First time lucky

When I first found out I was pregnant, it was about two weeks after being told by a gynaecologist
 that I may 'require help'if I was to ever conceive. I had to undergo a particularly unpleasant procedure 'down there' (no - I did not have any horrible diseases) which under usual circumstances would result in miscarriage. I even had to sign paperwork to say that I was not pregnant or planning to fall pregnant within the following six months. I had no idea that I actually had a four week old foetus inside of me, who not only defied the odds of getting there in the first place, but also survived the potentially disastrous surgery that could have resulted in her never being here.
The way in which I discovered the pregnancy was also quite bizarre. My best friend Amanda was going through a 'psychic'stage, and was at the time right into reading peoples'tarot cards, angel cards and all the other things that psychics do. Amanda and I have always been very close and seemed to share many 'psychic'moments throughout our lives, like for example, I would pick up the phone to ring her and she would be just sitting there on the other end of the line....spooky stuff like that. Anyways, it was Valentines day in 2007, Joe and I had been married for four months, and were getting ready to go out for dinner that night. At about 5pm, Amanda called and said 'go buy yourself a pregnancy test...I had a dream and you were holding a baby girl. You are DEFINITELY pregnant. Do not fight it. Buy the test. NOW. ' Of course my response was'something along the lines of 'Yeah yeah, whatever, there is absolutely no way I can be...even if I was I had that surgery remember?? Yada yada yada..Leave me alone, I'm off for a romantic dinner now..'  And yet she persisted, saying 'I will continue to ring you on the hour, every hour until you get one and put me out of my misery. 'And she did....so I finally buckled and bought a test from the chemist on the way to dinner.
When we returned at about 10pm that night, the test was sitting there, so I thought I would do the test - which would obviously be negative, and shove it fair up Amanda's nose the next morning. So I peed on the stick, placed it on the window sill and kind of forgot about it. Laying in bed about an hour later Joe asked if I had checked the test..I got up and grabbed it, saw two blue lines and said "see, not pregnant', was about to throw it in the bin when I caught a glimpse of the instruction page. Two lines meant pregnant. I remember studying that diagram for so long trying to work out if I was reading it right, when suddenly I felt this massive fear hit my body with such a force. My first words were not so charming...and Joe's weren't much nicer. Yet we were very happy...just so SHOCKED!.
I was instantly worried that the baby wouldn't have survived the surgery and of course I didn't sleep a wink that night.
I got up in the morning to the soon-to-be familiar feeling of morning sickness. I thought it might have been a bit of a trick of the mind...but the morning sickness decided to settle in and stay with me right up until 7 months...I called work and told them I wouldn't be coming in today (as I was in too much shock) and stayed home and between vomiting, spent the day stressing over every little thing that could possibly go wrong. I contacted Joe's Doctor, who was a well known Obstetrician, and luckily was accepted as a patient. Yet I was told I couldn't get in for two more weeks!!!!
I made a trip to town and purchased about six different brands of pregnancy tests, which all showed the same result...I rang my Mum, (who didn't believe me) and yelled at Amanda for jinxing me.
The pregnancy progressed in the usual way; but I still to this day can not believe how utterly exhausted I was. Looking back now I can see that it had a lot to do with my depression. I was having anxiety attacks every day, my blood pressure was so high that I now take medication for life, I had EVERY known pregnancy complication from oedema to carpal tunnel to restless legs at night. And I was sooo puffy. I remember one day attempting some weeding. It was quite a warm day and I was about 7 months along. When I stood up I had the grass imprints in my legs, and they stayed there for days. My gums bled every time I brushed my teeth, I was vomiting pretty much all day ( I really thought I would vomit the baby up sometimes) yet piling weight on like crazy. People told me I was glowing...I told them it was probably sweat.
When my due date rolled around I can honestly say that I was NOT one of those women who were overjoyed and eager to 'get this baby out'. I had no desire to start labour. I wanted a cesarean. I begged and begged my Doctor from day one and he stood his ground, saying over and over 'You're tough Megan, you can do it". I did not want to meet this baby just yet. And yes I was shallow - I only wanted a girl. There was not a single atom in my body that wanted a boy. Many will judge but it was the truth. So I think I had convinced myself from day one that it was going to be a boy, so when he was born it wouldn't be such a suprise. Amanda was the only one who insisted it was a girl. I had the ring test, the shape of my bump test, the rate of heartbeat test, the Chinese birth chart test...everyone around me was guessing boy. So I went along with it.
Two weeks after my due dat, my Doctor told me I was going to have to be induced. So off we went to hospital, and got things underway. And it was bad. The pain was sudden and hit my like a truck. The induction was started at 6pm on a Monday night...The first lot of gel began to work and contractions started a couple of hours later. When you are induced your body has no real 'warm up'contractions. You can be just sitting there when suddenly BOOM!! Theres the first one. Joe was up with me ALL night rubbing my back with a tennis ball and doing all sorts of annoying things.  The second gel was applied at midnight, and I told them I was not sleeping and was tired and in so so so much pain, so I was given some panadol - PANADOL????, and some sleeping tablets. They may as well have given me a bandaid as nothing helped. Even the Pethidine didn't take the edge. At 8am, (yes - still awake. And exhausted), my Doctor came in to break my waters and family was called to come in and wait as it was ímminent'. LIES! It went on forever!!.One of the lowest points of my life was hovering over a fitness ball stark naked in the bottom of the shower with three midwives , my Doctor, my Mum and Mother in Law and Joe, having a lovely chat while I rolled and lolled down below hollering in pain. My Mum was actually laughing at the look on my face...
Afterwards I was taken to the labor ward and after begging for an epidural it was agreed I should have one. And of course the two anaesthetists were missing. No one could find them. So finally three hours later a local Doctor came to my rescue between patients and after hitting nerves which made my legs go berserk, a lovely numbness flooded throughout my body. Why the hell did I not get one last night?? So the next few hours were lovely, I had cups of tea and chatted to the midwives whilst watching Dr Phil. At 3pm I was fully dilated and still completely pain free. I started to push and the baby's head was'crowning and I was told "This is brilliant Megan..you are going to have this baby in the next ten minutes without any pain'.....if only. It was the most horrible experience of my life. The pain was hideous, and Joe kept trying to be helpful and was rubbing my feet (which I couldn't feel anyway) and ran off to get me a lotus scented candle that he had bought to keep me calm. Of course I screamed at him 'What the FUCK is a candle gong to do for me right now?!?!?!' . Yet he tried and really, he was outstanding. The baby got stuck of course, and to cut a long gruesome story short, I will just say the epidural was for whatever reason switched off, I was cut, torn and finally with Doc's foot on the edge of the bed for leverage - the baby was yanked out. The damage was bad, but I did not even notice when they handed my beautiful baby to me. What's more is it wasn't until a few minutes had gone by that I realised I 'd had a girl.
We named her Lucy Isabella, and she really was, and is totally perfect.

The Italian Stallion

I remember when I first met my husband. It was the morning after a particularly hazy night out on the town with my good friend, Rosie. We had been pubbing and clubbing the night before, and now, after a long walk home in the early hours of the morning, had arrived to discover that my brother (who I was sharing a house with) had left for the weekend and had thoughtfully locked me out. It was about 6am and we had no where to go. We were thirsty, hungry, tired and looked a bit like escaped psychopaths with wild hair and smeared makeup. And short skirts. We laid in the park over the road for ages trying to figure out where we could go and have someone take pity on us, when Rosie suggested we try her cousin Joseph. I didn't care where we ended up, as long as I got some form of moisture back into my mouth, so off we went up the road.
He lived in an awesome house right near the beach, but what really grabbed my attention was the blue sports car parked in his driveway. It was the exact car that only weeks ago I had spotted and told my Mum "see that car - I'm going to marry the owner one day'. Coincidence??
Joe met us at the door with two cups of steaming coffee and invited us in. The house was extremely spotless and so, so clean. (I later discovered that this trait disappears soon after marriage). After finding his bathroom and nearly drowning myself in an attempt to make myself look semi-alive, we went outside and started talking and talking. We had so much in common, we both loved horror movies, loved the same bands and knew lots of the same people. Before we knew it it was early evening and I decided that my brother would be home, so we thanked him for putting up with us and left.
He called and asked me out for tea a couple of days later, and the rest, as they say is history.
I remember when I first told my parents about Joe. I couldn't blame them for being concerned when I described him as a junk-food loving, gold chain-wearing, heavily tattooed Italian Stallion, with a mohawk and a fondness for bongs. I had had a string of boyfriends who had ranged from plain weird to the criminally insane, and Mum was especially worried when she discovered that he was shorter than me. But my Dad cheered up when he found out Joe drove a wrx, as that was his dream car.
The first time Joe came for dinner, there was a moment of hysteria from Mum, as she made spaghetti and meatballs. Then realised that not only was Joe an Italian, who would have had authentic spaghetti, he was probably sick of eating it. But he assured her they were the best he'd eaten, thus winning over my Mum in one fell swoop.
Joe didn't just fit in with my family, he was loved by the whole town. Middle aged women everywhere gushed over him, as not only was he nice looking, it was obvious that he was actually a genuinely nice guy, with decent morals and values. And he accepted my two cats and treated them like his own offspring, even allowing them to sleep on his red suede lounge suite.  Before he proposed, he took a secret trip up to visit my parents to ask for my hand in marriage, a tradition that most believe had disappeared over the years.
The wedding day was a comedy of errors. Everything that could go wrong did. I had a terrible ear infection and had to dose myself to the eyeballs on painkillers. I asked Joe's sister to be my Matron of Honor, a duty she would have performed beautifully, had she not spent the morning of the wedding in hospital on a drip due to severe gastroenteritis. However, she made it to the church, looking as green as the dress she was wearing and still managed to look beautiful. My brother;s job was to drive Joe's wrx and deliver the bridesmaids to the church, and of course he got pulled over by the police and given a speeding fine along the way. When he finally arrived at my parent's house where we were all getting ready, (and trying to ignore my soon-to-be sister in law vomiting in the garden,)he informed us that there was actually another wedding going on at the same church!!! I couldn't believe it as I had confirmed the day before that the church was to be open and ready for us. When the Rolls Royce arrived to escort my father and I to the church, I had to ask why the driver insisted on putting the car in neutral and honking the horn all the way to the church. He told me that the horn was playing up and going off on it's own, and something 'just didn't feel right when he put his foot on the brakes'. Great. And sure enough, when we arrived at the beautiful little church, all the wedding guests were milling around outside instead of sitting inside listening to the compilation of beautiful songs that we had spent weeks agonising over. And there on the front steps of the church was a bride, a groom and a small gathering of people congratulating them. It turns out, they were a group of friends travelling throughout Western Australia. One happened to be a celebrant, the bride spotted the church, fell in love with it, whipped out her dress and they decided to get married on the front lawn outside. I have a photo of myself and her standing side by side in our meringue frocks in my wedding album.
The wedding night was lots of fun, the food was fantastic and everyone had a ball. Thank God noting else went wrong (besides the best man splitting his pants during the photos) and more and more people having to retreat to their houses and hotels early, dropping like flies as the dreaded gastro bug hit them.
We honeymooned on the Gold Coast. Of course it wasn't without dramas. My ear infection had gone into overdrive, and when we got on the plane, the increased air pressure caused unbearable pain. Passengers on the other side of the planes aisle could hear my ear drums 'squealing'. By the time we landed I was so sick and dizzy. I spent so much of my honeymoon trying to stay upright and not fall into the footpath that appeared to be sloping in all directions under my feet. The second half of the trip was spent at a health resort on Stradbroke Island. Fun when you are already woozy, and by now Joe was getting a tad sick of my whingeing. It was a true test of companionship, but the biggest test came for Joe when he realised he was out of cigarettes, stuck on an island for a week, and there was no junk food whatsoever. A few days into it, he was just about going blind from nicotine withdrawals, when we found a restaurant that served nachos. He frantically rang and ordered bulk nachos to be delivered to our room as soon as humanly possible. The knock on the door came and Joe ran like lightning, took the covered tray of food and tipped the worker generously, salivating and shaking with want. The last few days of no cigarettes, alcohol and any form of slightly unhealthy food had pushed him over the edge of sanity, and as he tore the lid off the tray I swear he almost passed out.
"What the fuck is this shit???"He screamed. He went a bit manic I must say, throwing things around the hotel room, a crazed look on his face. He rang the restaurant....Ï ordered bloody nachos...and you've given me blue stuff"....The person on the other end tried to explain to him that the nachos were made from organic blue corn chips with a freshly chopped salsa and re-fried bean dipping sauce on the side. No cheesy corn chips from a packet, no melted gooey cheese and sour cream dolloped on top. He hung up and I saw tears in his eyes. He drank our complimentary bottle of wine out on the porch that had the ocean directly underneath us, and tried to hide the tears of frustration that were filling his eyes. I didn't have the heart to tell him it was non-alcoholic.
The next day we decided to hire canoes and paddle down the lake that spiralled through the resort. I hopped in and was about to take off when Joe spotted the backpack I was carrying.  He decided that as women were so completely useless at anything remotely physical it would be much safer and sensible for him to carry our belongings. Of course Joe's canoe rolled over and our bag containing our camera, wallets, money, keys etc were gone, along with his paddle. I was laughing so hard, especially when he had to start diving for it I nearly rolled myself. Even he had to laugh at the ridiculousness of it.
I think the main thing that irritates me about my husband, besides his many collections and the morning ritual of clearing his nose in the shower (gross) by blocking one nostril and blowing out the other...is the fact that he can eat SO much take-away and stay thin. Every Friday night he will eat minimum of two burgers, large fries and large nuggets, and wash it all down with a large coke. My arse expands simply thinking about all he consumes in one sitting. It is just. not.fair. He never eats fruit, hates most vegetables, yet is in exceptional health and is very fit. It makes me sick. However, I have visions of him turning into one of those short, old and tubby Italian men with bald heads and trousers pulled up just under their man-boobs. I secretly hope not.
Throughout the years we have stood by each other through family deaths, marriages and of course the births of our two amazing beautiful daughters. For all his shortcomings, Joe has made me feel very safe, happy and loved. And he makes me laugh every day. Except for when i find huge nasal secretions in the shower....

Nine 2 Five

Whether you love it or hate it, work is one of those unavoidable evil necessities. Without work you wouldn't be able to eat, or go shopping, or collect tiny smurfs. You may have a successful career that fulfills you, and it may be everything you have worked towards since leaving school. Or you may despise it and become bankrupt. Or you may have a nine to five dead end job that leaves you raggard and haggard. Or else you may love it. Or you could be a full time Mum. (and we all know this is the hardest position of employment going. With the lowest rate of pay). I am a full time Mum, but just last year I had the good fortune to be offered a couple of days employment. After nearly four years of not 'working', I suddenly felt readyish to return to the workplace. After all, my youngest daughter was 18 months old and SURELY a couple of days of adult interraction and actually forcing my brain to switch on, without the aid of 18 cups of coffee must be a good thing, right? And besides, its very rare these days to actually be asked to work for someone. So i accepted the position of Pharmacy Assistant in a brand new pharmacy and off I went to find some new shoes to wear to work.
I have always worked in pharmacy. My Mum got me my first job after school rotating stock and cleaning in a small chemist in the small town where I grew up. Everyone knew everyone, and being the immature teenager that I was it was extremely hard to hide my sniggers when one of my teachers would come in with their scripts for Viagra. But my boss was fantastic and trained me up to become a dispensary technician, dispensing scripts and counselling customers on their rashes and boils. Being a Pharmacy Assistant is a wonderful job, because if ANYTHING goes wrong you can shift the blame onto the Pharmacist. It is NEVER your fault.
And things DID go wrong...like one time our Pharmacist was away for a couple of years and we had to endure a string of locum Pharmacists throughout the duration...and what a bunch they were. There was one who used to wear a heavy woollen jumper in the middle of summer with a knitted stag on the front. I am not lying. He used to sit cross legged on the front counter (quite high) and play a banjo. When the locums arrived in town it was my duty to deliver the key to them at the shire house they were staying at. I met this same Pharmacist in the middle of the road. He was wearing a pair of red jocks, had a jumper tied around his neck and was running around 'flying like superman'....Once again, this is the honest truth. Then there was another one who was absolutely PHOBIC of ants. They terrified him. And of course the rental was full of tiny weeny little ants that would send him into a frenzy. He would arrive at work in the morning shaken and a bit pale, uttering insanities about the evil creepy crawlies. Another one that springs to mind was a real Hitler type. We called him 'Saint Bernard'. Yes his name was Bernard. He was one of the most arrogant men I have ever come across. His face was all pink and moist, a bit like raw sausage mince. One day I had some photos delivered of my friends and I at a party we had been to the weekend before. I had the photos in my work bag. Another staff member and I were stocktaking out the front of the shop, and I walked around to the back to get a drink and found the Saint with his pants on the floor (they had slipped apparently) and he was looking through my photos. I was so shocked I couldn't even say anything, and mumbled an excuse to get out of there. He carried on as he was.
And they were the more 'normal' ones.
Not long after I decided that all Pharmacists were morons and Med School must be one big drug fest,  and decided to study Beauty Therapy. It was a two year Tafe course and I loved every second of it. I was never that interested in the waxing and massage side of it. My main focus was Make-Up Artistry. It was during this course that I met my darling husband, found a new job at a local Beauty Salon and not long after fell pregnant. At Seven months I left work and began preparing for my hardest job yet.
After Lucy was born, people would say things to me like 'Now that you're a mum you know you're really alive don't you?' I have never understood this as I nearly always felt like I was only a few short steps away from death due to sleep deprivation and extreme anxiety. I suffered from post-natal depression which escalated to full-blown depression. And yet I was also the happiest I had ever been in my life. But still I managed to perform all the duties that were now expected of me and even managed to get out of the house once in a while in clean clothes. Without forgetting to pack the nappies, wipes, dummy, bottle, formula, spew rags, and the baby.
Then along came Alani two years later. By now I was much more comfortable and stress levels were much lower (thanks to Zoloft) and actually looked forward to starting this whole Mummy thing again. And from the beginning baby number two has been a breeze, sleeping and eating when she was meant to.
But it wasn't long before I once again began thinking that something was missing from my life. I began to think about returning to work. And pretty much the moment I began to question whether I could manage to complete a full nine hour shift after limited sleep, I was offered a job. I met with my future boss, decided straight away that he was one of the kindest people I had ever met, and thought ; "why not?".
So here I am. At the moment I am only working one day a week, but (and I know I shouldn't say this)  I absolutely relish that one blissful day a week where I don't have to listen to "Muuuuummmm....I have a blood nose again.."or "Mummy...I wanna chocowit bickit now!!.." every five minutes. My boss is still ridiculously understanding and nice beyond belief, completely 'normal' the other ladies there are brilliant. Even better, I get to finish an entire cup of coffee. Hot. And sometimes get to see some awesome rashes and boils.

No rest for the Wicked...

Do you know what word I hate hearing?? Besides the obvious ones like 'moist' and 'bosom' and 'scrotum'...? It is the word INTENSITY. I despise any word that is described as 'intense'. Which is why I am surprising myself as I have just recently joined a Bootcamp class. Today was out first day and we were promised three weekly sessions of hardcore, high energy extreme vomit-inducing INTENSITY. And that is exactly what we got.
5:30am is never a pleasant time to be woken by the shrill wailing of the alarm, that not only wakes you but the whole family also. Its dark and slightly eerie at this time of the morning. Yet up I got, feeling apprehensive yet eager to get the first session underway, so i could remind myself how incredibly unfit, unhealthy and uneverything I have become. I could blame this decline in my health and appearance on the whole falling pregnant and child-rearing thing, but in reality, my weight started creeping on once I discovered the joys of binge drinking. I think before that I was quite thin, maybe even on the slightly underweight side, but something happened. I seemed to skip the whole 'blossoming into a woman thing' and slipped straight into saggy granny mode. (I just love it when people say, "but at least you're tall - you can get away with it") which translates directly to "You're lucky you're tall, cos if you were a couple of feet shorter you would probably not fit into a seat on a plane. In fact you would find it hard fitting onto a plane in the first place).
Anyways, so off I go to my first Bootcamp. Now I must say that after having my first child, I did for about a year get right into this whole fitness thing. I became a dedicated member of the gym, exercised every day and lost quite a bit of weight. And then fell pregnant again. All the fitness I once had stored up had vanished before my eyes. And suddenly I'm about 5 kilos heavier than when i started off. Not good. I had some ear-splitting hard rock playing in the car to 'rev me up' before my first class, yet it only caused a headache. And I hadn't even begun any exercise.
Our first duty was to perform 30 starjumps. This is where it all began to go wrong. I really hope this wont offend anyone, but lets just day that the pelvic floors were working overtime..so much so that I was concentrating so hard on not weeing that I couldn't get my body to coordinate enough to perform the basic task at hand. Starjumps are now another un-favourite word of mine.
Then we did some Indian Running. This is where we form a straight line and jogged up a hill, and the person at the back of the line has to sprint to the front and so on. Except when it was my turn I couldn't catch the front of the line. And when i finally did, the person behind me seemed to nimbly bound past like a gazelle...
We also did a game where we chose a number in multiples of 5 right up to 30, this would be how many reps we did of a certain activity.I chose 25, which didn't seem too bad until I chose my activity. At that stage all i could think was 'Please don't let it be starjumps''...but it was Burpees. Burpees? This sounds like fun I thought...until I saw a demonstration. Lets just say that Burpees are now added to my list of least favourite words.
After some more hideous and downright awful activities, we had made it to 45mins. It was over. The agony..the pain..the sheer bloody hideousness was done. We were sweating more than blind lesbians in a fish market, but you know what?? I realised something. It had been fun. Yes, my heart was beating at an inhuman rate and my mouth was dryer than Ghandi's sandal, but something was causing me to smile. Blame it on the 'good endorphins' or the awesome group of girls  who were enduring this with me, or the fact that we had provided free entertainment for the neighbours to watch from the comfort of their loungeroom windwos,  but it was definitely....fun. And now I can't wait for our next Bootcamp session. Bring it on!!

Where do I start???

Writers block....is it possible to have writers block when you're not technically a writer?? For as long as I can remember I have wanted to begin the story that would "change my life, and the lives of others", and yet my head is as vacuous as ever and my eyes are already strained and dry from staring at the computer screen in front of me. It is a lovely computer screen though, 24"Asus flat screen. Very nice. I have many nice things..looking around my office the first thing I notice is my bookcase, completely overflowing with my favourite novels, biographies and manuals. To me, books are constant reminders as to what phase your life was in at the time.
There's my much loved collection of the Sweet Valley High series...this was me pretty much me from age ten until, shamefully, about twenty. And yes, every now and then I will still pick one up and relive the adventures of Jessica and Elizabeth; the amazingly beautiful and adventurous identical Californian twins. I have about 300 of those.
Then there are my Marian Keyes - my absolute idol. The funniest, most HONEST author I've come across yet. I swear I can relate to every one of her characters. I have all of her books.
Also in there are my Jodi Picoults for when I feel a bit angsty..she reminds me there are always others out there worse off than me. I also have a range of Beauty Therapy textbooks, a few Stephen Kings', Deant Koontzs' and the like and of course my "Pregnancy Collection". To say I am a tad obsessive would be an understatement. When I fell pregnant with my first child, (I'll get to that), in 2007, I felt it ABSOLUTELY ESSENTIAL to purchase every pregnancy manual I could get my hands on. I got my moneys worth though, as I read, re-read and re-re-read those things from cover to cover, constantly assessing wether or not my pregnancy was running smoothly, and making myself sick with worry that I hadn't felt any kicking yet, does my baby kick too much? , had I taken enough folic acid?, the book says colostrum is a clearish colour but mines a tad whitish..is this normal? Oh my Gosh...the manual says I can't eat feta cheese...was that spinach and feta cheese pie I made BEFORE I was pregnant or AFTER?? Looking back...it's no wonder that I was a neurotic headcase that ended up with high blood pressure and a script for Zoloft.
There's other things in this room of course, some that I really really love, and others that I hate with the fire of a thousand suns...For example; My one of a kind framed Smashing Pumpkins poster that my darling husband presented me with for my last birthday - LOVE it. The scary collection of limited edition 1970ish  Smurfs (that will one day be worth money) - HATE it. The antique display cabinet that belonged to my beloved Grandfather - LOVE it. The items inside said cabinet - HATE it. The cabinet is now home to darling husband's comic collection. Are you sensing a rhythm here? Yes; my hubby is a 'collector.'Except where some people collect ONE thing, eg stamps, bottles, smurf paraphernalia, MY hubby goes the whole hog and has MULTIPLE collections. In fact he COLLECTS collections. Here's a few; smurfs,comics, yo-yo's, army and war items, rockabilly items, skateboards, marvel figurines  (Yes - they're STILL in their boxes for future superannuation collection), keyrings(he picked up a BARGAIN bag from a garage sale once...had some lovely pieces, including many Tasmanian emblems, a tomato slice and one that said Hi My Name Is Steve..
Honestly, the list goes on...and yet as annoying as he can be, and as INCONSISTENT as his hobbies are I still think he is possibly the nicest person Ive ever met. A tad on the short side, yet lovely nonetheless. However, if his collections begin to hover around the category of' hoarding, we may have to re-evaluate. His name is Joe and he is a Barber. He owns the coolest store in town filled with retro items and men love it. He can talk and talk to anyone and always remembers peoples' names. Even when they haven't been in for a year. He is a wonderful husband and an amazing Father.
We have two daughters. Lucy who is four and has started Kindergarten this year (yippee) (sorry - didn't mean that), and Alani, who is nearly two. They are both very beautiful of course, with lovely blonde hair and blue eyes. They are also very loud. I can be quite loud, yet almost mouselike when compared to my two banshees.They are also both very funny. And slightly annoying. No, not really. One funny thing they do is  ; EVERY time we leave my parents'house, Lucy will yell out to my Mum, "Hey Woman, get in the kitchen and make me some pie!", and Alani will follow that with "woman...kitchen and pie!!!" Very funny.
There are other things in this room also, but most of it belongs to Joe. Infact, looking aroud it is just beginning to dawn on me that this is very much indeed a 'man's room'. Signed footballs, war pictures, car prints, signed Canadian ice-hockey pucks..how have I not noticed this before??
Anyway, as I was saying, I really want to write THE book. So i have been thinking that maybe the best way to get into the groove was to start my own blog and see if there is anyone out there who would actually be remotely interested in my ramblings. So I shall now post this lovely little piece of script and wait for the applause to roll in...stay tuned.