Bad Day?

So I’ve been having a bad day.

It started with cleaning up cat vomit on the carpet (why must she only vomit on soft furnishings?!) then went on to include the washing machine eating my brand new (and rather expensive) Sheridan towels, a tumble whilst trying to avoid stepping on Little Dog while carrying a full washing basket (I banged my shoulder rather hard – ouchies!), my period starting ONE WEEK EARLY (seriously, whose body DOES THAT SHIT?) and finding out that an online store has charged my credit card for purchases which haven’t been sent out (which is just rude, really). I also forgot to put the chicken boob I was defrosting in the fridge (so now it’s all warm and icky), banged my toe on the metal doorframe and have plumbing issues. (That’s not a metaphor – the kitchen tap no longer spurts out hot water, only cold water.)

I vented a bit on Twitter this morning and I was astounded at the number of women who’ve also stated that they’re having a bad day too. (I also got one DM from a bloke telling me that all my problems are first world problems, my own fault, etc. Thanks for that, dude, but you’re really not helping the situation – logic and reasoning have fucked off and left the building.)

Anyway, since everyone seems to be having a bad day, I thought I’d open this post up for comments. My darling readers, I want you to leave a comment and vent. This blog is a safe place – there is no judgement, no shaming. You can bitch, whinge, weep, moan and shout all you like.

You can even do it anonymously if you like.

Let me know why you’re having a bad day. Get it off your chest, then leave it behind – it’s not worth carrying around with you. That shit is just too heavy.

PS: Any asshat replies/comments will be deleted.



Anyone who’s been following me on Twitter will know this story already.

It’s the story of some ice-cream. Some very nice ice-cream actually. Maggie Beer chocolate and salted caramel ice-cream to be precise.

Husband and I had bought a 500ml tub when buying a bunch of gourmet munchables at The Herdsman about two weeks ago. When we got home, we immediately cracked open the tub and had a few spoonfuls each. We ended up eating about a third of the tub.

Mistake #1 right there. It was a rookie error. I should’ve suggested we just put it in the freezer.

About ten days later, while home alone (Husband was out at a conference dinner), I couldn’t stop thinking about the ice-cream. So I got the tub, I got a spoon, I sat on the couch watching How I Met Your Mother and I ate the ice-cream. All of it.

But it was an accident! I didn’t mean to keep eating, but it was SO GOOD! I physically couldn’t stop lifting the spoon to my mouth. And every time I thought, “Right, this is DEFINITELY the last mouthful,” I’d find a river of salted caramel and I’d have to eat it. And then I hit the bottom of the tub and it was a bit of an “Oopsy,” moment.

I hid the empty ice-cream tub in the rubbish and tried hard to forget about my Maggie Beer binge.

It was going well until Saturday night when Husband suggested we eat some ice-cream. Before I could say anything he was rummaging about in the freezer looking for the Maggie Beer stuff. He emerged confused and then went to check the other freezer. Then he came back and stared at me. I tried to sink into the couch cushions and pretend I wasn’t actually there.

It didn’t work.

“Where’s the chocolate and salted caramel ice-cream?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I mumbled.

“You ate it all, didn’t you?”

“Are you accusing me?”


“Oh…. Are you sure we even had Maggie Beer ice-cream? I don’t remember buying any….”

The first line of defense is ALWAYS denial.

Unfortunately it didn’t work.

“We bought some from The Herdsman a couple of weeks ago. We got home and we ate some. Together.”

Bugger, he remembered that. I suppose that’s what you get when you marry a smart man. So I did the only thing I could think of to distract him.

I took my top off.

It worked for about 12 seconds.

“Hey, that’s not going to work with me! That’s manipulation! I’m not just going to forget about the missing ice-cream simply because you’re jiggling your boobs at me!”


I’m ashamed to say I then did something very female. I cried.

“It’s not my fault I ate it all! I was hormonal and you were out and I felt lonely and Lily was going into labor and Marshall wasn’t there and it’s just all too much!”

“You’re period isn’t due for 10 days and you won’t get hungry-hormonal for another 7. And please tell me you recorded How I Met Your Mother for me?!”

Bugger. On both counts.

Then I tried to compromise. I walked over to him and thrust my boobs into his chest and muttered something about taking his t-shirt off so I could make him forget about the ice-cream. He refused, saying he needed to keep a piece of fabric between us so he could think straight.

We then began working on a compromise. In the end, at nine o’clock at night, I was made to drive to the local McDonald’s (where I was at risk of being shot, stabbed or car-jacked), buy two chocolate sundaes, drive them home and do X-rated things with them. Because apparently marriage is all about bloody compromise.

At least by morning, all had been forgiven.


Belonging (v) Be rightly classified in or assigned to a specific category.

I’m one of those weird blogging creatures that doesn’t really fit in. There are the food bloggers who collectively eat at the most “in” cafes (when they aren’t at home just whipping up stuff like confit alpaca with an organic swede puree and a truffle foam for a casual Sunday lunch). Then there are the parenting bloggers with their own exclusive online communities, events and conferences ; the tech bloggers who are often gifted the latest gadgets ; the super-enthusiastic organic veggie growers who speak in Latin ; and the industry bloggers who appear to know every acronym under the sun.

Instead, (due to my lack of children, cooking talent and knowledge of a foreign language) I’m lumped in with “personal blogger”, which apparently has the connotation of a whinging, pimply-faced, horny teenager who hates with their parents.

That couldn’t be less me! (Well, apart from the whinging bit which I’m actually quite good at.) There are no offers of paid advertising, no conferences just for me and my kind, no breakfast clubs, no free ipads. Nothing.

[Note: To be honest even if I was offered these things I’m not sure I’d take them up on the offer, unless Cadbury wanted to give me chocolate in exchange for blog space – then I’d practically throw myself at their feet and would give them anything they asked for.]

But it does hurt to be constantly left out. It hurts to not be invited anywhere or to anything because I don’t (in the words of one well-known Perth blogger) “have anything to offer our unique group of talented individuals”.


Over the past few years, I’ve noticed that the blogging scene is really quite insular – unless you are clearly defined as a tech-blogger/food blogger/parent blogger/fitness blogger/whatever, then people don’t really want to know you. If you don’t fit into a certain box then they assume you have nothing to say, nothing to offer and no talent of any kind. You’re nothing if you can’t be clearly defined. In this way, it seems that real life and digital life unfortunately aren’t too dissimilar. I feel I feel a bit like I’m outside the Big Bloggy House looking in at all the bloggers who’ve found their tribe and are having a grand old time talking about how to child-wrangle one-handed or cook chicken liver and gooseberry cupcakes.

From my position outside the BBH (Big Bloggy House) and with my nose pressed up against the window (I like to see what I’m missing out on), I have witnessed some strange trends emerging. The food bloggers are often keen to support any over-priced and mediocre business simply because it’s the “in” thing at the moment. The tech bloggers are constantly bickering with each other over the latest i-product and how brilliant/shit/innovative/useless it is (they seem to change their minds on a weekly basis). The industry bloggers appear to be developing their own language. Meanwhile the parent bloggers are just trying to make it through the next two hours without mopping up some more vomit or being at the centre of a supermarket melt-down of epic proportions thanks to an over-tired toddler.

I suppose I’m jealous – it would be lovely to be able to talk about a shared passion or experience with a group of people from all walks of life. But I’m still looking for my tribe, my place to belong. I hope I find it soon – and I hope they don’t all talk in Latin!


I had this urge to spring clean (aka “sprunk”) a few weeks ago. I cleaned out my wardrobe and dresser, threw out old make-up and skin care products, ordered some new skin care products (thank you Audra James – check her out here: She’s awesome!) and generally did a good tidy up of my personal effects. Then, thankfully, the urge to sprunk passed before I had to do anything too strenuous.

Then the worst happened.

Husband got sick. Again. Fourth cold this year. He had the most revolting hacking cough that you can possibly imagine. It sounded like he’d been a pack a day smoker for his entire 31 years. I told him he should buy up big at the chemist. He resisted for a few days then gave in when I woke him up for the third time in one night for snoring. His snoring was so loud he’d frightened the poor cat who thought someone was starting up a lawnmower (her only real phobia).

After 3 weeks, his cold was no better. I nagged him into seeing a doctor. (Yes, the sexy GP who I also see when I’m ill or in need of medical attention.)

Sexy GP told him he doesn’t have a cold. Unfortunately, Husband has picked up a sudden allergic reaction to something. Probably dust.

I was quietly mortified. I do keep a pretty clean house, but there are bits I miss, or don’t clean because I can’t. (Such as the carpet under the bed – the vacuum cleaner doesn’t reach there!)

So anyway, Husband was given a prescription for some potent antihistamines and a nasal spray to help with the lawnmower problem. He was also told to eradicate as much dust from the house as possible and to put our pillows on the freezer just in case we have dust mites. (Apparently they can’t survive at temperatures below 0 degrees.)

Of course, all the dust eradication / sprunking has fallen to me. Well, it is my job being a housewife and all. So this morning I set about cleaning the bedroom thoroughly. I stripped the bed, washed everything twice in hot soapy water, froze the pillows, vacuumed everything (including the cat – she quite enjoys it which is just weird but quite effective during shedding season) and dusted everything – despite not being able to reach behind the bed, I managed to contort my sizeable body to make sure every tiny little particle of dust was gone.

In the process I managed to bruise my fore-arm (on the bedside table), pulled a muscle in my abdomen (doing the aforementioned contorting to get underneath the mattress to dust the wooden bed frame thoroughly) and given myself a black eye (that bloody bedside table again – the corners are apparently quite vicious!)

Husband is grateful that I’m trying my best to make it so his new-found allergy isn’t making him feel so terrible. I haven’t the heart to tell him that I’m doing all of this for me! I’m bloody tired and could do without him snoring from 3am to 6am when he wakes up coughing like he’s about to bring up a chunk of lung.


I never really wrote a follow-up to these blog posts. (Read Yesterday / Forgetting).

I did that on purpose. I needed time to work things out myself and to let the wounds heal before I could write about it all.

So, what happened?

Well, Husband said some really horrible things. You knew that already. But I never said what it was exactly.

It included the following: “You’ve become obsessive about this whole baby thing!” and “I don’t care about you anymore.”


What hurt the most (after hearing that he didn’t care about me) is that is that I don’t think I have been obsessive. Choosing to have a baby is a huge decision and a long process. It’s not something we can just decide to do on a whim. So yes, I instigated a lot of discussions – I wanted us to be 100,000% sure that this is what we want because if we have a baby and decide that we don’t, then we can’t just take a baby back to the store or sell it 2nd hand. Parenthood doesn’t exactly work like that.

So I was instigating discussions on everything from parenting styles to names to my hopes for breastfeeding to the number of kids we thought we wanted to thoughts on discipline. I needed to be sure we were on the same page and didn’t have radically different ideas.

Just so we’re clear, this wasn’t an everyday occurrence. It wasn’t even an every week occurrence! That’s why it hurt when Husband told me that I was being obsessive. Yes, I wanted to talk about it because it’s a huge, momentous, life-changing decision!

He has since apologised (more than once) and said that he didn’t mean what he said. I know he didn’t – we were arguing and he just wanted to attack me. But the words still hurt. Stupidly, I’ve found it easier to forget about the “I don’t care about you” comment because he’s proven hundreds of times that he does care. It’s been harder to forget about the “obsessed” comment.

Since then, I haven’t talked at all about the possibility of us becoming parents and I haven’t made the decision to move the obstetrician appointment from April to an earlier time. While I don’t think that I was obsessing about babies and pregnancy, Husband may have been feeling a bit overwhelmed by it all to have said something like what he did.

This whole “obsessive” thing has made me wonder if perhaps we aren’t ready to be parents?

Our relationship hasn’t been very good this year – it’s been a pretty tumultuous year and Husband has been quite sick for a big chunk of it which I think has affected things. Plus we’ve had no free time – we seem to be working or renovating or gardening or doing yet another favour for a member of Husband’s family (which are never repaid). Quality time together has been almost non-existent and that needs to change pronto.

We’ve booked a holiday next month so we can get away from everything and everyone for a week. We really need this holiday to repair our marriage – we need to discuss everything that’s been going on lately, somewhere away from distractions and commitments. We need to talk about our marriage, our future and what we really want.

Like that old primary school sing-song: First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage. If babies need to be delayed in order for us to be happier and more secure, then so be it. Yes, I want a baby and I want to be a mother, but I want my marriage and my husband more.