Friday, August 27, 2010
The gorgeous Toushka-Lee (her blog is Ramblings from Toushka, please go visit her and say Hi from me) has passed a Life Is Good award on to me, and hit me with some interesting questions. As I read them, I surprised myself as only serious answers seemed to be popping into my head. Not like me at all. I excused myself as I am sick and perhaps not thinking clearly (maybe my funnybone is infected as well as my throat) and had another glance at them from a more humorous angle (which is what happens when the cat tries to push me off the desk chair).
As I have told you before, I am a mix of many different personalities; there are many Cates. I decided to let two of the Cates answer the questions. Firstly the serious Cate, who can see nothing funny about the fact she can’t yell at anybody at the moment, but has to make violent hand gestures to show her displeasure. And secondly, the irreverent, sarcastically funny Cate, who may or may not be high on medication and Tia Maria.
1. If you blog anonymously, are you happy doing it that way; if you are not anonymous do you wish you had started out anonymously so you could be anonymous now?
Serious Cate: I don’t blog anonymously, in fact I have probably revealed more about my name, my whereabouts etc as time has gone on than I ever really meant to. The only thing I keep private is the names of other people; this is my choice to write, not theirs, so I don’t feel I should publicly reveal their identities. I am honest, sometimes too honest, but I feel that not being anonymous is a good way to make sure I don’t cross any lines and reveal things that really should be kept private. There is such a thing as ‘too much information’.
Funny Cate: Geez, Serious Cate, ‘too much information’ is where all the fun stuff is to be found. What a wowser. Oh god yes, I wish I was anonymous. I wish I had given myself the nickname “Loudmouth Leila” so I could tell you all about those bitches that really pissed me off and about the revenge I got on them when I <the rest of this has been removed by Serious Cate for fear of legal action>
2. Describe one incident that shows your inner stubborn side.
Serious Cate: I like to think that I am determined, I know what I want, and I go for it, but without treading on other people’s feelings to get there. I may persist, but not dig my heels in. I wouldn’t say I’m stubborn, but am blessed with flexible perserverence.
Funny Cate: Bollocks. All of us Cates are as stubborn as mules. We are always right. We always know best. We are always pig-headed until we get our way. You have a short memory, Serious Cate. What about that time we wanted a duffel coat and sulked to mum until she bought one? And that time at the Craft Fair when we wanted that flower arrangement for the dining table and stuck our bottom lip out as far as it would go until the husband bought it for us? And when was the last time any of us Cates backed down in an argument? And what about <the rest of this was muffled as Serious Cate seemed to be holding a pillow over Funny Cate’s face>
3. What do you see when you really look at yourself in the mirror?
Serious Cate: A young heart and a young mind with a not-so-young-anymore face and body.
Funny Cate: *rolls eyes at Serious Cate* Ridiculous hair that, although still its natural colour, needs to be tamed with floor wax; bloodshot eyes; tongue that appears to be coated in carpet; wrinkles that are fast becoming canyons; boobs that seem determined to find the South Pole; and leg hairs that need to be shaved… or braided, one or the other.
4. What is your favourite summer cold drink?
Serious Cate: A lovely chilled white wine.
Funny Cate: *shocked look at Serious Cate* Well, booze is booze, but I agree with Sourpuss Cate, white wine. Preferably loads of it so that she goes to sleep and I can dominate.
5. When you take time for yourself, what do you do?
Serious Cate: I consider myself lucky that I don’t have to work and so I have ample time to myself to read, write, garden, socialize, cook, shop, and the three ‘R’s; renovate, redecorate and restore.
Funny Cate: For fuck’s sake, tell the truth. We’re lazy bitches, end of story. We don’t work because we can’t be arsed. Every day is the same; the whole day is ‘time for ourselves’ now that the kids are teenagers. And we do as little as possible. Except for the 10 minute run around at the end of the day to make it look like we’ve been busy. *elbows Serious Cate* Though I did like how you threw ‘cook’ in there, that’s fucking hilarious. None of us can cook for shit. We are collectively known as Disasterchef. Didn’t you get that memo?
6. Is there something you still want to accomplish in your life? What is it?
Serious Cate: I am very happy with my life and just wish to continue to be a good mother and friend.
Funny Cate: <Incapable of answering due to being doubled over with hysterical laughter, convulsions and hyperventilating, ending with a coughing fit and reaching for the Tia Maria>
7. When you attended school, were you the class clown, the class overachiever, the class shy person, or always ditching school?
Serious Cate: I was quiet and shy to begin with, but became more outgoing as I became more comfortable within my circle of friends. I never ditched, I was smart and studious, but let the Funny Cate emerge sometimes.
Funny Cate: Let?? I had to take Serious Cate hostage on several occasions just to be heard. The boys preferred me. The teachers didn’t.
8. If you close your eyes and want to visualize a very poignant moment in your life, what do you see?
Serious Cate: The birth of my kids. Each one different and special in their own way.
Funny Cate: *silent for several moments* I see the back of my eyelids….
9. Is it easy for you to share your true self in your blog or are you more comfortable writing posts about other people or events?
Serious Cate: I write about my own experiences and difficulties rather than other people or events as I feel that is the reason I started blogging in the first place. To share a piece of me.
Funny Cate: *snorts* Fact is Sourpuss, we’re too self-centred and narcissistic to give a fat rat’s clacker about anybody else. We ‘share’ this tripe because it’s cheaper than therapy.
10. If you had the choice to sit and read or talk on the phone, which would you do and why?
Serious Cate: Reading is one of my greatest loves so I would probably prefer to pick up a book, but I always relish the opportunity to catch up with family and friends on the phone too. A true joy.
Funny Cate: *looks at Serious Cate with a smirk* Is that why we always have the answering machine on and screen all our calls?
<At this point the interview ended as an altercation broke out between the Cates, resulting in a black eye, bite marks, and a tuft of wax-coated hair landing on the floor>
Sunday, August 22, 2010
I recently posted a quick joke about taking a woman to bed through the ages from 8 to 78 and it got me thinking that I could try to post a series of similarly themed ideas; a journey through life and how our attitudes, needs and desires change depending on our age. Our priorities seem to transform; what was once a luxury may become a necessity, and what had been deemed essential becomes inconsequential. Author Lee Child, in an interview with Booktopia, was asked "What did you want to be when you were 12, 18 and 30?" and he replied "At twelve, loved. At eighteen, laid. At thirty, paid." A smart man who moved with the times, obviously.
For this particular foray into the evolution of our minds, I decided to investigate what women want at various stages of their lives, or to be more exact, what they want in a man.
What Women Want In A Man: Age 10
- Cute looking, combs his hair, has grown back his front teeth
- Doesn't flick rubber bands at me in class
- Buys me lollies with his left-over lunch money
- Can beat the other boys at football, but doesn't brag about it to his mates
- Wears cute clothes, especially superhero tshirts
- Says funny jokes
- Will let me ride his bike
- Doesn't copy my work in class
- Remembers my birthday
- Doesn't keep saying "Pull my finger"
What Women Want In A Man: Age 21
- Hot looking, just-got-out-of-bed hair, brushes his teeth
- Doesn't cut the whiskers off my cat
- Buys me drinks with his left-over dole money
- Great in bed, but doesn't brag about it to his mates
- Wears cool clothes, especially rock band tshirts and baggy jeans
- Says jokes that aren't too disgusting
- Will let me play on his xbox
- Doesn't sleep with my girlfriends
- Remembers to buy condoms
- Doesn't keep saying "Pull my finger"
What Women Want In A Man: Age 32
- Nice looking, gelled and waxed hair, whitens his teeth
- Doesn't live with his mother
- Buys me flowers with his left-over sales commission
- Loves what I do in bed, but doesn't brag about it to his mates
- Wears stylish clothes, especially sexy shirts and jeans
- Laughs at my jokes
- Will let me drive his car
- Doesn't borrow money from my family and friends
- Remembers my favourite movie, song, restaurant and wine
- Doesn't keep saying "Pull my finger"
What Women Want In A Man: Age 43
- Pleasant looking, still has some hair, doesn't get food stuck in his teeth
- Doesn't attend Star Trek conventions
- Buys me dinner with his left-over tax refund
- Can usually hit the right spots in bed, but doesn't brag about it to his mates
- Wears acceptable clothes, especially shirts that cover his stomach
- Remembers the punchline of jokes
- Will let me use his power tools
- Doesn't drive off until I'm safely in the car
- Remembers to put the toilet seat down
- Doesn't keep saying "Pull my finger"
What Women Want In A Man: Age 54
- Reasonable looking, trims his nose and ear hair, still has some of his own teeth
- Doesn't scratch his balls in public
- Buys me takeaway with his left-over gambling winnings
- Lasts more than 5 minutes in bed, but doesn't brag about it to his mates
- Wears clean clothes, including matching socks and shirts with all buttons intact
- Doesn't repeat the same joke too many times
- Will let me use the remote control
- Doesn't scare small children
- Remembers to pay for health insurance
- Doesn't mind when I say "Pull my finger"
What Women Want In A Man: Age 65
- Not too ugly looking, no toupee, knows where he left his teeth
- Doesn't miss the toilet
- Buys me frozen dinners with his left-over pension
- Stays awake just long enough in bed, and has enough mates to brag about it to
- Wears clothes, and actually dresses himself
- Remembers why he is laughing
- Will let me read the paper
- Doesn't need my help to get out of a chair
- Remembers my name
- Doesn't follow through after he says "Pull my finger"
What Women Want In A Man: Age 76
- A pulse
- A pre-paid funeral plan
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
My son has a new nickname. He is The Cable Guy. It would be nice if he one day pulls in an income like Jim Carrey, but somehow I doubt it. He has gained this name not because he is like Carrey's character in the movie ("Women are a labyrinth, my friend"), but due to the fact that at 17, he is the most 'techno-minded' person in this house.
The husband and I seem to have missed the boat when it comes to keeping up with new technology. He is a little better than me I must admit, or he fakes it more convincingly than I do. (Which makes a change. Ahem.) Seriously though, I wander around Dick Smith Electronics like a wide-eyed Amish-raised virgin in a sex shop; I have no idea what things are for, where I'm supposed to put them, or whether rechargeable batteries are the best option. But what a cute bunny that was …
Anyway, as most of you may know by now, we have had a family room built on to the back of our house. It has been a long, drawn-out, frustrating, exhausting, expensive process, beginning when we first called our builder almost 2 years ago. I have touched on some of the highs and lows in previous posts, as well as in some exceptionally scathing and sarcastic comments on Twitter, so I won't take you through them again. Not just for your sakes, but quite frankly because I don't think I could bear to relive some of those precious moments. My blood pressure couldn't take it and I haven't got much wine left.
So, zoom through and just imagine all the tradesmen, delays, mishaps, bad weather, dirt, dust, mayhem, noise, money and stress … ten months worth, on and off … all for one room, mind you … and fast forward to the end. The big finale. The paint brush has been put away, the floorboards have been laid, polished, and allowed to harden. The last tradie has tossed his Subway cup in the back of our trailer, butted out his cigarette in my garden bed, and driven off in a cloud of tattoos, varnish fumes and exorbitant hourly rates.
The time comes to move all the furniture and boxes of stuff that have been cluttering the house and shed for weeks into their new home. Hoo-bloody-ray, the planets are aligned, the troops are a-lined up ready to work, the rain is finally easing … and there is water seeping in under the door.
"Call the builder. Again."
Half a day later the door and step have new weather seals that somehow interlock or bond together when the door closes. I don't care how it works, I am at the stage where I am saying "There is a problem, I need you to fix it, don't tell me what you're doing or how you're doing it or what you had for breakfast this morning or how much work you've got on, just fix it. Do not make eye contact with me, do not speak, just fix." Something in the crazed tone of voice worked, and although there were way too many glances in my direction and altogether too much talking, the 45 degree angled rain can no longer crawl under the door like a melted down Terminator. Win.
Moving into the family room; Take two.
Planets and troops are aligned, blah blah. Rain has ceased, all the big ticket items go in without too much trouble or too much damage, to either the shiny new floors or our shiny-with-sweat old backs. The first thing that needs to be properly organised, according to the agenda in the male minds, is the TV and associated entertainment paraphernalia.
"Why?" I knew why, but I asked anyway, don't ask me why.
"Football starts soon, would be really nice to sit out here and watch it."
"So … whatever stage we're at of sorting the room, once the football starts, you're going to stop what you're doing, sit down, and watch it?"
"That's the plan."
"But we might not get it finished today then."
"It's been almost 10 months, what's another day?" To his credit, after 23 years of lessons learned, he took two steps back as he said this.
At this point I left the room momentarily to check that I had enough chocolate supply to get me through what was looming as an arduous mission. When I returned, the TV, Wii, Playstation 3, stereo, CD player and speakers had already been hastily shoved into their allotted places, and what will be known in family folklore as The Cable Hours began.
To be honest, I tuned out for quite a lot of it. Remembering which plug goes where, what the blue one does, and how to connect them all without blowing a fuse is not my strong point, so I tend to focus on other priorities; like what kind of picture would look nice on that wall, which chocolate bar I would eat first, and should I have a red or white wine.
There was much trial and error, standing about with hands on hips and swearing, until finally the husband realised he should listen more to the son. It was like watching the passing over of the torch, the surrender of the crown, the abdication of the throne of All Things Technical. Sad but hilarious.
With the newly appointed Cable Guy in charge, they seemed to be making some headway at last, so I wandered off to eat chocolate and check in with my Twitter buddies. However, it wasn't long before the husband appeared at my shoulder.
"Having trouble with YOUR stereo, something came unplugged and I'm not sure where it goes, can you get off your arse and help us?"
I perhaps need to explain here; the stereo system is almost 30 years old, a bit of a complicated and oversized monster, but runs like a dream, a real classic. I bought it before I met the husband so whenever he can't get it to work, it's "MY stereo".
"I'm tweeting, can't you do it?"
"I thought you were keen to get this sorted today."
"It's been almost 10 months, what's another day?" To my credit, after 23 years of lessons learned, I rose from my chair as I said this.
Two minutes later, thanks to my skills (aka luck) the stereo system was all lit up, and a CD was quickly tossed in to test how well I'd connected things. The husband's face dropped as music boomed from the speakers and he could see that even I may have climbed above him on the All Things Technical ladder of success. And I didn't mean to play Boys Don't Cry by The Cure, really I didn't.
I hung around to gloat while the game devices were installed and was being suitably obnoxious when the son announced "We need another cable."
"Are you fucking kidding me? " I opened a cupboard, pulled out a box and offered the approximately 83 different cords and cables for his perusal.
"Nope, we need an HDMI cable."
"You really want me to explain it mum?"
"Not really. What about this?"
"That's a USB cable."
"That looks like a VGA cable. Nope."
"Will this do?"
" That's a piece of string."
"Worth a shot. Bloody hell, we've got all these cables, DVD, VGA, USB, PMS, WTF, HPOA, LMFAO, and you're telling me we need to buy another one? Want me to tell you where to stick your HDMI? STFU, ROFL."
Son roared with laughter and the husband, who is sadly challenged in the text-style acronym lingo, just looked perplexed.
A trip to Dick Smith's for the boys, and $50 later ("but mum, the guy who served us said the $20 one was not good enough" DUH), everything is in, on, up and running. There are so many cables back there, I swear we are connected to the NASA launching system and if I hit enough buttons, something will take off. With any luck it will be the TV … just before the next footy game starts.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
At age 8, you take her to bed and tell her a story....
At 18 you tell her a story and take her to bed....
At 28 you don't need to tell her a story to take her to bed...
At 38 she tells you a story about how much money she spent and takes you to bed...
At 48 she tells you a story about her day to avoid going to bed...
At 58 you stay in bed to avoid her story...
At 68 if you take her to bed, that'll be a story...
At 78.... What story? What bed? Who the hell are you?
Monday, August 9, 2010
"If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered." ~ Edgar Allen Poe
My house is a mess. It's got that "I've stopped caring what you think, it's a pigsty and I love it, oink" kind of look about it. Not wholly by choice, mind you. I blame a huge dollop of extreme circumstances, a handful of building delays, two pinches of teenagers, a teaspoon of hectic lifestyle, and a splash of laziness.
I have that can't-be-arsed attitude you get when you're coming to the end of a big renovation, the last bum-crack-flashing tradesman has almost been and gone, and you can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Unfortunately the light is probably at the front of the freight train carrying our new insurmountable lifelong debt, aka the mortgage, but that's the price you pay. Literally.
Seriously, our living space looks like a bomb has gone off in a second-hand store, but it won't be long before the furniture will all get moved back to where it belongs; my son will no longer have two sofas and two TVs in his bedroom, the wine rack will leave my daughter's room for its rightful place (I hid the wine in my room, don't panic), and the dining chairs will not be lined up in the hallway like an extreme waiter's obstacle course.
The big clean-up will commence in earnest in a couple of weeks time, but I decided to do a bit of pottering around yesterday, mainly around the PC. The desk has been a dumping ground of sorts during the turmoil. At any given time you could find a camera, someone's phone, a pile of catalogues, chocolate wrappers (ahem), batteries, a clothes brush, an empty wine glass (ahem), books, candlesticks, envelopes, odd socks, and of course the hair straightener (ahem); all cluttering up this area like the White Elephant Stall at the local Church Fair. Dear old Vera would have a field day, though I'm sure she would undervalue my goods and chattels. After all, she did once sell the MIL a Wedgewood plate for 10 cents.
Like all good jumble sales, when you delve beneath the crud you find some gems. Or more crud. Depends on your frame of mind. What I found under the Garden Express catalogue yesterday would be crud to most people's eyes, but made me smile, cringe, frown, laugh, and occasionally go WTF?
I found notes. On bits of paper and shopping dockets. Snippets of things I have jotted down when thinking of or planning a blog post, or just reminders of things I wanted to comment on, jokes I heard, funny things the kids said, an idea of a topic I might like to explore, and some silly, nonsensical, witty phrases that popped into my head. I wrote them down, and promptly forgot them. I'm not sure that I have ever referred to these 'notes to self' when writing any of my posts. Seems Edgar knew what he was on about.
Here's a few of the legible and printable scrawls I found…
Kitchen splashback. I think this refers to a conversation I had with my mother, where she was sitting in our family room, looking back towards the kitchen, asking over and over, "What's that shiny thing on the wall?" My daughter and I were moving around pointing at things; platerack, jugs, canisters etc, while she's saying "No, higher" or "No, lower" and we are looking at each other going "What the hell is she on about?" Finally I put my hand on the splashback and Mum yells "Yes, that, what is that?" "It's the pressed metal splashback." "Is it new?" "No." "I have never seen that before." "It's been there since the kitchen was renovated almost 5 years ago." "Are you sure?" "Yes Mum, I think I know my own kitchen." "Really? I think I would've noticed it." "CAN SOMEBODY POUR ME A DRINK?"
Old fart. I did tweet about this, so I didn't forget it completely. My 17 year old son was forming a profile for me on his new PS3 (not sure why, is it to pretend he's an adult so he can access porn or something?) and called out "Mum, are you 44?" I hesitated briefly but realised I can't get away with the '29' bollocks with him anymore. Honesty prevailed, "45". "Oh, you're an old fart then." Very quickly followed by one of those sucking up tones of voice saying "I love you Mummy." Smartarse.
Mustang. This may have been a note to remind myself to organise the family member with the gorgeous red Ford Mustang to deliver my son to his Year 12 School Formal. Which I did. Or it may have been to remind myself to write about it. Which I didn't. But I did take a photo of it.
Boobs/whores/perverts/no respect. No, it's not the proposed theme for my birthday party. I'm not certain when I made this note, but assume it relates to the ranting post I did several months ago (which you can read here) about women who get their boobs out on Twitter under the guise of a good cause (namely Breast Cancer Awareness), whore themselves, and the perverts who they follow/follow them. You know the ones, they could never get a man to even look at them twice in real life and so take specially angled photos of themselves showing boobs, thighs, their lace-covered crotch, etc. They have three accounts, so when they reach their API limit whoring on one, they can switch to the next without missing an erection. Followers include BigMember, TongueHer, ThickandReady, and IJerkOffTo, and often have, shall we say, 'bulging' pics of their own on show.
I don't think it's about Breast Cancer awareness, do you? And can you tell I don't have much respect for them or their followers? Really? I'm that obvious? Damn, thought I was hiding it so well under my Judgmental Hat….
Ozgooner/ football/phone number. Sorry mate, I never did make it to that game due to family commitments. But I did remember to tell you I wouldn't be there. Okay, so it was probably after the game started…. Better late than never, right?
Outdoor Education, are you fucking kidding me? This one is aimed at my daughter. Not sure if this was a note to write about it, or just to ask her that exact question. My daughter, the 'I hate sport or any real physical activity' type, who parties with friends, reads, watches movies, listens to music, but HATES being forced to run around an oval or throw balls in the gym or swing a bat at something (she prefers at someONE), chose Outdoor Education as one of her subjects this year. We're talking hiking, bushwalking, abseiling, rockclimbing, camping, blah blah. Some would love it, but her? Huh? She got heatstroke and cried and vomited on a hike earlier in the year. So yes, she stuffed up and we fixed it for her to switch classes on the day before she started. A real 'what was she thinking?' moment for us all. Including the school counsellor.
Horny as a Viking's helmet. Hmmm. Don't think I would have ever written a post about that, though I may have used it in a conversation with someone and just doodled it on the nearest piece of paper. That sounds about right, I'll stick to that story (ahem).
Individually, probably none of these hastily penciled musings would be the makings of a full-length post, but collectively they have given me the incentive to write today and share a few of them. And I came up with a scintillating title for this post. I wrote it down somewhere … if I can just find it …
Friday, August 6, 2010
It's here at last, the day when my lifetime 'research' of chocolate finally pays off. The day my hips finally forgive my lips. The day when #chocwars goes global. Well....it goes online anyway. It's time for us all to make a stand and cast our votes. For us of course. #teamallchoc
If you have been living under a rock for the last 2 weeks and STILL don't know what #chocwars is all about, scroll down and read my previous 2 posts. Go on, they're not long ones, you'll make it back up here in no time.
"Is white chocolate really chocolate?"
I think you all know my stance by know. I do not discriminate against colour or creed when it comes to chocolate. They are all welcome in my home, they will all be eaten will equal fervour. Except maybe the really dark, bitter stuff, ugh. But it will not be turned away, it will become a sweetened icing on a cake. (Yes, I bake, sometimes)
I won't waffle on here today, I have surely done enough of that over the last two weeks. By the way, if I've made some strange promises to any of you in exchange for your loyalty, I will try to deliver. And I'm still canvassing for votes. I have wine and boobs and I'm not afraid to use them.
In my post, as promised, I didn't drone on about percentages and ingredients and science and regulations and .....zzzz. I'm not that serious, but I don't need to tell you all that, you already read my blog. Instead, I chose to tell a story of something that happened.... a long time ago.... in a galaxy far, far away....
So please read, enjoy, have a laugh, and most of all, DON'T FORGET TO VOTE.
#teamallchoc #allchoc #whitechocolateISchocolate
Remember, #chocwars is not about which chocolate you prefer to eat, but about the right for all chocolate colours to be called 'orgasms'. Err, meant to say 'chocolate'.
Here's the link: #chocwars: The Great White Chocolate Debate
Voting closes next Friday.
P.S. I apologise in advance as I will probably republish this post throughout the week (when I remember) so I'm sorry if it annoys you to see it jumping back to the top of your blogroll. Please still vote for me. Please.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
As I sit here listening to my flooring man playing Nail Gun Concerto No5, my mind is filled with thoughts of all the possibilities available to me. One, of grabbing the nail gun and ending the Concerto in a bloody battle, yes, but mostly of the different arguments I could use in my debate piece to convince you that white chocolate IS real chocolate. Since committing murder with the nail gun would result in possible stains, and me having an Unfinished Symphony for a floor, I'll stick to chocolate. For now.
I could warn you that some arguments I have seen stating white chocolate is not chocolate because it is confectionery are totally pointless. Moot. Because, duh, yes it is. That is not in dispute. White chocolate is confectionery. As is dark chocolate. As is milk chocolate. All chocolate comes under the same 'banner'. All chocolate is confectionery. But I won't go on about categories and 'food families', too boring.
I could also tell you that I'm sitting here with an empty wrapper (contents have mysteriously disappeared) that used to contain a block of white chocolate. The label says that it contained a minimum of 29% cocoa solids, which means it is scientifically, legally and morally, REAL chocolate. But I've already tweeted about that, it's nothing new. And science and labels and percentages are boring too, so I won't go on about that.
What I will say is that I'm confident that on Friday you will vote for us at team #allchoc. You're all intelligent people. And you know I will try to not bore you, though I have promised to not mention boobs, sorry to disappoint. Bummer, just remembered I also promised to not say 'whore'. I have some deleting to do in a minute.
On Friday I'll post the link here on my blog and on Twitter of where you can go to read and vote. For us. #allchoc
Wish me luck, I'm going for the nail gun now.....