Oh, hello! We've finally got this intershizzz back on again after a few weeks off after our move out to the burbs.
So, on the weekend, my motherinlaw hosted a little soiree for the twins (who we anticipate will be born sometime in the next five weeks. EEEEEEEEEEE!)
It was nice to have a smattering of family and friends mingle, and we scooped some A1 loot of gorgeous clothes and toys and all sorts of thoughtful bibs and bobs. People were very kind and generous.
My esteemed mate Keith Loon gave me, T-diddy, and the twins the following wonderful book:
My favourite page goes:
B is for Ballad,
a song slow and boring.
Break out the lighters
before you start snoring
(Accompanied by a drawing of W. Axl Rose bleating out November Rain.)
T-bone's bro ... er ... D-bone, let's call him, had his mitts on an advance copy of the sequel book, which he slipped us yesterday. Due for release later this year, it's called:
NEVER MIND YOUR P's and Q'S
HERE'S THE PUNK ALPHABET
My favourite page from that one is:
N is for Nancy
She and Sid hung about.
They lived in a hotel
And never checked out.
Hoo hoo hooo!
Anyway, it's all perfect for my planned sessions of Mama Momo's Wonderful World of Rock, whereby the children and I will dedicate afternoons to learning about different genres, viz, Glam Rock Friday. There, we will listen to T-Rex and craft platform shoes out of sponges, glitter and Christmas tinsel.
On Alternative Music Wednesdays, we'll listen to anything I had written on my high school pencil case in liquid paper. We'll also practice scrawling JANE'S ADDICTION PIXIES NICK CAVE SONIC YOUTH JESUS AND MARY CHAIN MY BLOODY VALENTINE THE CURE THE SMITHS PUBLIC IMAGE LIMITED on a handy desk in water soluble marker pen, just like what I used to do ... except the originals were etched with a compass (as lunchtime detention will testify).
Let's All Hail The Moog Mondays will be dedicated to tapping out Kraftwerk and the works of Giorgio Moroder on our mobile phone keypads.
Occasionally, we'll have a special guest swing on by. Someone like my excellent friend Betty can explain the difference between House and Techno and Acid and ... and ... all that stuff she used to write about and compile in her street press (back in the days) on Warehouse Party Saturdays. T-diddy, for instance, can don his baggiest pants and tell the kiddlings all about the world of Hip Hop, Gangsta Rap, and really cheesy early 90s R&B ... cos that's always been his cup of chamomile, yo. And, naturally, a random medley of mates in bands can stop by on Melbourne Indie Scene Sundays. I can't wait.
Back in 1994, around a week into my first year of university, a new friend I’d made told me all about this Totally Rad party she’d been to in some Victorian terrace house in Carlton.
“In the middle of the living room they’d set up a giant tee pee,” she said. “It was surrounded by a moat of plastic army men, farm animals, and dominoes. If you weren’t already hanging out in the tee pee, you weren’t allowed in. It was the coolest room in the party.”
As I had just drifted into Melbourne from my rural home in the Mallee, gateway to the Outback, these Carlton cats sounded wildly avant-garde. I had just spent the past couple of weekends wearing Minnie Mouse ears, just to show how young and off-the-hook and suited to the Big Smoke I was, but this was the coolest thing I'd ever heard. Oh how I yearned for a slice of this whole tee-pee-fortress-in-the-living-room scene!
Yet, of all the parties I did attend, I never found one with even the slightest whiff of tee pee.
II.
Two nights ago, I was lying on the sofa and the babies started rolling.
And jabbing.
And poking.
I watched my belly in my own nightly version of Nessie-spotting up around that loch in Scotland. At first it was the usual level of rampant activity, but then things got increasingly loony and my belly resembled a sack of fighting ferrets. I became alarmed.
“T-bone, the kids are going berserk!” I shouted, as one side of my belly looked as though it had timewarped back to 1983 and had just nutted out how to do the caterpillar.
“They’re just stretching out," T-bone replied, cool as gazpacho. “Don’t worry about it.”
The activity lulled a moment before my navel rose to a sudden horrifying peak of Vesuvius proportions.
“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!” T-bone bellowed.
Just three weekends ago he had watched the Alien films back-to-back at his mate Ro-ro’s house.
I simply stared agog ... and impressed.
Seemingly, the kids had decided to out-cool my tee pee pretensions by hosting an exclusive two-kids-only shindig with a volcano in their living room, formerly known as my uterus.
Being young, they are yet to learn that if you’re going to do something so helter-skelter CRAZY as build a volcano in the living room, it’s best to wait till your folks are out of town.
In 10 days' time we have another scan and hopefully find out the sex of our mystery twin, the one that isn’t a confirmed boy-baby.
Our boy-baby (who we have actually known is a boy since 12 weeks of gestation) has had his secret name for all that time, but the other baby, the mystery twin, has got a possible girl-name T-bone and I love, and a boy name we can’t decide on. At. All.
Almost every name we come up with is matched by a horrendously goofy nickname, magically forms a comical and/or cruel pun with our surname, or it happens to be the name of some jerk one of us knew back in kindergarten. T-bone and I seem to have an endless list of former nemeses.
I am very concerned at the lack of another boy-name, lest I sign one on the spot while my eyes are whirring windmills after the birth. Even now, while lucid as a tuning fork, I can still come up with names that will be met by the rebuttal:
“Yeah … not bad. But wasn’t there a Muppet called that?”
For, oh, 20 years or so, a rather sad but endless hobby of mine was to compile lists under the heading:
Possible names for a new cat and/or baby (when I have one)
But when it comes down to it, the interchangeable cat/child name doesn’t quite jive. Nor does naming your child Thurston Howell IV, after a favourite TV character.
For the sake of social acceptability, we’ve also had to dismiss naming our child after our (still living) cat, even though Sage is a totally rad name and just so happens to be a totally upstanding and esteemed citizen (though on four legs). Mr Sage has neither quibbled with it or his middle name, “Bianca”, even though he’s probably well aware it’s a sheila’s name.
Sage Bianca. Svelte, yet somehow very manly.
I have also been told I can't name our baby after a favourite odd-bod German monarch.
While I imagine all sorts of possibilities for the kids when they grow up, whether they are doctors, lawyers, pro-skaters, fashion models, hip-hop dancers, or organic farmers, they need a name that will carry them any place, from babyhood to being a grownup, without some mug wondering out loud:
“Yeah … not bad. But wasn’t there a Muppet called that?”
So, should our mystery baby straight-arrow his way to the cover of Business Review Weekly in 20 years time, we’ve started vetting names by having T-bone shake my hand and introduce himself (under that name) as though entering a very serious meeting.
My guffawing response is how Ziggy got crossed off the list. Until then it had been a strong contender.
ZIGGY SEZ:"I'll be taking you through a PowerPoint presentation today ..."
*Ziggy is incidentally the name of our good friends’ cat.
Travelin' Man
I'm a travelin' man
I've made a lot of stops all over the world
And in every part I own the heart
Of at least one lovely girl
I've a pretty senorita waiting for me
Down in old Mexico
If you're ever in Alaska stop and see
My cute little Eskimo
Oh my sweet fraulien down in Berlin town
Makes my heart start to yearn
And my china doll down in old Hong Kong
Waits for my return
Pretty Polynesian baby over the sea
I remember the night
When we walked in the sands of the Waikiki
And I held you oh so tight
So, that wasn't 'On the Road Again' but this song about being a total man-slag was whirring around my head just now for good reason. Nothing to do with man-slags with a girl in every port, particularly, but the fact that T-bone and I are on the move, AGAIN.
Alas, our under-construction house is probably not going to be finished until around about the time I am due to give birth in August (unless the little mites arrive far too early. Please, please no). Considering the kids will be far too young to con into packing (I always seem to weasel my way out of it), we've decided to move into a temporary abode for the next few months before and after they're born. It's a house and it's bright and in a leafy suburb and en route to the hospital which we're visiting every week at the moment for classes and appointments and things. I'm not looking forward to coughing up the $$$$, doubling up on rent and mortgage AND paying for moving men twice, but it seems the best thing to do right now for peace of mind. Best of all, we can set up a nursery. I'm desperate to start buying things, but there's just no room at the inn at the moment.
Yee hee!
In other news, I've completely finished work and almost feel ready to start blogging again fo' real. So much has been going on, it's a bit tough to wrangle and try to recount the barrel of monkeys that has been my existence of late. But I'm glad we're going to have somewhere to live that isn't a tiny apartment. While cash will be a bit scant, I'm so relieved that we're no longer at the total mercy of the builders and their go-slow craft. That's one worry off the whole scroll-full.
Yesterday I spent all day on the couch feeling exhausted and breathless and LARGE. And I am just 23 weeks down out of (hopefully) 37 weeks, so I'm a bit freaked out about what is going to happen in the coming weeks in terms of mobility. I think I need to get myself a Nintendo. Or at least some batteries for my old Game & Watch game, Fire, since I find newfangled games (post 1983) bewildering.
FIRE
Still, they can't be quite as bewildering as spending A LOT of time as a seven year old waiting to hit the high score that never came. As my stretcher successfully caught 100, 200 people bouncing out of the towering inferno, my mind boggled about WHEN WOULD THE GODDAMN AMBULANCE DRIVE OFF AND TAKE THOSE POOR BASTARDS TO HOSPITAL? The ambulance that was ... er ... painted on the screen.
So yesterday, at about five pm, after a whole lot of loafing and sighing and text messaging from the couch, I decided it was time to get out and about. As I lumbered through the city avoiding hideous oversized IT bags hitting my tummy (a genuine hazard), I noticed my thighs were chafing.
Just a touch.
I crouched down, adjusted my tights, and, with a slightly bandy-legged gait, made a beeline for New Zealand Natural to get myself a much-needed double vanilla icecream cone.
I bought it yesterday, and have decided for sentimental sakes that I'll buy all in the series featuring the places that T-bone and I have been, viz:
* This is Paris
* This is London
* This is Rome
* This is New York
* This is Venice
* This is Hong Kong
* This is Australia
* This is Historic Britain (2005 and 2006, when I was there, will be regarded as seriously ancient history to these squiddlings, anyhow.)
So, yes, This is Paris is a picture storybook, and I do realize the twins are kicking wildly in utero and, well, can't really see anything at all yet, but I thought they might like to hear some Mama Momo does Spoken Word.
Here is a sample of how it went:
Me [bare bellied and reading in strident yet soothing voice reminiscent of the one I put on back when I wanted to be a (specifically) TV journalist. Once upon a time]:
Just a little way off from Notre-Dame we find the Bird Market, which is held every Sunday.
See, these are birds, children. I think that one's a toucan.
This is called the Conciergerie.
See, it's a big thing with watchtowers. Never saw it on my 'Paris, City of Lights' bus-tour, I'm afraid. Or maybe I did, I can't remember.
During the French Revolution Queen Marie Antoinette, the revolutionary leaders Robespierre and Danton, and 2,300 other people were imprisoned here before they were executed.
Oh. Well. I'll explain that bit later on someday. Let's turn to the next page, then.
My mum came and stayed with me this weekend, it was just us. For the first time in about 17 years we had a good talk about things. For once I didn't feel crushed by all the stuff between us that was being left unsaid because just about everything was spoken about. Things I'm not going to write about in great depth here. But I decided a while ago that I was tired of feeling clamped up and raging inside. I was tired of being distant and irritable and vaguely petulant. By asking and listening, she opened up and spoke with honesty about how tired and desperate for money she was while she was bringing me up, but that she was so glad how things turned out with me. Of course I know how she struggled because I was there, experiencing it too. But it felt a relief to have it said out loud. It eased a lot of the guilt I'd always felt by merely existing.
I learned for the first time that she stayed in hospital for three weeks after I was born because she didn't have anywhere to go. Both sides of the family were fighting and threatening one another. They were continuing the same arguments that sent her into labour eight weeks early.
At such a vital time, no one was there for her, but she was there for me.
I told her that I knew she did the best she could under her circumstances. I said I never wanted her to feel embarrassed of me. I said that I always felt that my actions reflected hers, which is why I have tried to not be too much of an idiot in my life. And, when I was young, her drive and determination to keep our heads above water is what made me ultimately strive for things. I'm not celebrating my own achievements here, I'm celebrating hers.
The baby scans went well on Tuesday after the Monday-night nightmare, thank goodness. So I am feeling very happy. There's a couple of sneak peeks over on Flickr on what our bebes look like. One is definitely a little boy baby, while the other baby decided to maintain an air of mystery with legs firmly crossed throughout the ultrasound.
We're away on a road trip for the next four days, somewhere in the countryside in a lovely spot. I'm keeping it a surprise for T-bone, so it should be a fun mini break. We both need it.
I've had problems with words lately, which is a bit tough while writing a book with time rapidly running out, but I was pleased last night when I felt like I was finally making some progress on my work, and decided to tell T-bone so:
Me: I feel like I'm no longer behind on everything now. So I'm not lagging, which is great, but I'm not really 'up to date' either, as there's still stuff to be written tomorrow. But no one is desperately waiting for me to write, because I'm no longer behind. No, I'm now delivering on time. So, I guess I'm ... I'm.
[Pause]
Me, continuing: I'm? What am I, T-bone, in the scheme of things? I was giving a status report? And I wanted to tell someone I'm neither behind or ahead or up to date, exactly?
T-bone: You, my dear, are 'on track'.
And he was right, you know!
I wonder if the babies were chortling away at this parental genius?
This is the most insane shiz that has ever happened.
It's 2.33 am and there is a man at our door drilling it open.
WE ARE LOCKED INSIDE OUR APARTMENT.
ON THE 21st FLOOR.
AT 2.33 AM.
WITH NO WAY TO ESCAPE UNLESS WE JUMP.
21 FLOORS.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
More than five-and-a-half hours ago, at 9-ish, we got home from being out eating Vietnamese soup, and T-bone went to throw out some rubbish. He tried the door. It didn't budge. He wiggled it and waggled it and the damned thing was jammed, so he called the building manager.
"No worries, I'll call a locksmith!" said the building manager, "We'll have you out in no time."
So a locksmith showed up about 20 minutes later.
After 10 minutes of him desperately jiggling the door and muttering away, alarm bells started ringing. Not literally, but in my head.
"Hmmn. Surely he should be more suave and relaxed about this," I thought. "considering he's a locksmith and all."
Then, after an hour, he'd finally opened the door.
He dismantled the lock. And pieced it again several times. Still muttering away and seeming a bit weird.
After two long hours, he deemed it FIXED and scurried out the door, locking it behind him.
"BYEEEEEEE!"
I complained to T-bone about the black grease this locksmith had left all over the carpet, and then T-bone tried the door and realized it was still broken. We were locked inside. STILL.
T-bone called him and said "OI. THE LOCK IS STILL BROKEN. YOU'VE LOCKED US INSIDE. COME BACK!"
And the guy did. After another two hours of jigging and muttering, he said "Oh, I'm going to get some tools!"
We waited half an hour before deciding to call him. We thought maybe he'd driven somewhere to get those tools.
The locksmith picked up and said, "I've gone home. There's nothing I can do for you. If you see someone passing by, ask them to force the door open with a crowbar."
Then he hung up.
Click.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Of course, this was wonderfully useful advice as we see LOADS of people passing by with crowbars while we are LOCKED INSIDE OUR APARTMENT ON THE 21st FLOOR WITH NO WAY TO GET OUT UNLESS WE JUMP.
"T-bone, what we need is an EMERGENCY ESCAPE AXE!" I shrilled. I started breathing quickly, laughing a lot, and then, worried I was about to completely flip out, buried my head under a pillow.
In the time it's taken me to write this, another man has arrived, and, through the door, has just told T-bone he is off to get some tools from his van ...
It would be funny if it wasn't COMPLETELY INSANE. Oh, and if we weren't LOCKED INSIDE ON THE 21st FLOOR WITH NO WAY TO ESCAPE UNLESS WE JUMP.
Have I ever mentioned how much I hate this apartment with its constant stench from people cooking and noise from dorks playing their PlayStation really loudly at 4.30 in the morning, so loud it rumbles through the walls? Oh, how I can't wait to be OUT. Literally now, and soon, when our house is built in a few months. There, I will buy the household an emergency escape axe, but, by jove, things will be so blissfully utopia-like that we shall never need to use it.
The eensy babies have been kicking my innards like wild things over the past week, it all started about three weeks ago and it seems they're on a shake, rattle and roll, variously tapping out Morse code messages paired with what feels like synchronized swimming or can-can-girl high-kicks. Last night I was about to drift off to sleep, when the one on the left side decided to do what felt like a diving board bounce on my pelvic floor. Needless to say, this jolted me very AWAKE and T-bone is becoming very used to me giggling and hooting for seemingly no reason.
Apparently at 19 weeks in casa de womb, babies can start to hear things. So last night we dug out an old iPod and T-bone started loading up nursery songs, all of which were strange techno-fied versions that made me twitch, so I thought perhaps it would be a bad introduction to the sonic world. Instead, I played them some songs through headphones on my belly from The White Album. The first song they ever heard in surround bellyphonic sound was Dear Prudence. T-bone said this was a good, if moderately confusing choice, speculating that this might be going on, on the inside-inside world:
Twin A (to Twin B): Pray tell, who is this Prudence cat these folks keep singing about in such melodic harmony?
Twin B (stroking chin in pensive mode): Dude, I thought it was you.
Earlier, in one of his conversations with the babies, (most of which start "Hellooooo? Helloooooo? Little children? Can you hear me in there?" and I admonish him for sounding like Jack Nicholson in The Shining), T-bone loomed over my stomach, clapping, stomping, and whistling a strange hurdy-gurdy tune, like a 6'3" leprechaun.
I inquired:
Is that some traditional Dutchman jig, T-bone, from those Nether Lands from which ye hark?
And, after trying to think of something funny to say, he (rep)lied emphatically:
Yes. I have many such Dutch tunes to teach them.
What else?
Oh, yesterday I swooned in the supermarket, out like a slowly fading light, but, thankfully, was still aware enough to not go CLONK! on the floor. Unable to see or hear for about 10 seconds, I had to sit myself down at the checkout. It was horrible.
Otherwise, as this stream of consciousness blog entry might indicate, it's getting quite hard to focus on, well, anything, including sleep at night as my mind constantly wanders to thinking about next Tuesday's scan, the big 20-week one, where hopefully we find out everything is perfectly normal and fine with the little 'uns. I'm finding all this wondering v. stressful, but, if the hootenanny kicking is anything to go by, I'm sure everything will go splendidly.
Gosh, I can't even remember where I found this, but it's been sitting on my desktop for a while.
If I were a cartoon drawing and not a real live person, I would want to look like this happy lady. All swingy royal blue frock, green eyeshadow, thick eyelashes that have to be false, and way-out flipped honey blonde hair. You may have noticed that we both share PRECISELY the same utilitarian type of nose, comprising of nostrils and little else (which only adds to a bloodhound-like sensitivity to smell).
T-bone keeps going on about how, in 50 years or something, you'll be able to download your brain on a computer and live on in Second Life or something, forevz. While I think this sounds quite a horrendous proposition, for the record, I want this as my otherworldly avatar.
You could never tell by looking at me, what with my steely athleticism, but I am a hopeless shot at just about everything. Unless it's by pure accident. See, on the weekend, when I was racing into the lift, my apartment access pass (the one that swipes me into the building) went ...
SCHLIIIIIIPPPPPPPP!!!!
Out of my hand ...
And flew a graceful arch that any lacrosse player would be most chuffed with ...
PHWWWWEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!
Before slipping through the VERY SKINNY and FRUGAL letterbox-like gap between the elevator and the floor, plunging to the very bowels of hell, for all I know.
[Insert lamentable whammy noise.]
In disbelief, I said to T-bone:
"Um ... score?"
Over the intercom, the building manager advised it would cost $800 to retrieve.
[Insert lamentable whammy noise.]
Or $80 to replace.
[Insert lamentable whammy noise.]
How immensely irritating.
Anyway, while T-bone went off to find a security guard to let us up to our floor (because the building manager wouldn't come down from his turret of evil), some dude came up to me while I sat in the foyer.
"Have you lost your pass or something?" he barked.
"Yeah, it fell down th ..." I began, before he interrupted, hastily:
"God! Is that your drivers license?"
And I looked at T-bone's ye olde ancient laminated Learner Permit from 1992 that I have dangling on my key chain and went to retort:
"Er ... do I look like a 16-year-old hoodlum BOY with blond hair and an undercut?"
(Answer: no.)
But he got in there first with:
"Because you shouldn't put a hole in it like that, you know. It makes it null and VOID. It's against the law. Go get a new one."
Me, I was tired of this loud bossy nark hassling me in the foyer, so I responded with something I haven't actually said to someone's face for about 15 years (or perhaps longer) ...
"Yeah. Right. What-ever."
And at that, he walked off, bossily, to the tune of me rolling my eyes.
For the record (and from what I could tell) he wasn't a crazy loon, rather, he was just a pain in the backside (and I have lots of patience for crazy loons, as it's not their fault. Being crazy. And loonish). No, he's probably a team leader somewhere and forgot to clock off his annoying loud bossy nark hassling for the weekend. Dork.
Speaking of slam dunk (and we weren't, but that's what I'll probably call this blog entry), here's a picture I just found in my iPhoto of T-bone when he met Magic Johnson at LAX earlier this year.
This is the first and only thing we’ve bought the twins so far, but I think it’s a goodie.
Planet 66, Summer Vacation by Takashi Murakami
I look at it and my heart sings. Smiling flowers! Fluffy clouds! A happy gathering of bunnies and funny blobby ghosty things drifting across the sky hand-in-hand!
T-bone was very keen to get some art for the nursery. When he told me this, I narrowed my eyes and said:
“Cool, so long as there’s nothing subversive or weird. It must be very, very normal. And I’d prefer it wasn’t by a certain New York street artist who, while entirely ace, is so omnipresent on our walls, shelves, and, indeed, your own t-shirted torso, that I often imagine people have big X’s for eyes, fan boy.”
T-bone retorted, “No, no, I'll look for something that's entirely NORMAL. Your Fifties’ sensibilities won’t be at all offended, J. Edgar Hoover.”
When the print arrived, we looked at it and agreed it is even more lovely and vivid and gorgeous in real life. Remembering my stipulation of “It must be very, very nomal” I said to T-bone:
“There’s nothing odd that I’m not noticing here, is there?”
And he replied, “Oh no, sweetie. Perfectly sound. But did you notice all the flowers have cocks?*”
I squealed, “WHAAT!!!!”
And he chortled, “Hee. Heee. Heee.”
*No, they don’t. And, yes, I felt hideously lewd writing COCKS, but it loses its punch censored as ‘appendages’. My apologies.
If you get the chance and have a handy coupla shekels rattling round your pocket, please go get yourself this little short story I wrote a while back which has been published as a Mini Shots magazine by the lovely people over at Vignette Press.
It will set you back the minor amount of just $4 ($6 international) and even has a mixtape that you can listen along to online (fo' free).
What's it all about then, eh?
Oh.
Boys and girls. 1994. Wagging uni. Aimless hooning and larking about. Bad attitudes. Student residences. Throwing a sausage out the window at a vegan mandolin player. Being in love. Sizzler All-You-Can-Eat.
All in one short story, like Puberty Blues, but without the meat pies.
This morning, I woke up sparkly at 7.05am. First of all I was surprised that it wasn’t 3am, as that’s my chosen time to sit bolt upright, claw at my temples, and fret like all hell. Or just lay there thinking “Hmmmn. Wish I could go back to sleep.” I don't always fret. Sometimes I’ll try to tire my mind with laborious academic feats, such as reading a book. If that hasn’t bid me a Love Boat-worthy bon voyage into the land of nod after a good hour or so, I usually wander around the apartment looking for crazy kicks. Finding the abode bereft of crazy kicks, I’ll gaze out the window at the streets below wondering where the passing cars are headed, as I am, after all, nosy by nature. Then, if it takes my fancy, I’ll have a mid-early-hours-of-the-morning snack (cereal, banana, or chocolate Yogo gorilla, if I’m on the sneaky deaky).
After this hive of activity, I’m usually sleepy-ish again and go back to bed and wake up some time after 8, as I work from home now and can do whatever I feel like, thanks.
But today I woke up sparkly at 7.05am. As I had a lot of work to do, I decided to hit the kitchen and feed myself. I heated some milk in a saucepan for my cereal (the first serve of the day), remembering my father's sterling advice a few weeks ago of "Get lots of calcium. Would you like me to send you some goats milk? I've got a goat in the backyard."
(No thanks, Dad.)
Committing to being awake, I even turned on the TV.
Opening the pantry to get out the cereal, I was confronted by what looked like a green and brown Dalmatian. But no, it wasn’t a much-longed-for pet, it was a loaf of bread we’d purchased a few days ago and it had gone mouldy as a result of us hoiking up the heating when things turned a particularly chilly shade of autumnal last night.
I thought to myself:
“My! How unpleasant. It’s a good thing my morning sickness seems to have left the building, or else I’d feel hideously ill right now.”
Averting my gaze, I put the fungi loaf in the rubbish bin and then went about compiling my breakfast. I may have even hummed.
30 seconds later …
A creature from the deep even more hideous than that furry pet growing in the pantry decided to unleash itself, like this:
BLURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
Right there in the kitchen, my morning sickness arose from its slumber both unexpectedly and spectacularly, like Nessie of the Loch. So I raced to the bathroom for five more encores in one of the more revolting experiences so far. In between, I muttered: "My God, when does this end?!" followed by "Help!" followed by the most plaintive cry of all "Muu-uum!" (even though she's 555 km away).
I eventually found my way back to bed, asked T-bone if he could hear me (yes), slept it off for three hours, and vowed never to buy a loaf of bread again.
So that was my morning. If you’re all itching to see the inflatable woman in progress, first belly shots over on Flickr.
