Nutella? I Call BULLSHIT

A couple of years ago, when I was releasing When My Husband Does The Dishes, I contacted the Australian distributors of Nutella. Given that there were dozens of references to Nutella in my book, dozens of references to Nutella in my blog, and hundreds of references to Nutella in my tweets (and that I was so famous for my Nutella addiction I was being sent Nutella recipes, images and information almost daily), I thought that perhaps they would like to sponsor my launch.

My request went through to marketing, who seemed interested in the idea. I was in discussions with them right up until the last minute. And then, a couple of weeks before the launch, they changed their mind. Apparently the way that I portrayed Nutella in my musings - as a big jar of chocolatey fantabulousness that one digs into with a spoon with animal abandon - was not in line with their policy of promoting Nutella as a 'healthy breakfast option'.

Yup.

Well guess what Nutella?

NOBODY BELIEVES THAT.

Last night I saw the latest ad for Nutella on TV. It is full of delightful images of morning, and healthy, glowing people, and sunshine, and attractive, sporty men. And I watched it and I threw my Nutella-encrusted spoon at the TV  because yet again the Nutella folks are lying to me.

THIS IS NOT HOW WE EAT NUTELLA, people! In fact, this is not WHO eats Nutella! The ad is full of men (post surfing, in their business suits, pulling a coffee) and a smattering of happy kids, eating Nutella on wholesome bread and toast. The only women in the ad are either serving breakfast to their children, or giggling alongside their Nutella-scoffing boyfriends. (Two of the chicks manage to score a single bite of their boyfriends' Nutella toast, but it is quickly snatched away. Clearly one bite is all they're allowed. Perhaps the boyfriends are worried they'll gain weight?)

I am so tired of the Nutella propaganda that bears no relation to the truth. For once, I would love Nutella to release an ad that is real. Pre-menstrual women weeping and shoveling Nutella into their faces with a spoon. Post-menstrual women eating Nutella for dessert. Gleeful pre-schoolers painting with Nutella all over the kitchen. Teenage girls gorging on Nutella crepes in a cafe. Mums eating their kids' leftover crusts with a three  inch topping of Nutella. Nutella fudgsicles. Nutella brownies. Nutella microwave mud cake. Nutella on ice cream. Nutella as the treat food it really is.

If Nutella is a healthy hazelnut spread, then I am a cave woman who hunts for food. Except that I'm not. Okay, so I may have the tiniest remnants of cave woman DNA in me, but I am a 21st century Jew who buys instant noodles and cans of peaches. Similarly, though Nutella may technically have a few hazelnuts in it, it is essentially a chocolate spread that we eat when we're depressed or need to celebrate or are feeling fat or one of the billion other reasons we women eat chocolate. We don't eat it because it's healthy, because it's not. And and we certainly don't feel virtuous when we feed it to our kids, because it's chocolate (although we do feed it to them anyway, because they love it and it shuts them up and we are crap parents).

So Nutella, please come clean and start telling the truth in your advertising.

And when I launch my next book, I would really love to hear from you.

He Has Rules. Why Can't I?

Today I read a fascinating article about Abercrombie & Fitch CEO Michael Jeffries, and the rules his staff must follow. They are, for example, required to wear A&F boxer shorts (just the men, I expect; it would create a visible panty line for the ladies) and use the words 'No problem' when taking orders.

Well, I feel I have come far enough in my career as a Busy Working Mum to subject my own staff to bizarre and pointless rules. Unfortunately, I don't have any staff, except for Gab the Wonder Babysitter, who actually bosses me around.

But this will not deter me, because I will surely have staff one day, and it is better to sort these things out early.

So here they are: my Ten Rules for Dealing With Kerri Sackville, CEO of Nothing In Particular.

1. When greeting me, the salutation "Hi Kerri, have you had a facelift? You look amazing!" should be used. This may occasionally be alternated with "Wow, have you lost weight?" or "You are positively glowing today!"
2. On parting, the words "Thank you for being you," should be used. Just because.
3. There must be a constant supply of Nutella handy at all times.
4. There is to be no white chocolate in my presence at any time. White chocolate is not real chocolate, and it's very existence as a form of confectionery offends me.
5. Children should be presented to me only when clean, fed, in a cheery disposition, and having had completed their homework.
6. All iPhones should be switched onto silent or set to an acceptable ring tone: In Da Club by 50 Cent, Night Fever by the Bee Gees, or Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want by The Smiths. Obviously.
7. A bed must be available to me between 1pm and 3pm every afternoon, wherever I am. There will be absolute silence at this time and I am not to be disturbed under any circumstances. Unless Simon Baker calls, in which case put him right through. 
8. All calls from The Architect are to be vetted. If he is calling to tell me he will be late home, or to discuss finances, or to arrange a dinner with other architects, he is to be told I am unavailable. If he is calling with messages of love, or to disclose a recent financial windfall, he may be put through.
9. I require five minutes of shoulder massage per hour of working, plus one hour of full body massage from six till seven pm whilst the staff prepare dinner.
10. I am Off Duty from 10pm at night. All enquiries after this time are to be directed to The Architect. Oh, and Architect, this applies to you too. If you haven't submitted all of your 'enquiries' to me by this time, they can wait until tomorrow. 

Thank you for your co-operation in this matter.

Kerri

Why I'll Never Be Invited Anywhere, Ever Again

As a busy mum blogger, I received many invitations from PR companies to attend many different functions. Usually I refuse, because I am not so interested in laundry powder or extra-strength deodorant, no matter how revolutionary they are.

Occasionally, though, I get an offer I cannot refuse. Yesterday, for example, I was invited with my entire family to dine at a restaurant about 45 minutes out of Sydney. What made this offer even more appealing was that we were to be transported there by Hummer. And although I have my own car, a fancy shmancy super long car with disco lights and a mini-bar just blew that right out of the water.

So of course I said yes. Which the PR company may very well be deeply regretting.

The Architect, three kids and I drove to the city, where we were to meet The Hummer. The Architect dropped us off and parked the car, and we were ushered into the vehicle. Five adults were already inside - a PR rep and his friend, a Mind Food reviewer, and another food reviewer and her bestie.

"Hello!" I waved to all breezily, as I slid onto the padded couch and right off the end onto my bum. Yes, being a newbie to The Hummer, I had miscalculated the length of the couch and had fallen onto my arse in front of five complete strangers.

Yup. On my arse.

Not an auspicious start.

The Architect arrived and we drove off. The kids drank water from the mini-bar and I got stuck into the champagne, which helped ease the mortification of my fall. That is, until I put my glass down into one of the car's glass-holders, there was a slight lurch, and it tipped over, all over the mini bar, all over the floor, and all over my kids.

Awkward.

"Sorry!" I called out to the five adults. "Won't happen again!"

Two minutes later, the four year old's drink did exactly the same thing, only this time a little bit splashed onto the pants of one of the adults.

"Sorry," I said again, less certainly this time. I drank some more champagne.

At the restaurant, 42 Bannerman in Glenhaven, we were seated away from our Hummer companions, for which I was profoundly grateful. A chance to start afresh. Be reborn, if you will. Make an excellent impression on a completely new group of potential friends.

We ate the delicious bread and incredible olives, exquisite quail and tuna, and then the first entree of pasta arrived.

"Spunky!" my daughter exclaimed loudly. Our table companions looked up.

Because yes, the pasta was indeed a ragout of rabbit. Presumably not our rabbit, as he had been eaten by a fox, but someone's else's rabbit.

"I can't eat Spunky!" she cried in horror.

"Can't you just pretend it's chicken?" asked our host.

The pasta, however, smelled delectable. Now, I haven't ever eaten Spunky rabbit, and I couldn't bring myself to begin. I did, however, eat around the rabbit, pulling the buttery pasta out of the bowl and leaving the, er, 'scampering chicken' on my plate.

It was heaven.

Shortly afterwards an opera singer began a performance, filmed by a photographer. At this point, my four year old decided that it was time to run in and out of the restaurant repeatedly, and what better place to run than between the singer and the camera filming him. It was mortifying. I do, however, look forward to seeing the footage of the event, as an magnificant tenor performs solemnly in Italian, while a little girl in a pink tutu and Dora tee shirt races around him.

Sadly, my children lost the plot before the final course was served, and demanded that The Hummer take them home right now. Our delightful host, who was sitting right opposite us, pretended not to mind that we were bailing before the end of the party. I, on the other hand, didn't bother pretending not to mind, because I wanted my main course and I did not want to go home. Unfortunately, in this instance, the children won, not because I was bending to their will, but because they were loud, and I was preserving what little dignity and reputation I had left.

We did, however, manage to grab three huge bowls of vanilla bean and nutella gelato before we left. Because there was no way I was going home without that.

So we got back in The Hummer and were deposited back in the city, tired and a little tipsy* and still wondering what main course we had missed out on.

And then The Architect forgot where he had parked the car. But that, my friends, is another story.

*that would be me

Sponsor A Fingernail In Need

I know this will not come as a surprise to any of you, because of course you've all read my recent memoir, The Little Book of Anxiety. But for those of you who enjoy a recap, let me state for the record: I bite my nails. This is, arguably, my deepest shame, alongside not being able to locate Algeria on a map, eating Nutella with my hands, and trying to seduce Elliot Perlman at a writer's festival (although the only shameful part of the latter was the fact that I failed quite spectacularly).

Not my nails. But soon will be!

It pains me deeply that I have not managed to kick my nail biting habit in the forty three years I've been on earth. Even assuming that I didn't start biting my nails until I had teeth, that's still around forty two years I've had my fingers in my mouth. And at least 40% of the time those fingers don't even have Nutella on them, so there's really no excuse at all.

As I wrote in my Little Book, I have managed to overcome my embarrassing habit by getting acrylic nails. Sadly, however, I have also managed to bite off said acrylic nails at least eight times in the past two years. I have now reached the point where I am too ashamed to venture into the nail salon yet again to have them replaced as I can no longer bear the pitying looks.

So... I have made a resolution. I am going to grow my own, calcium-based nails, for real, this time. But for this, I need your help. I cannot do it alone. (I know this because I have failed about five times a year for the past forty three years.)

How can you help? Well, I have a unique and thrilling idea. (Trust me, you'll be thrilled.) I am calling on ten of you to Sponsor a Nail and encourage me on my quest. And let me tell you - Sponsoring a Nail is an incredible privilege. What do you get? I'm glad you ask! Sponsoring a Nail gives you naming rights - yes, naming rights! - over one of my nails. And that's not all! I will also keep you updated with information about your nail's progress, including how it is growing and whether I've been tempted to nibble it. But wait - there's more! Because when a suitable length is reached, and I get my real nails painted for the first time, you determine the colour of your particular nail.

Can you believe it?

So how do you win one of these ten fabulous nails??? To apply to Sponsor a Nail, please comment below, including the name you would choose for my nail, and which nail you would like to sponsor. (Obviously you would all prefer to sponsor my Bum Finger nail, but please bear in mind there is only one of those.)

My kids and I will choose the ten winners, and announce them on this blog when the competition closes. (The competition will close when I have decided I have enough entries. It's my competition, after all.)

So thank you all very much for your support, and I look forward to receiving your entries.

An Open Letter To Klout

Dear Klout,

I'm not exactly sure what you do, but I know it's important. I understand you measure the influence of people in social media, and being a social media whore, I take you very seriously. I want to have influence, so that I can use it for evil instead of good. Or perhaps good instead of evil. Either way, if it makes people buy my books, I'm happy.

Last time I checked my social media influence was fairly significant. I got a score of 62, which is not the highest possible score, but is considerably higher than that of, say, my 94 year old grandmother who does not use the internet.

I was delighted for a moment, until I looked at the areas in which you considered me to be influential. Blogging, for one, which makes perfect sense as I am a blogger. Nutella, for another, which makes perfect sense as my body is approximately 47% pure choc-hazelnut spread. Coffee, because, well, I drink the stuff.

And then the list got weird.

You see, apparently, Klout, one of my primary areas of influence is in Klingon. Yes, you heard me right. Klingon. The strange race of beings featured in Star Trek. I can't elaborate on what they're actually like as I don't watch Star Trek, but clearly that doesn't stop me from exerting a huge influence on them as a species. Okay then.

My Field Of Expertise

And it gets odder still, because yet another of my areas of influence is in... wait for it... Homosexuality. Now, this wouldn't be odd if I was a homosexual, or if I was the Minister for Homosexual Affairs (and though we don't have such a minister, we probably should), or even if I was a Catholic. But I'm not. I'm a Jewish straight girl and I haven't even kissed a girl, though I did see the Katie Perry film the other day and thought it was really cool.

I tweeted about these discrepancies the other day and got some very interesting feedback. Turns out my delightful friend Jayne was once considered influential by you in human trafficking, which is a little scary. Lisa is influential in stem cell, which is rather baffling, as she is not a scientist. Linda is influential in pumpkin, which is a bit tragic. And Kim is influential in Eek, Zombies and bacon, which is just plain freaky.

So Klout, I don't mean to express scepticism as to how you get your data - and I'm very happy with my score of 62 - but some clarification of where I get my influence would be very much appreciated.

Because unless there's a team of gay Klingons clinging onto my every word, something in the interweb is a little bit odd.

Yours sincerely,

Kerri

Meeting Simon Baker

Yes, it is true. After years of writing about my lust for Simon Baker (as is evidenced here, in any of these posts, and in my BOOK!), I did, in fact meet him. For real. And it was as magical as I had anticipated it to be. Except that I never had really anticipated meeting him. Meeting your celebrity fantasy man just doesn't happen in real life, you know? So I hadn't anticipated it at all.

But then it did happen. It really did.

Simon Loves Boo

So how did I meet him? Well, in an act of incredible foresight and cunning, my husband and I befriended an awesome American couple called Melanie and Michael by a pool in Fiji about seven years ago. We immediately clicked, our kids all got on brilliantly, and we've been close ever since.Mike became an Emmy award winning TV director, and Mel turned out to be a childhood friend of Robin Tunney, who plays Simon Baker's boss in The Mentalist.

In other words, contacts, my friends. It's all about contacts.

Mike and Mel organised a visit to The Mentalist set for my family during our visit to the States as a very special treat for me (and because I kind of begged them). Still, I didn't allow myself to believe it was going to happen until we were actually driving to the Warner Brothers lot, following the detailed instructions that Mike had emailed. And then it hit me.

"We're going to meet Simon Baker!" I yelled excitedly at the kids.

"Er, okay," said my son.

"You love Simon Baker!" said my daughter.

"I love Simon Bacon!" chorused Boo.

We showed our ID to the security guard at the gate and were issued with special passes, which was terribly exciting. Special passes! Oh my god! It was really happening!

Mike and Mel were waiting for us in the carpark, looking remarkably composed for people about to meet Simon Baker. (The fact that Mike has worked with a range of huge stars from Sarah Jessica Parker to Matt Dillon to Chloe Sevigny didn't seem relevant to me at all, given that none of them were Simon Baker.)

As we walked together to the stage where The Mentalist is shot, I began mentally rehearsing what I would say to Simon when I saw him. "Hey, you're my celebrity crush!" "Hello, I am a great fan of your work." "Because of your ads, I bank with ANZ!" "Hi, I fantasize about you when I'm having sex!" Hmmm. None of them seemed quite right. What about...

Suddenly, Mike interrupted my reverie.

"There they are!"

Huh? Who? Oh my god. THEM. It was them! Simon and Robin, walking right towards us. Robin was wearing her Mentalist costume of low-waisted pants and shirt; Simon was wearing his Patrick Jane three piece suit. And a luscious mane of blonde hair.

"Hi," said Robin, and kissed Mike and Mel, then turned to me and The Architect. "How are you?" she asked. "I'm Robin."

"Hi," I said, trying really hard to focus on her and not Simon. She was lovely. Okay, done. Simon time. I turned to look at him. He was gorgeous.

"Hi," said Simon, and held out his hand.

"I love you!" I cried, and kissed him full on the mouth.

Okay, not really. I'm not that ridiculous. "Hi," I said. "I'm Kerri Sackville." We shook hands. I felt good. I was in control. It was Simon, and he was gorgeous, but I was okay. So I proved I was okay. I started to talk. And once I started I couldn't stop, because I talk a lot when I'm nervous. Actually, I talk a lot all the time.

"I'm a writer," I told Simon. "I write a blog, and I write columns, and I write about you a lot." I paused for breath. "I wrote a book, too, about marriage and motherhood? And you're mentioned in it eleven times, and I brought a copy for you, but I'm not like a mad stalker or anything, it's just my thing, you know? Like Nutella? People know that I like you and I like Nutella? And I wish I'd been in the Young Talent Team. Remember the Young Talent Team?" (Yes, people, I really did say that.)

Simon held up his hand to stop me, and smiled. "I know who you are," he said. "I googled you."

Of course. He googled me.

HE GOOGLED ME.

Simon Baker googled me. That made me feel very, very good.

"Okay," I said, and grinned. "So can I have a picture with you?"

"Don't worry," Simon said. "There'll be plenty of time for that."

All right, then. If Simon says don't worry, I won't worry.

We all stood around chatting for a bit and I thought of some other spectacular things to say.

"Love the show," I told Simon, "but I'm REALLY loving those ANZ ads."

"Oh stop it," he said, and laughed. (Yes, I made him laugh.)

"But my favorite is still you dancing in that Euphoria music video," I said.

"Oh God," he said, and looked absolutely mortified.

Just then, ten year old Pinkela spoke up.

"Do you know that my little sister calls you Simon Bacon?" she asked.

"Simon Bacon!" chorused Boo. As you do.

Just then, Robin and Simon were called in for rehearsal. The Architect, the kids and I were shown inside the stage, and were given a chance to walk around The Mentalist set. It was utterly surreal to be sitting in the rooms I watch on TV, particularly the couch used by Patrick Jane.

Loving the couch

Eventually we were all ushered into a room, set up with headsets, and invited to watch the filming on video monitors, along with the director, makeup artists, script supervisors and other crew members. We were seated on director chairs with 'The Mentalist' written on the back, just like they use in Hollywood. Because... well... we were in Hollywood. I watched, entranced, as they filmed the same scene about 27 times from different angles, until I knew the whole scene backwards, and silently corrected Simon when he fluffed his lines.

Behind the scenes

During each break in filming Simon came and chatted to us, and I lapped up his words like the little puppy dog I am. After we'd been hanging around the set for about forty minutes, he beckoned to my kids.

"Come on guys, I want to show you something," he said. The kids followed him. I followed them. The Architect followed me. We all followed Simon. Simon said come on, so we came.

Simon showed my kids the backdrop behind the windows of the sets, and the lights that come on during nighttime scenes to replicate the night sky. Pinkela showed him her cartoons, and he signed an autograph for her. He seemed to love Boo, even when she persisted in calling him Simon Bacon, and he answered all of my son's questions graciously.

Simon chatted to The Architect and I for twenty minutes or more. We talked about the U.S. college system, about health care in America, about his love of Australia, about the paparazzi, and about the people who shop at Costco. I gave him a copy of my book, and told him that his wife would definitely enjoy it.

"Except that I think she's trying to get away from thinking about me," he pointed out, which just goes to prove that one woman's Simon Baker is just another woman's boring old non-fantasy material husband.

Finally, Simon posed for some photos, taken by The Architect, first with me, and then with me and the kids.

Simon Says Smile

"Dad's been replaced!" my son called out, and we all laughed, for he had no idea how right he was. (The Architect, however, probably had a fair idea.)

Simon was called back onto set, and we all trooped back to say our goodbyes. Just as I was repeating for the fifth time how lovely it was to meet him, the makeup artist came up and began powdering his nose.

"Oh great," said Simon, rolling his eyes, "I look so manly," and though I don't usually love a man in makeup, he looked pretty great to me.

"Don't worry," I said. "I'm sure you don't wake up in the morning looking like that." And then I pointed to his famous locks. "I'm sure your hair doesn't wake up in the morning looking like that either."

"It does!" he protested. "Touch it! You'll see!"

Simon said to touch his hair. Simon said to touch his hair! So I touched his hair. I even gave it a little tug. It was, indeed, very luscious.

I left Simon with a spring in my step, memories to last a lifetime, and some excellent pictures for Facebook. And the meeting was everything I could have dreamed it to be, if I ever had actually dreamed it would happen.

The weird thing, though, is that for a brief moment there, when he was chatting so easily with us, Simon Baker stopped being Simon Baker to me. I mean, don't get me wrong - the man is beautiful. But he was clearly normal. He is open, personable, and a genuine, down to earth, Aussie guy who appreciates his good fortune and can laugh at himself. He speaks with a regular Aussie accent - not the American accent of the ANZ ads - and could have been any Aussie expat who has become successful in the United States. He is a celebrity, but he is also just a normal person, who gets embarrassed, loves little kids, tells anecdotes about his family, and misses home. He is a normal person, and it is hard, if not impossible, to fantasize wildly about someone who is clearly just a normal guy.

Ah, who am I kidding. The man is a god. Simon, my fantasies live on. Thank you.

And to Mike and Mel, I love you guys xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Take One Alex And Call Me In The Morning

In recent times I have got myself a little stressed. I know that most of you think I am super cool and laid back (and the sound you can hear is the guffawing and eye-rolling of all my closest friends at the idea that I am a) super cool, or b) laid back [and yes, I know that 'eye-rolling' doesn't make a sound, it was just a figure of speech]) but I am quite a stressy little person (and yes, I know that 'little' is debatable, but let's not get picky here, okay?).

Well, a couple of days ago I decided it all had to change. Which is not quite true. My husband The Architect decided it all had to change. He sat me down, gently stroked my angsty brow, and said:

"Sweet honey pie of mine, if you feel you can't relax a little more I will have to send you to a resort alone for a few days. It pains me so deeply to see you so uptight."

And if you believed that, clearly you haven't read my book. Or this blog. Or have had much contact with the male of this species.

What he really did was sit me down, look at me firmly, and say:

"Can you pull yourself together please? You're a total nightmare at the moment."

(And that, friends, you can believe.)

So I decided I had to destress at once, not just because The Architect told me too, but because I really was feeling horribly tense. Over the past few days I have engaged in many attempts to relax my body and mind. Some have been successful, some less so, but I will share them all with you today.

• Did online Sudoku puzzles. This worked wonderfully initially, as it refocussed my brain and gave me a rush of elation whenever I figured out where to put one of those little numbers. And then it backfired horribly when I got stuck about an eighth of the way through, and had to call my twelve year old son to help me finish it. And then, to rub salt into the wound, he got bored before it was completed, and wandered off with a breezy "You can take it from here, Mum". Which of course I couldn't. Bloody stupid Sudoku. Makes me bloody crazy.
• Watched Alex Dimitriadis running around in his swimsuit in 'The Slap'. This made me feel fantastic.
• Ate Nutella sandwiches for dinner, followed by spoonfuls of Nutella straight from the jar. This was fun and relaxing for the first twenty minutes, but rather less enjoyable when I lay moaning and bloated about ten minutes after I finished the jar.
• Took my kids to the beach. This was really gorgeous. We played on the sand, they buried my feet, I read my book, they buried my legs, I lay in the sun, they threw sand in my hair, I got really thirsty, they drank all my water, it was really beautiful, I got hot and sandy and had to get out of there that minute.
• Drank a great deal of alcohol. This has proven to be very effective.
• Read some books, watched some TV. Particularly 'The Slap'. That was great.
• Had a bath. Baths really do ease the body and soul. I just have remember to be more careful whilst acqua-texting. Still, I think the phone is drying out nicely.
• Nah, that's it. Though did I mention Alex Dimitriades?

BASTARD

As conscientious blog readers will know, I set up an Elliptical Fucking Trainer in my office the other day. Aside from worries about whether I would ever get it assembled, and whether - if assembled - I would ever use the damn thing, my primary concern was how my husband The Architect would respond.

The Architect is a man of vision. Our home resembles a clean, white spaceship (or at least, in his vision it is. In reality, it's more like a messy white spaceship with Spongebob memorabilia scattered on the concrete floors, and Nutella smeared on the Improbably White Couch).

The Architect designed both the exteriors and interiors, and is very specific about what he will 'allow'* in the house. Minimalist white furniture is encouraged, despite the presence of three children and a bunny. Clear plastic stools are celebrated. A futuristic pod takes pride of place in the corner. And the dining table is made of steel and glass. Practical, I know. Sigh....

Wall hangings are few, and carefully chosen, and decorative items are sparse. At the beginning of our relationship The Architect even tried to limit the number of photos I could display to five at a time. Of course, I completely ignored him, but he really did try.

So given his delicate aesthetic sensibilities, how on earth would The Architect accept an Elliptical Fucking Trainer? It has no beauty, or designer features. It's a machine, and an ugly one at that.

But I wanted my EFT. I wanted it bad. And so I hatched a cunning plan. I decided to smuggle it into my office when The Architect wasn't home, assemble it myself, dispose of the packaging, and when he inevitably noticed it, pretend that it had been there for months. Sounds absolutely infallible, right?

I shared the cunning plan with the two older kids, and enlisted them to help. We practised saying "Dad, it's been here for months, are you going mad?" for a least a week before the EFT arrived. And on the day I brought it home, we practised again whilst waiting for The Architect to walk in the door. We were primed. We were ready. It was time to take him on.

"Hi," said The Architect, walking into my office and kissing me on the cheek. "How was your day?"

"Daddy!!!!" cried Boo, who had been standing on the EFT.

"Hi Boo!" he answered, and picked her up and swung her into his arms. "I missed you!"

Er... HELLO husband??? Are you BLIND???

"So what's going on?" he asked me again. I just shook my head blankly.

"Daddy, I been exercising!" said Boo. "On the machine!"

"Great!" said The Architect, leaning against the EFT. "So what's for dinner?" I scanned his face. No hint of recognition. No hint of surprise. NOTHING.

The big kids bounced into the room, ready to do their part. "Hi Dad!" they said uncertainly, waiting... waiting... nothing... nothing...

"Hi kids! Let's go play!" he answered. I couldn't take it any more.

"DO YOU NOT NOTICE ANYTHING?" I yelled.

"What?" he asked.

"THE THING YOU'RE LEANING AGAINST."

"You mean, our Elliptical Trainer? We've had it for months, right?"

I looked at him hard. And I had to admit. He got me. He got me GOOD.

I hate that Elliptical Fucking Trainer.

*I use inverted commas to represent his illusion that he is actually in control.

Simontology

After my evening in synagogue the other day, I began to contemplate the nature of religion. And I realised that each religion on offer today, despite having various major attractions - celebrations that involve trees and presents (Christianity), celebrations that involve fantastic amounts of food (Judaism), pilgrimages to interesting places (Islam), total oneness with the universe (Buddhism) and the potential for Hollywood superstardom (Scientology) - none of them offers the complete package.

Clearly, if I want to open myself to the perfect spiritual experience, I'm going to have to design it myself. So to this end I have come up with the Ultimate Religion, and I invite you all to follow.

So please find below the Ten Great Covenants of Simontology. Read. And Obey.

1. Simontologists worship Simon Baker as a god. We know he isn't god, and we don't expect him to have any actual powers, and for this reason we don't bother praying to him - we just fantasize about him a lot and hope to meet him one day. For those who don't wish to worship Simon Baker (or who are more inclined to worship female members of the species), then George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie, Scarlett Johansson, Justin Bieber or Natalie Portman are acceptable alternatives. Except Justin Bieber. I was just joking about him.
2. Simontologists drink the ritual Gin And Tonic at the Holy Hour of 5pm every night. This Gin And Tonic may be substituted with Wine or other Alcoholic Beverages with the special dispensation of the local Spirit(ual) Advisor (i.e. Bottle Shop).
3. Simontologists celebrate good news with spoonfuls of Nutella, which explains the alternate name of the Simontology faithful: Nutellites. 
4. Simontologists are kind to each other, unless 'each other' has done something really mean, in which case feel free to give them hell. 
5. Simontologists are kind to animals, except for rabbits, which are just annoying, and very bad value as pets. 
6. Simontologists read lots of books, but never, ever lend them out to other people. They rave about the books and encourage their friends to buy them, but give them only a tantalising glimpse of the front cover before snatching the book away. This is because they know that if they lend the book out, then the author will not make her teeny tiny commission of $1.20 per book, and Simontologists want authors to be paid for their hard labour. 
7. Simontologists do not do too much exercise because this makes other Simontologists feel bad about how unfit they are. 
8. Simontologists engage in frequent Meditation sessions, during which they Zen Out in front of episodes of the Mentalist, episodes of Mad Men, episodes of Weeds, episodes of Top Gear, or in fact episodes of anything they like, provided it does not feature Justin Bieber. 
9. Simontologists do not kill, unless absolutely necessary (for example, in a tussle over an extra large jar of Nutella).
10. Simontologists do not need a Tenth Covenant. We make our own rules..

So will you join me? Any other rules you wish to add?

Cranky Pants

My husband has had his Cranky Pants* on for the past few days. And I’m fed up, because this bout of Foul-Moodedness has come after a particularly bad run in our family.


Just last week, Little Man was exceedingly grumpy for a period of several days, due to Too Much Homeworking, insufficient Nintendo Time, and other unspecified Dissatisfactions. Prior to that, three year old Boo was a nightmare for a week, from a combination of Exhaustion, Adjustment To Pre-School, and Spoiled Third-Childedness**.

And before that, well, I was in a bit of a bad mood, for no reason other than...well... I am me. And I seem to get into bad moods fairly regularly (using ‘fairly’ in the sense of ‘very’).

Sometimes, of course, I have reason to be grouchy. I may have had bad news that day. I might be pre-menstrual. Or menstrual. Or pre-menopausal. I might be tired. Or stressed. I may be suffering severely from Excessive-Offspringitis***.

I might have lost my keys in the cold aisle of the supermarket. I may have lost three year old Boo in the supermarket. I may have watched Pinkela eat the last spoon of Nutella and realised there’s none left for me.

On the other hand, I may be cross for no reason at all. I’m a temperamental person. Which is fine – charming, even – as it goes with my fiery, passionate nature. Except that my husband is fiery and passionate too. And to stir things up a bit, so is our son. And to tip us completely over the edge, so is Boo. Which makes for a hell of a lot of fire in just one family.

Thankfully, nine year old Pinkela is extremely even-tempered and calm (which actually is a bit of a worry, as I have no idea who her real parents are). However her older brother and baby sister more than compensate for her serenity, making my husband and I look like beacons of calm by comparison. Between the four of us, we are one big rollercoaster of emotion.

The problem, of course, is that this is utterly exhausting. I’m no expert on statistics, but it’s clear that if I’m in a bad mood around once a week (using ‘once a week’ in the sense of ‘a lot more than that’), and my husband, Little Man and Boo are each in a bad mood around once a week, then at least one of us is in a bad mood on nearly any given day. Which means that the family emotional rollercoaster tends to be a race downhill more often than it is coasting on the flat.

Still, the rollercoaster ride won’t last for long. We only have another 18 to 20 years before the kids will hop out of the car and leave my husband and I in the fun park alone. And then we will hobble over to the Merry-Go-Round, and circle gently in nostalgic quiet, as the families scream wildly around us.

And I shall look back upon our rollercoaster days, and smile.

*These are metaphorical, rather than literal, pants, although his choice of trousers has been somewhat limited by my failure to pick up the drycleaning earlier this week (a factor no doubt contributing to the donning of said Cranky Pants).

**(possibly not an actual diagnostic term.)

***( if this isn’t an actual term, it should be.)

The Sad Tail Of Spunky The Rabbit - Part Two

I must start this post with a confession. I was very slightly disingenuous in Part One of the Sad Tail of Spunky The Rabbit. There was one tiny, tiny detail I left out.

My beloved cats, Sam and Peanut, both came to fairly tragic ends.

Poor dear Sam went to sleep in the garage one day, which would have been fine, except that he chose to sleep under the wheels of the car, a fact a certain family member of mine failed to notice when he turned on the ignition. Enough said.

And lovely Peanut, well, she died of feline AIDS, and no, I'm not even joking. I had no idea my cat was living a life of promiscuity and shame, but clearly that was the case (although to be honest, it is possible that feline AIDS is not actually related to sexual activity).

It seems I do not have a great track record when it comes to pets. So when we brought our little Spunky Nutella home, I shouldn't have been surprised when things did not go smoothly.

For a start, it turned out that our new pet hated us. HATED us. No matter how gentle and loving we were with our fuzzy bundle of joy, he refused to let us cuddle or pat him, choosing instead to flee across the garden whenever we came within arms reach. When eventually we sought advice from the pet shop, we were informed that 'It happens. Some rabbits just aren't friendly'. Fabulous. At least he's decorative.

Spunky also refused to be toilet trained. Actually that's not true. He was toilet trained for about a month and then, out of the blue, he decided he didn't like pooing in the designated spot in his cage, and way preferred to poo all over the garden, the steps, the outdoor furniture, and, most especially, the welcome mat. We tried poo repellent, wee repellent, Spunky repellent... NOTHING worked. We have had to resign ourselves to a life surrounded by little black pellets. There is no other choice.

Spunky also likes to dig. Now, I know that rabbits like to dig. But Spunky REALLY likes to dig. As in, to China. He digs holes the length of outdoor brooms (we know, we've measured them with outdoor brooms). We fill the holes up and he digs them out again. I have resorted to stuffing sheets - yes, real cotton sheets - into the holes to prevent Spunky from undermining the foundations of our house. Which is somewhat inconvenient when I need a change of bed linen.

In summary: Spunky has not turned out to be the cherished family member we had anticipated he would be. In fact, he is a bit of a pain. Okay, a LOT of a pain.

And then, last week, Spunky broke his leg. The family Pain was in pain.

We took him to the vet. "I can't feel any break," she said. "It's probably just a sprain. Give him anti-inflammatories for four days and keep him on cage-rest. If there's no improvement, bring him back. We'll have to operate."

"Er... at what cost?" I asked.

"Depends," she said. "Between $1000 and $2000. Poor little darling," she cooed.

My husband and I exchanged glances. The "little darling" was a PIE INGREDIENT, an unpleasant pie ingredient at that. We weren't spending $2000 on a PIE INGREDIENT.

We took Spunky home. He actually looked very sad and sweet in his cage with his paw in the air. I felt a rush of affection. My husband did too.

We gave Spunky his medicine for four days and kept him in his cage. There was no improvement. I felt strangely anxious about my pet, and strangely disturbed about him being uncomfortable. It was an unsettling experience. I didn't like him, remember?

I returned to the coast with the kids, so my husband took Spunky back to the vet on Saturday morning. "He's having Xrays," my husband told me on the phone. And bunny anaesthetic to keep him still."

"Good lord," I said. "How much will that cost?"

"All up about $200," he replied. "Plus the $70 we've already spent. We should probably decide if we want anything else done while he's under."

"Like what?" I asked.

"Cosmetic procedures," he answered. "Get his big ears pinned back?"

Still, the results of the Xray was no laughing matter. Spunky's "sprain" turned out to be a rather horrific fracture.

The vet recommended surgery. It was not cheap.

"$2000," my husband told me on the phone. "It costs $2000." TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS??? For a RABBIT???

I opened my mouth to say no. Spunky was not worth $2000. But then I thought of his sad face, and his poor sad paw. His poor paw. Poor paw! And I knew we couldn't say no.

But it was too late. My husband had already done so.

"I told her no," he said.

"Oh." I fell silent for a moment. "So what happens now?"

"She said she'd splint him up. It will probably work just as well."

"OH! So he's okay?"

"He's good. He's at home and very cute."

"Can I see a photo?"

And there it was. Spunky Nutella. Our beloved bunny. In his cage. Healing.

It's been a long sad tail. But I think it has a happy ending.

The Sad Tail Of Spunky The Rabbit - Part One

As many of you will know, Spunky Nutella the bunny has been a fixture in our household for nearly a year now. My kids wanted a dog, I laughed in their sad little faces (I have three children, I certainly don't intend to have another) and adopting a rabbit (okay, buying him for cash) was the compromise.

Previously we'd had fish, but all but one kept floating to their watery graves in record time. When we finally worked out that the cause of this high mortality rate was that one fish was eating all the other fish's food, none of us could bear the thought of another fishy funeral. We let Jelly (the acquatic equivalent of Russel Crowe in 'Gladiator') live out his natural life (which only took a few more weeks) and then shoved the fish tank in the laundry, where it proved very useful for soaking whites.

If the truth be told, I wasn't keen on having a pet at all, unless it was a cat. I love cats. I grew up with Sam, and then Peanut, and they were beautiful companions. Attractive, self-cleaning, self-reliant, and, at the end of the day, a soft, purring pillow to cuddle on my lap whilst watching TV. Attached, but not clingy. Affectionate, but not needy. The perfect animal.

Sadly, however, it turns out that both my husband and my middle child are allergic to cats. Now, if it was just my husband who was affected, obviously we'd still get a cat and he could move out to the garage (or take Claratyne three times a day forever). But seeing as my daughter is afflicted too, I have to (grudgingly) do the right thing.

So, no dog, no cat, and no fish. That pretty much left a snake, a monkey, a giraffe, a hamster or a rabbit as a potential pet (or at least that's what the kids told me). I'm not keen on snakes, monkeys are pretty high maintenance, and I discovered that Boo was wrong about giraffes being domestic animals. In the end, it came down to a hamster or a rabbit as the next member of our clan.

We trooped to the pet shop en masse to make our choice, and almost immediately rejected the hamsters. They were far too reminiscent of mice for my liking (and, as mice make me scream and jump on tables, this might prove inconvenient should we take one home). Besides, they didn't have cute little bunny ears; not surprisingly really, seeing as they weren't bunnies.

But Spunky had cute little bunny ears, and didn't look much like a mouse at all. Out of all the rabbits in the cage, we recognised him immediately as The One. He would be our bunny. Spunky Nutella. The pet who would transform our family and bring us all closer together by our love for him.

We paid the money, and we took Spunky home, cradled carefully in our arms (okay, cradled in a little cardboard box). He was tiny, very sweet, and full of promise.

But the story did not end as well as we believed. Because very soon afterwards, things started to go horribly wrong....

All Your Questions Answered

So after my star turn on this episode of A Current Affair last night, I have been bombarded with questions about four particular issues (and yes, three questions can definitely be a 'bombardment'). People wish to know:

A) What on earth am I doing with a white sofa when I have KIDS?

B) Were they my real children or stunt-double pefect children?

C) Were they my real eyebrows or stunt-double perfect eyebrows?

D) Why was I cut off so rudely at the end of my interview?

Thank you all so much for your interest in these terribly important issues. I shall now address each question in turn.

A) Why do I have a white sofa when I have kids? Because I also have a Husband, and he is a Designer (said in Very Important Tones), and according to my Husband the Designer, a white sofa is the only possible design solution for that particular Space. (Architects do not refer to 'rooms' or 'areas', they refer to 'spaces'. Please remember that.)
Never mind that one out of three of my kids is a Toddler, that two out of three of my kids are very clumsy, or that three out of three of my kids are incredibly messy. Never mind that I spend approximately 47 minutes EACH DAY OF MY LIFE cleaning that couch with special White Sofa Cleaner (also known as 'Chux Magic Erasers', and no thisisnotasponsoredpost, but while we're on the subject they are the best thing since sliced bread, in fact better, because they get rid of the Vegemite stains that sliced bread leaves behind). I HATE that friggin white sofa. It is the bane of my existence. I'm kicking it now.

B) Yes they were my real children sitting on my real white sofa. And yes, they are perfect. They sit there for HOURS like that, placid, serene and compliant, with their little legs sticking out and their little mouths hanging open. Sometimes they even drool. And then I turn off the TV and they become hideous monsters again. So I try to turn it off only rarely. After all, I don't have time to deal with monster children. I'm too busy cleaning the white sofa.

C) Yes they were my real eyebrows. However, they have not always been my real eyebrows. My real eyebrows used to look like this:
It took months - no, years - of painful - no, excruciatingly painful - electrolysis to get them looking so perfect. So praise my eyebrows. And keep it coming. Because every single one of those hairs needed to be plucked out at the root and a red hot poker thrust in to kill the follicle, and I'm going to need a LOT of appreciation to make up for that hideous trauma.

D) Why was I cut off so rudely at the end of my interview? Well, as Tracy Grimshaw so eloquently expressed in her tweet, it was an itchy trigger finger in the control room of ACA. But to tell you the truth, I must accept some responsibility. After all, I did not stop talking. For about two hours. In fact, I continued to talk long after the camera crew had left my house, driven down the road, and off into the night. I continued to talk long after the TV had been switched off and my kids had resumed smearing Nutella all over the white sofa. If you really want to know, I am still talking now, as I kick the white sofa with all my might. So don't be too harsh on ACA. I pose a pretty tough editing challenge.

I hope that answers all your questions. So, from me, and Tracy Grimshaw....

Goodnight.

You Won't Believe It...

You will not believe the day I had yesterday.

I woke up at ten(yes, TEN) in the morning, feeling outstanding. My husband had left a note on our bedroom door: "Have taken the kids to school, thought I'd let you sleep in as you looked so tired xxx". How divine was that?

I stretched, got up out of bed, walked into the bathroom, and splashed water on my face. As I looked at myself in the mirror, something seemed different. Subtle, but different. I looked... balanced. More attractive. Less... lopsided. It was...

MY EAR!!! Oh. My. God. Somehow, overnight, my one protruding ear had flattened to my head. It was like a plastic surgeon had snuck into my room overnight and pinned it back, except that there were no stiches, no scars, and it wasn't at all sore. It just looked magnificent.

I flipped it and flapped it a couple of times but it stayed nice and flat. It was a miracle. A bizarre miracle. I ran downstairs and called my friend Karen, a doctor, who told me that these things can, rarely, occur, and that I should feel lucky and enjoy my new look. Lucky? I felt bloody ecstatic.

I ran back upstairs and showered and dressed. I noticed that my jeans were a bit loose, so I stepped on the scales. I'd lost weight! In fact, I was a good couple of kilos below my ideal weight, so I made a mental note to eat a lot over the next couple of days to get back up to a healthy weight range. Didn't seem like much of a problem to me.

Half an hour later I was at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper and eating my third piece of Nutella toast when the phone rang.

"Is that Kerri Sackville?" asked an unfamiliar male voice.

"Yes, that's me. Who is this?" I asked.

"Kerri, it's Mark Jensen from Westfield Bondi Junction. How are you?" he asked.

I panicked. Had I forgotten to pay a bill? Pick up a layby? Pick up a child? Had I unwittingly stolen something from a store? Caused wilful damage? Left too big a mess in a changeroom?

"Good," I answered, cautiously.

"Kerri, I'm happy to inform you that you've won our Shopper Of The Year competition! Congratulations!"

I was stunned. "Really? What does that mean?"

"Well," he said, "are you sitting down?"

"Yes," I told him, standing up.

"You've won a $10,000 shopping voucher to Westfield! To spend on anything you like!"

My head started spinning and my (flat) ears began to ring. "Are you serious?" I asked.

"Yes I am," he said.

"So what's the catch?"

"No catch."

"When can I pick it up?"

"This morning. In fact, if you don't mind being photographed for the local newspaper, we'll pick you up in a limo and transport you to and from the store for your first shopping expedition."

I could barely speak. "I... I..."

Mark Jensen seemed to take that as uncertainty.

"I'll throw in lunch and a movie for you and three of your friends?"

"I... I..."

"Five of your friends. And free manicures afterwards."

I snorted coffee out of my nose. "Deal," I spluttered.

So that's how I came to be in a limo yesterday, with five of my girlfriends, on my way to buy $10,000 worth of clothes for me and my flat ear. In a size six. After lunch, a movie, and a manicure. Heaven.

It was unbelievable. Like, seriously unbelievable. Which of course is not surprising, as it didn't really happen. Yesterday, like every other day, I got up early, dropped the kids to school, came home, worked, did housework, picked the kids up, and kept juggling all those balls, as I do every day, whilst my left ear stuck out at a 70 degree angle, and I strained the seams of my pants.

But it could happen. Any day now.

And if not, well, at least it's fun thinking about it...

Can't Wait

Back in the 60’s, researchers experimented on four year old children. They offered them one marshmallow immediately, or two marshmallows if they could hold out for several minutes. Those who held out could delay gratification. Those who couldn’t were like me.

Now, I didn’t do the test, but I can tell you exactly what would have happened if I had. I would have waited till the experimenter’s back was turned and scoffed down that whole packet of marshmallows. (Okay, that’s not exactly true. I don’t like marshmallows. But if it had been spoonfuls of Nutella I would have eaten the whole jar.)

Today, as an adult, I’m exactly the same. I am hopeless at delaying gratification. When I decide to purchase an item of clothing, for example, I need to have it right then and there. Bear in mind, this isn’t about being a shopaholic princesss. I actually don’t buy myself a lot of clothes. But when I do decide I need something new – say my favourite jeans are falling apart and I need another new pair – I have to buy them NOW. I can’t delay. If I have jobs to do, or kids to look after, or meals to cook, or a house to clean, they must wait until my mission has been completed. I cannot rest, I cannot focus, until I’ve gone out and bought my jeans.

Obviously, because of this problem, I can’t do lay by. Even if I don’t intend to wear the purchase straight away, even if lay by is the more sensible financial option, I need to have them in my possession. And if I’m not financially flush I’d rather put them on credit card than pay them off over a period of weeks.

Of course, I have experienced lay-by. Once. It was autumn, I needed a jacket, I’d found the perfect one, and my sister forced me to put it on lay-by as an exercise in delayed gratification. “You must learn to wait,” she told me.”It’ll be good for you.” So I agreed.
I paid the deposit and went home thinking about the jacket. And thought. And thought. And, after a night of agitation, I ran back to the store the following morning, paid the balance, and took my jacket home. I couldn’t wear it for weeks for fear my sister would discover what I’d done, but I felt comforted just knowing it was there in my closet.

My inability to delay gratification extends to all areas of my life. I eat dinner as the main course is still cooking, and when I say 'dinner', I actually mean 'dessert'. I read the last chapter of books when I’m halfway through (which kind of defeats the purpose of reading the middle). I Google the endings of movies I'm about to see. And I bite my nails, because I can't wait for them to grow. I'm sure I'm missing out on all the marvellous bounty of savouring the anticipation, but unfortunately, that's just not the way I'm built. Shameful, I know.

So am I alone? Can you delay gratification? Or are we just a generation of Need-It-Nows???

Bzzzzzzzz....... It's Giveaway Time!!!!!!

UPDATED:

WE HAVE A WINNER!!!!

Yes girls (well... it WAS mainly girls), after some wonderful entries here online and privately via email, I have made my decision. And yes, I unashamedly allowed myself to be swayed by the clever inclusion of the term 'Simon Baker'.

So congratulations to MAMA MOGANTOSH
for your extremely funny entry. Please email me at k.sack@live.com or via Twitter with your address so your prize can be posted out.

And well done to everyone else. May stimulation find you in other ways.


BIG buzzy news....

The gorgeous girls at Love Being Woman are offering a fabulous Be Be as a Mother's Day Giveaway to one very lucky Life&OtherCrises reader. And you don't even need to be a mother to win!!!

Now, many of you will have read here of my fondness for the Be Be, an utterly brilliant personal massager (using 'personal massager' in the sense of, well, 'vibrator').

And now, I have one to give to you.

So I have come up with a competition.

But first, some exclusions:

• This competition is not open to Lana (SharpestPencil) for fear of perceived bias.
• This competition is not open to any of my family members because they don't have sex. Even alone. Especially alone!
• This competition is not open to Marguerite or Rudy because they have one already.
• This competition is not open to any of my parents' friends because if they have sex then my parents do too and that just freaks me out.

Furthermore:

• This competition is open only to those who will use the Be Be with the regularity, reverence and love that it deserves.

AND

• This competition is only open to those who like Nutella. Because if you don't like Nutella, you're weird.

Okay, so, here's how to win:
Tell me in 100 words or less (or more!) what your explanation would be if your child / mother / cleaning lady / real estate agent stumbled across your Be Be.
The best, most creative entry will win the prize.
I am the judge and my decision is FINAL.
I am the judge and my decision is FINAL (sorry, that was so much fun I just had to say it again).
Entries may be submitted as comments below, or to me via email at k.sack@live.com if you prefer to remain anonymous (except, you know, to me.....)
The winner will be announced on FRIDAY 30th APRIL on my blog. Please note that if you haven't provided contact details it is your responsibility to contact me at the above address to claim your brilliant prize.
Good luck, and thank you to Be Be Vibes!

Scissors & Cornflakes So Mum Can Stay Sane

I am stuck at home with two kids with the chicken pox, and I am longing for some time alone. Desperately. I haven't had quality time to myself since, approximately, an exceptionally long time ago, and no time alone at all since my brief trip to the supermarket last week (which was heavenly, particularly the fifteen minutes spent browsing the biscuit aisle).

I have set out a series of activities for the day, all of which are designed to maximise the time that my eight year old daughter and her toddler sister can entertain themselves and each other, so that I can slink away to do more important things, like have a shower, drink a cup of coffee in peace, and respond to the 25,000 emails in my in-box (some of which are not even from kindly and munificent Nigerians offering me their great fortune in return for minor details such as account numbers).

The activities include:

• Watching TV. A lot. They can watch as much as they want, and then a little bit more. And when they think they can't watch another minute, they can return to the television and watch again. I want them to watch until it hurts.
  
• Scissor play. The girls can cut out pictures from newspapers and magazines and stick them into scrapbooks. And when they're tired of cutting out pictures they can cut up old books and their old clothes, trim their nails, and, finally, cut each other's hair. The results might be unsightly, but if it buys me some time in the bath, it's worth it.
  
  
• Nutella time. This involves handing the toddler a jar of Nutella and a spoon. I wander off for half an hour of Me Time, and when I return, she is groaning contentedly in a corner, coated in chocolate, with a look of drunken satiation on her filthy face. This also leads neatly to the next activity, which is...
  
  
• Bath time. Fill the tub up with water and some toys, dunk in two children, and retire with a cup of tea and a book. Kids are ready to be removed when they are shrivelled and prune-like and the entire bathroom is drenched. This entire procedure may be repeated in the evening, for, although the kids are clearly not going to get dirty sitting around the house doing nothing, you can never - I repeat, never - be clean enough.
  
  
• The cornflake game. Offer the kids bowls of cornflakes to eat. The eight year old will happily eat her bowl (she happily eats bowls of pretty much anything) which will keep her occupied for a while. The toddler will yell 'No! Yucky confake!' and throw her bowl on the floor, before proceeding to climb down from her chair, stomp on the flakes happily for twenty minutes or so, then rub them into the carpet. I will need to vacuum, of course, but at least I can eat my lunch first. (Not confakes. Are you kidding me?)

So what about you? Ever gone stir crazy stuck at home with kids? Or without????

The Chores We Abhor

I just shaved under my arms.

I know, I know, your finger is on the button, ready to switch to another, more scintillating blog. But hear me out. There is a point to this story.I hate shaving under my arms. Passionately. And yet I quite enjoy shaving my legs. Why is this? Same tool, same task, just different areas of the body. So why would I detest one and not the other?

It's strange the way some chores make me crazed with murderous loathing, whilst others don't bother me at all. For example, why do I despise putting makeup on my face? Of course, I do put makeup on it - when you're 174 years old, as I am, it's virtually compulsory. But the supreme monotony of donning of eyeliner and concealer and lipgloss, day after day after endless day, makes me want to stick a mascara up my nose, just to break the painful routine. And, occasionally, I do.

Still, other aspects of my personal grooming don't bother me at all. Attending to my pores, for example, is a source of radiant delight. Nose pore are one of my most satisfying treats; in fact, any form of blackhead removal rates up there in the pleasure stakes alongside sleeping and watching The Mentalist. I believe I could spend a whole weekend in a well-lit bathroom, with nothing but a packet of pore strips and a jar of Nutella to sustain me. (In fact, the Nutella no doubt contributes to the clogging of pores, in a favourable, symbiotic relationship.)

In housework, I am equally inconsistent. I like to clean, but hate to tidy. Put a bottle of Windex in my hand and I'll contentedly polish windows for hours. But show me a messy room, and I will slam the door behind it and go rushing to squeeze my pores.

Loading the washing machine is excellent fun, but sorting the clothes afterwards is hell. And washing plates is pleasant enough, but washing glasses is so hideously nightmarish I often use disposable glasses when entertaining.

Still, easily the most repugnant chore for me is the loading of my pill container, which I am supposed to do weekly, placing each vitamin and supplement into its daily slot. And yet - though my friend Leah says she loves nothing more than to pop all of her little pills into their little homes - I will studiously avoid this job for days at a time. As a result, I inevitably forget whether I've taken my pills or not, putting myself at risk of being hugely deficient, or overdosing on various substances.

So clearly there are no universally bad tasks. One woman will adore the chore another abhors. But why do some jobs aggravate us so much?

And does anyone like cleaning the toilet???

What Does It For Me

The gorgeous Lexi from pottymouthmama tagged me with a Happiness Thingy. I name 6 things that make me happy, then tag 6 blogs I love.
Sounds good to me. So here goes:

• My toddler's irresistably cute bum. I've seen it every single day for 19 months, but it never fails to make me smile. Of course, it would make me smile even more to see it clothed in undies as opposed to a nappy, but that's another story.
• Nutella. The taste of the inside of a Ferrero Rocher, but with all the goodness of skim milk and hazelnuts (note: no mention of 'chocolate' on the jar). AND able to be eaten by the spoonful. What's not to love?
• Watching my 8 year old be a 'kissing monster' with her 10 year old brother as the prey. Divine.
• My Simon Baker screen saver. (Having him actually jump out of the computer would make me even happier, but unlikely at this stage.)
• Finding the earring my toddler had pinched without having to search through her nappy. A tremendous relief. Now if only I could locate my deodorant, last seen in the hand of a 19 month old with a cute bum....
• Putting polish on my fingernails. After biting them for most of my life (too long a life to still be biting my nails) I have finally stopped. Permanently this time. Really. Stop rolling your eyes! I mean it!

Blogs I love:

• Spiritual Advice From The Purple Mongoose - must be seen to be believed
• You Might Want To Sit Down For This - smartest/funniest guy I know
• Sleepless Nights - very cheeky funny mummy
• Waffling Along - brand new & looks fab
• MummyTime - mummy reflections
• Not Drowning, Mothering - funny funny stuff

ENJOY