Everything I own keeps breaking and fucking up because of the stupid weather we are having here.

My garage door blew off it’s hinges during the cyclone and spent three days smashing into the back of my shiny car while I was off being evacuated from the hospital and transferred 2000km away, which necessitated being hurled about in the back of a Hercules in a sardine stack, with the bitch above me pissing every three seconds and the slag below me pulling on my support strap which in turn pulled on my freshly sliced and diced abdomen. Obviously I was unable to prevent the damage to either my garage door, my car, or my mental and physical state in general.

I haven’t been able to get my car in to get serviced yet, as it’s the car with the baby seat, I haven’t been allowed to drive for 6 weeks after the caesarean and then it’s been pissing with rain so often and so hard, I’ve forgotten what the sun looks like and have become accustomed to not being able to hear the television or even a simple conversation over the incessant noise of the rain.

The day I decided to go out driving it’s not raining that hard. I pack the baby up and off we go for our first day out because if I stayed at home one more day I would have likely blown my brains out from boredom. Seriously. There is only so much TV one can take before your arse gets pressure sores. It was a lovely day. James wants us to come and visit him for lunch so off we go. I get her out of the car and shut the door and the fucking window falls through the door. The windows are electric and won’t go up. Then it starts to rain. The broken window is the one right next to Cailee’s baby seat.

I ring Mitsubishi and tell them my sad story. They say they’ll fit me in in about two weeks time. I say that’s not good enough, pull the whole I have an itty bitty baby, she’ll get rained on, I won’t be able to go anywhere until it’s fixed, boo hoo I’m a sad sorry bag of hormones, woe is my life, crying woman thing and they agree to fix it immediately. I guess being a Drama student actually paid off, because I was actually full of rage and anger than anything else.

They fixed it.

Yesterday we go out for the first time as the three of us. We had a lovely day. On our way to the city, James drove around a roundabout at fairly breakneck speed as always (his theory is that if you don’t drive the car to it’s limits it won’t respond properly when you need it to) and I hear a really loud bang, like something has hit the car right next to me. No shattered glass or anything so we both dismissed it as a rock on the road.

Lovely day was had, do de doo. Time to go home. I walk to the back of the car to get in next to Cailee and lo and behold, the other window had fallen through the door. Must have happened when I got out of the car. Guess what? It’s fair pissing with rain again and we’ve got a 25 minute drive home. AWESOME SAUCE!!!

Now I’m stuck with a car I can’t drive in the rain, a rain forecast for the next three weeks, and I’m pretty sure the other car doesn’t have a tether for a baby seat so we’re fucked.

Oh and the best bit? I have to keep my expensive NEW(ish) car with a broken window, in our garage… WITH NO FUCKING GARAGE DOOR! So all the neighbourhood cats and dogs can get in and piss all through it (shut a blanket in the window to keep them out) and it’s basically sitting there waiting to be stolen.

Some of the television I’ve been watching hasn’t exactly been quality since James gets pissed off if I watch something good without him, so I tend to stick to girly drama shows.

I’m now up to season three of Gossip Girl and I just have to wonder, what the fuck is up with these people? How old are these stupid tarts supposed to be? I thought they were supposed to be in high school. What sort of high school student does half of the crap they do? I get the drinking and the drugs part, that’s kind of part and parcel of the whole teenage/growing up experience and I certainly did my fair share of being a drunk bitch, but travelling around foreign countries as unaccompanied minors, throwing lavish parties, having personal shoppers and OH. MY. GOD! The scheming! The nastiness and backstabbing these kids engage in, holy crap! I love me some trashy drama and gossip, but these awful people are going to grow up and make people like Judas look like a fluffy kitten.

Then again, I have spent all bar five years of my life living in rural Australia (three of which were literally spent in the arse end of nowhere) so I have no idea if thats how people really behave in the big smokes, although if the elitist snobbery of my city mates is anything to go by I’m pretty sure it’s mostly an American conceit if it exists at all (i.e. my city mates THINK they are elitist snobs but have nothing to actually be elitist about besides living in one of the few metropolitan areas in the country).

Nonetheless, it makes for entertaining television if one can move past the utter ridiculousness of it all.

So instead, go here.

For those that don’t know, it’s a very long and complicated story, so I’m currently working on writing the whole thing out which will probably take quite a bit of time since she is quite the high maintenance princess at the moment (i.e. she eats all the bloody time and screams like a banshee on crack if I put her down).

My only spare time is between 8-9.30am usually and that’s because she’s had her morning feed and goes back to sleep with James until he wakes up. Yes, she physically sleeps on him. Not exactly recommended practice, but faced with the prospect of the wailing banshee and lots of housework to be done, you’d do it too.

Christmas on television is always portrayed as being inside a snow globe, inevitably each Christmas morning it snows and everyone realises the meaning of life and forgives everyone their sins and hug each other. Here, it’s hotter than the inside of a torture chamber in hell, a zillion percent humidity and quite often mixed with a torrential downpour. Not very inspiring to world peace and all that. Also, all the storylines are preachy and moralistic and being that nice and caring would go down as well as battery acid to most people.

Christmas music is vulgar. Songs about Santa and sleighs and that awful, awful, AWFUL song about the guy who gave his heart to a bitchy ex play on a ridiculous never-ending loop and make me want to Van Gogh myself.

People rushing to the shops at the last minute to buy presents for their relatives and offspring annoy me too, usually because all I want is to get some damn toothpaste or toilet paper, some mundane boring necessity that I require immediately. I have to spend 200 years trawling for a carpark, then I have to fight my way inside the shops through a sea of marauding bargain hunters like I’m the only person left alive in a zombie invasion, grab my mundane necessities and have to spend another 100 years waiting in line to pay for said items while people’s bastard children spill things, rub their chocolate smeared hands on stuff and scream the house down, while their parents gab on their phones about superficial garbage and elbow people out of the way left, right and centre or run them with their trolleys if you have the temerity to get in the way of their shopping,  using the holidays as an excuse to let their kids turn into psychotic monsters, only then to themselves turn into a mutant version of Godzilla if you happen to look at an item they were sizing up, suggest they develop some manners when they run over you or heaven forbid, tell their child to stop being a little shit.
In the meantime of course, my teeth are feeling furry and I probably need to pee.

Then there’s the whole family togetherness thing. I actually like the whole family gathering part of Christmas, when I lived away that was the only time I really got to see most of them. I actually even like my family. We’re all mental, so it makes for an interesting time, particularly given that in my extended family of, I can’t count that high, let’s just say lots, none of us are particularly mature and are all big fat children, which is the only reason I’ve ever liked Christmas.

Now that I’m supposed to be an adult because I’m married and all that, I have to share my juvenile Christmas with my husband’s family, who of course are not delinquents. He, naturally, IS a delinquent and will spend most of Christmas trying to fart on my brothers, which delights me to no end. The two families of course, do not mix.

And let’s not forget the whole present thing – I really get the shits when people ask why my husband and I don’t do Christmas for each other, as though we’re horrible people who secretly hate each other. He’s only interested in three things; guitars, video games and cars. I don’t know shit about guitars, except that we have 10 of them, we both love games and we buy them whenever we want to and last year we spent a small fortune on an Evo. I suppose I could get him a matchbox RX-7, but my mother already did that one year. I’m interested in bikes and books, neither of which he knows anything about, apart from that I have too many of both and he’s sick of tripping over them. So really, what’s the point?

I feel fake telling people to have a ‘Merry Christmas’. Merry is not a word I usually use in my vocabulary unless I’m discussing Lord of the Rings and I resent the implied obligation to tell every Tom, Dick and Harriet I interact with the week beforehand to have one.

Basically, I’m just a mean bitch and can’t swallow the enforced sugar of ‘Christmas spirit’ (if it’s spirits in a bottle however, I’m all over it) and I hate the way it turns ordinary people into crazy zombies.

Last.fm! It’s not as much fun now that you have to pay for a subscription of course (but I will), I’m just glad I remembered about it now before I lose my brain!

My hard drives are on the way out and so I’ve disconnected them until I can remember (read: be bothered) to recover the data on them before relegating them to the scrap heap. Naturally, they contain the entirety of my whole music collection, which leaves me with what’s on my very old iPod which is both not a great deal and a bunch of crap I’m bored with.

Find me here!

This will be the third time I forfeit my much needed sleep to try and wrest tickets away from Americans and stupid non-nerdy people who apparently buy tickets to go and see those ridiculous Twilight drips.

I’m desperate to get tickets since 2011 is pretty much going to be our only chance – I’m on 12 months leave from work, so I won’t need to get time off work, which I usually have to use for clinical practice blocks at uni. I’m not doing any practical subjects at uni next year, so I won’t find myself accidentally rostered for clinical placement in the arse end of Australia at an inconvenient time. My husband is in the unique position of being able to pretty much do whatever he wants work-wise next year while Radbaby will be young. And we’ve got a stash of money to be able to pay for it, which will dwindle incredibly fast with me not working for a year.

If I don’t somehow manage to find success at 2.30am tonight/tomorrow morning, I may just lose it.

Apparently not.

This week, Keli Lane was convicted of murdering her two day old child, without the prosecution ever proving beyond reasonable doubt that a murder even took place.  The jury were unable to reach a unanimous decision on the murder charge and the presiding judge allowed a majority verdict instead.

To me, this is ridiculous. I have no idea whether or not this woman did kill her baby or not, but there has been no substantial evidence ever brought forth to prove that the baby is dead, let alone murdered by her mother. How can a jury convict someone of a crime that was never proven to take place? Without evidence to suggest that there was a criminal act and without evidence to conclusively prove that Keli Lane is a murderer, it astounds me that a conviction could ever take place, particularly given that with a charge of murder, the onus is also on the prosecution to prove intent to kill.

It has been conclusively proven that Keli did conceive and birth three children, and that the first and third children were secretly adopted out, but the second one vanished. I don’t deny this. I agree that it is highly suspect that after 14 years nobody has ever come forward to say that they know what happened to this little girl, or any information about her at all. If Keli did want to ‘get rid of’ her children abortion would have been an option, but the fact that she gave two up for adoption also suggests that murder is less likely as it shows a modicum of care. I simply don’t know. Nobody does, that’s the point.

I am in no way defending the rights of someone to commit murder and get away with it, that’s abhorrent, but I do believe in justice and I do believe that our judicial system screwed up.

Look at Lindy Chamberlain, it’s certainly not the first time.

In the next 6-7 weeks, I have literally NOTHING on my plate, which hasn’t happened since I was in year 9 and on school holidays. I got a job when I was 14 and haven’t stopped working since. Even when I took my little sabbatical to recover last year, I still was studying at university.

It’s a weird feeling. In some ways I still feel like it’s all in my imagination. After everything that we’ve been through just trying to get to this point I still feel like I’m going to wake up one day and it’ll all be taken away from me, simply because in the past that has been my experience, despite in my professional experience knowing that it’s an absolute crock of shit and I’m just a nutcase.

I also feel like a bit of a fraud. As far as pregnancies go, mine (this time) has been terribly, terribly easy, I didn’t gain a single ounce of weight until 33 weeks where I gained a whole 2kg (I think the baby is eating my arse, hooray!), I never had morning sickness and despite being ‘at risk’ for a whole litany of complications (i.e. my family history sucks and I’m what you might call slightly more rotund than the average supermodel) I’m perfectly fine. Just awkward and uncomfortable. Everyone else I know due around the same time is having all sorts of problems and issues. Pre-eclampsia, gestational diabetes, high blood pressure, blood clots… and they’re the ones doing it by the book and here’s me on my big fat arse playing xbox and eating pizza with nothing wrong with me!

So now that I’m not actually doing anything except indulging in my favourite hobbies of eating crap food and playing video games, James has decided that I should finish writing my book and then pop out a few more babies. He MAY want to reconsider that once I’ve popped Radbaby out since he’s never actually even seen a baby before, whereas I’ve got 100 billion brothers, sisters and cousins ranging from 18 months to 27 years younger than me. Dork.

But I want to actually write stuff worth reading here. So that’s part of the plan.

This weekend marked the beginning of turning my house, which generally looks like it is occupied by two single, very nerdy, computer geek lads who eat a lot of pizza, drink far too much piss and are being dominated by two incredibly bossy cats, crossed with a nuclear fallout zone, into a reasonably uncluttered, shit-free house safe for baby human cohabitation.

I would like to point out that I regularly employ the services of a cleaning lady. I am absolutely useless at housework for many reasons, the most notable of which is that I hate it and think it’s boring, lame and something that only bland uninteresting people do for fun, and I would rather spend my time playing games instead. Which I do. Hence the cleaning lady. Also James has never had to lift a finger in his life because up until he married me his mother did it all for him.

However, the cleaning lady only cleans the kitchen, the living/dining rooms and the main room and ensuite. The other two bedrooms are OUT OF BOUNDS because one is our office (you don’t fuck with someone’s desk!) and the other is a spare room which is basically a very politically correct way of saying ‘dumping ground for shit we want to move out of the way’. Basically she cleans the rooms that people see.

But now Radbaby is coming we actually have to behave like adults, at least until the kid is old enough for us to start acting like kids again.

I spent 3 hours sorting laundry today. Laundry. How fucking boring is sorting laundry?? Very boring, which is probably why I haven’t done it in almost a year. I had to sort it into clean, dirty to be washed, put away until I’m not gestating and get rid of at all costs. And I haven’t even started on the crap that’s still in our wardrobes which we never use but are filled with all of James’s pre-True clothes that are way too small for him now I’ve fattened him up with my wholesome cooking or are incredibly homosexual that his ex-mole made him wear or my clothes that I love dearly that will only ever fit me again if I have a breast reduction.

So laundry was done, then I cleaned the fridge and the freezer and did the shopping and put it away.

All I can say, is thank god I can afford to pay people to do my cleaning and mow my lawn on a regular basis, because housework is an incredibly shitty job. I love my minions.