was ever going to be sustainable. Also, I think I actually hate running. So for now, I am enjoying my soft, squishy mumbod and will start again when the weather is less frigid.

4. Eating sh*t

I'm looking at you, Baker's Delight Custard Scrolls. Also, leftover birthday cake/s, hunks of camembert, and seventy zillion cups of tea with sugar a day. I only drink tea with sugar when I'm home alone (by home alone, obviously I mean with the kids here too. I dream of the day I am actually in this home ALONE.) because I am a sneaky motherfucker and if a tree falls and no one hears it, does it make a sound? If I have sugar in my tea on my own, is it really unhealthy? Is it? IS IT?

Do you feel guilty about stuff? But obviously not guilty enough to actually do much about it? For the love of god, tell me I am normal.