Where's My Hole?

Hello Humans.

I'm back and I'm not happy. I used to have a cat-door. Not that I ever lowered my standards enough to use it properly; I always made the humans in my service push or prop it open for me. Why should I butt my precious head against hard plastic? I'm far too sophisticated for that. But the fact is, it was mine, it was installed for me and me alone.

Then came The Retarded One.

The Dog.

Did the imbecile fit through the cat-door? Not really, not properly. But with much bashing, crashing and wiggling, she did. Eventually that solid concrete skull (cannot possibly be a brain in there), rugby shoulders, dog food-filled gut, puppy-bearing hips and lard arse of hers crashed through once too often, and broke the entire damn thing. The result? Cat-door simply became hole-in-the-wall.

I must say I was not entirely displeased with this turn of events, as it meant whilst the entire household was sleeping, I could come and go as I saw fit and I no longer required the services of human intervention. I could creep stealthily around the house at night, walking (and leaving pawprints) on furniture, licking any plates which were left out, listening to the snores of both human and canine, then serenade them all with a loud MEOWWWWWW at 2.37am. This brought great delight to the household as it caused a Benny Hill-style dog and cat chase through the house and out the hole, which my mistress jumped out of bed to watch with glee. At least, I think that was glee. I'm not sure, human emotions do confuse me.

Unfortunately, this freedom of movement and expression has not lasted. I know, I'm surprised too. My mistress seemed to whinge constantly at the older male human until he finally did something about the hole-in-the-wall. (this seems to be a regular occurrence, I believe you humans call it marriage?) To my horror, the male made the hole even bigger and fitted a sturdy... *gasp*... DOG-door. Oh, the shame of it all. My own entrance being replaced by a Retard Ramp.

I shall have my revenge. I shall sit outside my mistress's bedroom window and serenade her with a MEOWWWWWW at 2.37am.

Just like I did last night.

What On Earth Are They Looking For? (episode 2)

I don't look at Blogger stats for the numerical stats. I'm not really into numbers, unless they're X-lotto winners. Or number of days til a bill is due. Or numbers on a price tag attached to a Marc Jacobs handbag. I didn't even know the stats were available for a tragically long time, until someone slightly more narcissistic than me pointed them out. The only reason I ever go to the stats page is so I can share with everybody here and on Twitter, what incredibly mind-blowing word searches 'people' (I use that term loosely) are doing to find their way to my blog. Some have been piss-your-pants funny, some have been nonsensical, some have just been gobsmackingly outrageous.

Earlier this month I noticed 132 searches for 'Spanish Inquistion' had come to my blog in one week. ONE. First assumption was that 132 History students somewhere were all studying the same subject at the exact same time. Second assumption was that 132 comedic wannabes were all studying Monty Python sketches at the exact same time. Boy, would they have all been profoundly disappointed with an inane blogging meme.

One thing I don't understand is, why hasn't anybody searching wine found me yet? I would seriously consider a wine sponsor but I'll never get one at this rate, despite mentioning it in almost every post. Where are the 'who loves wine more than her children?' searches? Noooooo, I get the boobs and the penises and the mother/son incest searches (seriously, wtf? I blame that on a spam comment)

Anyway, here's some of the latest pearlers.

before night falls book inside condom : What? Really, what? There's a book inside a condom somewhere? Is it part of a treasure hunt or something?

lesbians dare each other to do things : So do children. And drunk men. And bored housewives. So what?

having a lot of sex fast : I'm guessing this search was done by an extremely horny couple who have four children under the age of five. No wait, that entire sentence is an oxymoron.

boy looking at boobs : I have boobs, and I have a boy.... but I swear he ain't looking at mine. He'd have to crouch down too low.

small boys seeing girls boobs : Do I really mention boys that much?

green feather bdsm : I am assuming my Rihanna S&M post attracted this, but I had no idea deviants were so pedantic. Green, huh?

girl in dress cellulite : This search would have found me due to a photo I posted here last year, of a girl with very bad cellulite in a very short dress. But why would anyone search for that? Cottage cheese fetish?

dash boobs rainbow : Just... what??

images of big boob paradise love doll : I am assuming this refers to a blow-up toy. You will not find her here. I may have decent boobs and the usual number of orifices, but I am au naturel, no man-made parts. Though a release valve for bloating days would be handy.

penis size by age : Aww, come on guys, you're still obsessing about size? YES, SIZE MATTERS. Happy now?

And the creme de la creme (if you'll pardon the pun)...

big bobs cock sandwich : If anyone knows Big Bob..... nah, forget it. I'll stick to wine.

Open Letter To Tina Fey

This may be a photo of you Tina, or it may be me. The resemblance is astounding, I know.


Dear Ms Fey,

Firstly, I'm going to call you Tina. I think you and I have become close enough over the last few weeks to drop the formalities and go straight to inappropriate familiarity, hey Teens?

When I say we've become close, what I mean is, I read your book, Bossypants, so I really know you. And we have so much in common it's scary. Like your Dad's name; it's Don. So is mine! Well, actually it's Eric, but it's pretty close to Don, don't you think? And I was a 'change-of-life' baby for my Mum too. Like you, I also had an 'Aha' (not Ahh Bra) moment Oprah would be proud of when I realised I had old parents. My Dad took me to the betting shop (as he called it, another sign he was old which I had previously missed) and one of the toothless, smoke-hazed women there said to him "Oh, how lovely, you've brought your grand-daughter in to learn about gambling."

I'm pretty sure I also learned all about my body not from my Mother, but from publications such as "Growing Up and Liking It", "What's Happening To My Body?", "How Shall I Tell My Daughter?" and of course Dolly magazine, but mostly from my much older and wiser neighbour, Maria, who sagely informed me that a period was "like doing a really runny poo, only it's not poo, it's blood." I mistakenly thought I would go to the toilet, get it done in under three minutes, and it would all be over until the next month. What the fuck? It lasts for days?? (by the way Tina, I should add I am relieved that my Mother was not the only one who bought maxi-pads the size of a loaf of bread, did you walk across the schoolyard like you had just ridden a horse in the Paris-Dakkar rally too?)

Like you, since turning 40 I also feel the need to take my pants off as soon as I get home from a hard day of, err, shopping. I also go to the bathroom a lot, just to get some 'me' time; not so much from the kids any more, these days it's to escape the dog. I too was once very skinny and had a super short haircut. At the same time. I virtually disappeared. I had to grow my hair back so people could find me. Unfortunately my body grew in sync.

And then there's your Greek ancestry. My neighbours are Greek! The similarities between us just keep popping up! But seriously, I once had an American follower on Twitter who regularly asked me if I was actually Tina Fey, tweeting hilarious comments under a pseudonym. Sure! Tina Fey, one of the funniest women on the planet, gifted writer and performer on Saturday Night Live and 30 Rock, when choosing an alter-ego, elects to be a short, dumpy, sarcastic housebitch from Adelaide, Australia, with a penchant for wine, chocolate and swear words. Wouldn't everybody choose that? Fuck yeah!


It's like looking in a mirror, I'm telling you, you can see it, yes? You know it.

Another thing we have in common is that I don't drive either! I know! We're like twins! And I'm also great at improvisation. Not like you on a stage. More like when a recipe calls for tomato paste and I have none, so I add barbecue sauce instead. Or when I forget someone's birthday and have to make up a quick story about how the dog ate the card I was going to send (was difficult when we had no dog for a year, I'm telling you). Or when a not-very-young woman is discussing how much of her bikini line should be waxed before a holiday and the momentary horror of picturing her rather rotund figure in a skimpy bathing suit passes across my face and I have to pretend I've just eaten a sour grape. Improv. I do it daily.

So, because of all these parallels between us, I am hereby applying for the position of your Best Friend Forever. I have no idea if the position is vacant, but if it's only Amy Poehler standing in my way, I'm sure I can take her. I mean, wouldn't you rather have an older, uglier, less funny version of yourself standing next to you on a red carpet premiere (for example), therefore making you look awesome, instead of some tiny, cute, witty blonde?? Come on! Weird brunettes unite! And if the need ever arises to escape some overzealous paparazzi stalking us outside Saks (where you've taken me to buy me some gifts), I could be your stunt double. See? I have multiple uses!

See, why would you want this....

...when it could be like this...

You'd be mad to ignore me on this, and I recommend you should at least fly me over for an interview. Whilst you ponder my application, I feel it's only fair that I mention I will be extending a similar offer to Dawn French.

Your future BFF under consideration,

Cate.

Dear Bloggosphere....

Dear Bloggosphere,

This is my 100th post.
Some of you may have read fifty of them.
Some of you may have read one.
Maybe this is your first.
If it is, please be safe in the knowledge they're not all like this.
Some are better.
Some are worse.
My blog is simple by choice.
Or laziness.
Or ignorance.
I don't know how to do loads of things on Blogger.
Does it affect my quality of life, as in my real life?
No.
So I don't care.
I don't take advantage of my blog.
That may be my loss.
Or not.
I have never done a sponsored post.
Nobody seems to give away wine.
I have received one book for free to review.
I have written one post for a competition in which I won money.
It was already spent.
I don't make money from advertising.
Not sure I'd know how.
But I still don't care.
I will never blog every day.
I don't have 365 significant things to say to the world per year.
My kids would agree.
I try to remember how I found your blogs.
I wonder how you found mine.
This week, someone found my blog by searching 'blue waffle penis'.
Last week, it was 'woman holds penis'.
Nineteen searches for 'big bouncy boobs' have found me.
But only one searching 'fuzzy pink cock monster'.
I have 367 followers and about 40 subscribers.
I follow one bajillion and eleventy thousand blogs.
I am lucky if, in a week, I read three of those.
I am thrilled if three people read mine.
Unless any of those three are real life family or friends.
And then I panic.
You may know a lot about me.
You may know very little.
You may think you know a lot, but actually know diddly squat.
I may think you know me, then realise you don't.
Did you know I don't drive?
There you go.
Now you know something.
Want more?
I am a Mother, but heaven help you if you think I'm a Mummyblogger.
I have a Husband.
He travels a lot for work.
I am regularly a single parent from Monday to Friday.
This is why the free wine would be appreciated.
I have two teenagers, Son and Daughter.
They don't travel anywhere beyond the fridge and sofa.
This is also why the free wine would be appreciated.
I have That Fucking Cat and That Fucking Dog.
Again with the wine.
And I have an extended cast of thousands.
That may be an exaggeration.
Hundreds, perhaps.
Okay, dozens.
I may occasionally exaggerate numbers.
I'm a pretty loyal friend.
It's hard to get rid of me.
If you apologise, I will forgive.
I will apologise.
Just because I like you.
I appear strong on the outside.
But not all the way through.
Humour and indifference hide oversensitivity.
At least they try to.
I hurt.
I cry.
A lot.
I am severely short-sighted.
Possibly in more ways than one.
I used to perm my hair.
Now it is so curly, I straighten it.
I have never had a manicure, pedicure or facial.
It probably shows.
But I don't care.
I'm 46 and I'm okay with that.
I don't like water much.
On water is sometimes bearable.
In water is perhaps occasionally tolerable.
Under water is completely impossible.
I am claustrophobic.
Not real good with heights either.
Or flying.
I have panic attacks.
I sound like a mess.
Maybe I am.
And yet I have the balls to invite Lance Armstrong to dinner.
And tell people what I think.
I speak my mind.
I give opinions.
I'm not rude or obnoxious about it though, I don't think.
At least I try not to be.
Stubborn, for sure.
Sarcastic, maybe.
Definitely.
Pragmatic and honest.
Certainly when I write.
Except when exaggerating numbers.
I quite like my blog.
But it's just a blog.
It doesn't make me a writer.
I wrote a 94,000 word manuscript, but that doesn't make me a writer either.
No matter how much I want to be.
Apparently it requires talent.
I don't think I'm cut out to be a writer.
I'm just an occasional blogger.
Who has done one hundred posts.
And still doesn't know what she's doing.
Like, I have no idea what Html means.
Forgive me.
But please don't tell me.
I still don't care.

Love, Cate.

Weekend at Catie's

It was a lovely week, despite dog derailment, loss of laptop and continued footwear destruction. (See previous post)
Mostly beautiful weather, almost unheard of in August, even got the tshirt and thongs out. (which the dog then destroyed)
As the week rolled on, the weekend loomed as hectic but fun. (so many things to do, so many places to be, so many shoes to replace)
Thursday and Friday were spent in a flurry of shopping and phone calls and messages organising our coming days. (including overseas travel for the Husband where he will undoubtedly need to buy more shoes)
As Son walked out the door for Uni on Friday he announced he would not be home for dinner as he had a birthday celebration to attend and he would therefore see us some time noted as 'whenever'. (and was given a brief lecture on the complexities of sharing not just a bathroom with your family, but the politeness of also sharing information and meal arrangements more than five minutes in advance. And was told to put his shoes away)
Daughter came home from school, and despite being given two weeks to find out more details and make transport arrangements for her Saturday night social outing to a birthday party (as Husband, myself and Son also had separate social plans) announced that she had failed to do so yet, but was 'working on it'. (and was yelled at for not getting it done sooner and had this situation compared to her schoolwork, where she has two weeks to do an assignment and with one day to go is just starting to 'work on it'. And was told to put her school shoes away)
Daughter and I cool off for a while, then reconvene later to continue the argument and lament her time management skills, during which I suddenly ask "Where is the dog?" Daughter looks out the window and replies "On the back lawn chewing something." "Can you go out and see what it is?" "Why can't you?" At which point I move to look out of the window and in my I'm-going-to-fucking-scream-in-a-minute voice I say "Well, she's chewing your school shoes." (and Daughter is then told in my most adult, mature voice she will have to attend school on Monday looking like a hobo with chewed shoes because it's her own damn fault, ner ner ne ner ner)
I did feel bad for yelling at her, and since I was going out later, wanted to enjoy myself and not feel miserable, I decided to apologise to Daughter. I went into her room and was greeted with "AND WHADDYA WANT NOW?" to which I replied "Well, I WAS coming in to apologise for yelling but instead I think I'll just point and laugh at your Hobo shoes. Ner ner ne ner ner." (I think she may have hurled a Hobo shoe at my retreating figure, not certain)
I attended a lovely dinner with The Ladies; Kirsty, Bianca and Lucy (which Lucy wrote about here, far more eloquently than I. I would have included swear words and told everybody that Kirsty travelled all the way from Qatar just to meet me) leaving behind a grumpy Daughter and a confused Husband to sort their own dinner plans and shoe inventory. (and I didn't even look at your shoes, Ladies, sorry)
Saturday dawned, as did the realisation I had no gift for my Mother, whose birthday celebration we were attending that afternoon. I decided she needed a new jumper and matching scarf and so we headed to Rivers. (partly because it is two minutes from our house and partly because they also have shoes)
Whilst selecting from the vast array of knitwear available (there were four jumpers left) I spotted out the corner of my eye a pair of shoes (okay, I admit the shoes were about twenty metres away from the jumpers) which would have been ideal for Daughter's outfit that evening and promptly dispatched Husband to go home and get Daughter whilst I guarded the shoes. (see? It's not all about ME. The fact that I hoped her feet had grown to be the same size as mine, therefore enabling me to borrow them is neither here nor there)
Daughter likes shoes, we buy them (not in my size unfortunately) and one of the four jumpers, then stopped off to buy cards, wrap, sushi, etc. As you do. (but no shoes for me. In my hormonal state, this was not good, but I knew there would be cake and chocolate at Mum's)
Gift-wrapping, card-writing, makeup-applying, hair-combing and we're off. Well, Husband and I were off to Mum's (an excruciating afternoon tea consisting of relatives, toddler tantrums and cupcakes), Daughter was off to bedroom to sort shoes, outfit and homework (probably in that order) and Son was off to basketball. (no shoes were left out for the dog; we were learning)
Somehow, about two hours later, we found ourselves dealing with a son in shock, and blood, loads of it. A deliberate tripping and subsequent faceplant on the basketball court led to a gashed chin, a split and swollen lip, a broken tooth, a bucketload of blood and an urgent phone call to our Dentist friend, who we were due to have dinner with three hours later. (being a Dentist, I can't tell you his name or show you his face, but I could show you the back of his head. Or maybe his shoes)
So whilst Husband and Son ran around like headless (and toothless) chooks, finding out what happens when a Dentist tries to access his own surgery out-of-hours on a Saturday and discovering just how loud and annoying alarms are when you're the ones breaking in, I was holding the fort at home, rearranging all the evening's plans for us, Daughter and Son which were now in jeopardy, fielding and making phone calls, and helping Daughter do makeup, straighten hair and coaching her on how to walk. (at this point I should say she CAN walk, but only in flats. She is the ultimate tomboy and this was her first attempt at leaving the house in makeup and heels. Sometimes I have doubts that she is mine... at least until she speaks)
Whilst Daughter learned about vertigo, centre of gravity, and the reason we have toes, the boys learned about i-bond, flowable resin, distals, exposed pulp, mandibles, enamel, exposed dentines, and the word 'interproximally'. Basically, the broken tooth got glued back as a temporary measure. (wonder if I can use that stuff to glue some of my shoes back together)
Managed to get Daughter to her destination on time, just; managed to get Son home safely, if not a little sore and distressed and talking with a lisp, and managed to get to our dinner, albeit a little late. But that was okay, since the others were late too, because some inconsiderate sod broke a tooth and asked him for help on a Saturday, how rude. Yeah, yeah, very funny. (I wore my high heeled boots and almost slipped on some wet steps on leaving the restaurant, that would have been a riotous way to end the day)
Came home to find Husband had not closed bedroom door properly and I have one more ruined shoe. (and spend some time pondering why the dog only seems to chew one of a pair, then moves onto one of a different pair. Why not chew both of the same pair? I have no idea either)
Sunday greets us warily and we decide to do as little as possible, thereby lessening our chances of things going wrong, and increasing our surveillance of the dog's klepto activities. Husband starts packing gear for week in Sydney, then caves into Daughter's moaning about her Hobo school shoes, takes her to buy new ones, leaving bedroom door open again, resulting in me losing the inner sole of yet another shoe. (we buy a shoe, we lose a shoe, we buy a shoe, we lose a shoe...)
We spent the afternoon watching football and keeping constant tabs on the dog and our bedroom doors. (and keeping our shoes on our feet)
And here we are, we made it to Monday, with less blood, teeth and shoes, but all relatively safe and sound.
Except for Daughter's brand new high heels.
Dog destroyed them last night.

The Dog Days Are Not Over

The dog has been here for 18 days. Today is day 19. Yes, I'm counting.

I think I have tweeted about her antics on every one of those 18 days and That Fucking Cat blogged about her. I have even updated my Facebook status a couple of times because of her. Shocking, I know. I'm not really that into Facebook but the dog has forced me to vent on every form of social media I have ever joined. I feel better when I do. It doesn't repair my slippers or my son's Playstation remote controller, but it does help my blood pressure.

My messages have ranged from those typed whilst wearing rose-coloured glasses...

"I have a new baby. Meet Bella, the 13 month old beagle. And she's an INSIDE dog FFS, she has totally suckered me. Bonus is she will be able to sniff out any illegal substances the kids bring home.
Gotta love beagles. So gorgeous."

...to those with the glasses slightly slipping...

"Dear Bella the Beagle, Since you are new here and extremely cute I am giving you the benefit of the doubt... however, my slippers have never walked from bedroom to family room by themselves before. Do you have some explaining to do? Love, your new Mummy."

"Have discovered my bathroom time and dog's destructo time coincide. I may never wash myself again."

"Dog food breath, oh how I've missed it."

"Just caught dog digging in muddy hole outside. Had to clean her paws with my Nivea face wipes before she could come in again. #unprepared"

"Am sneaking around doing stuff while dog is sleeping. Its like having a baby in the house. #dontwakethebeast"


...to those with glasses removed...

"Bella Beagle has growled at every visitor to our home, and has barked more in 11 days than Clodagh (RIP) did in 11 years. I think she's letting everyone know "I've arrived, this is MY home and these are MY people, so back the f**k off, bitches." Or something like that."

"I get up to find 2 pairs of my bras have been dragged out onto the back lawn by Guess Who. Happy Thursday. #damndog"

"Introduction #4 between That Fucking Cat and Bella Beagle went swimmingly. As in, I'm swimming in my own blood."

"Dog has been humping our arms. Daughter just said "I'm a bit pissed off I'm the only one Bella hasn't used as a sex toy yet." #thatsmygirl"

"Dog managed to tear a 200 sheet roll of toilet paper into 900 sheets.... and then the wind picked up... FML"

"OMG dog, stop trying to bring into the house the giant stuffed Simba which is covered in dirt because you half buried it."

"Intro #5 between Fucking Cat & Bella Beagle was better. Hissing, growling but no blood. My wounds from yesterday are healing nicely, thank you."

"Just caught dog with my bras on the back lawn. Again. Lingerie fetish."


... and onto messages typed with rose-coloured glasses hurled to the ground and stomped on...

"My 45yo childhood teddy missing for 10 days. Dog here for 14 days. Husband just found teddy buried in yard, with one ear sticking out."


and culminating with yesterday's gem...

"Dog just destroyed laptop. Any future posts from that device will no longer contain the letters F, B, N, C, R or D.
eg: *u*ki*g *it*h *og"


Sigh.