***Disclaimer: information contained within this blog is not intended for sound nutritional and/or medical advice.  And PS, if you are coming here for that, weeelllll…..

***Disclaimer #2: not a sponsored post. Damn.

Here they are, Hit me baby one more time:

1.  These choc chip biccies.

Food styling: 0
Taste: 9

You may recall that I accidentally purchased some incorrect chocolate chips a few weeks ago?  Well I ate all of those (It’s amazing how quickly one chip here and another one there ads up to a whole packet) and then, accidentally bought another packet.  Damn.  So I’ve been making biccies to use ’em all up.  They are not pretty, but THEY ARE DELISH.  I can’t be bothered typing out the recipe, but you can find it right here.

2.  Anna’s Wild Yam Cream.  If you have The Menopause, or even if you don’t, (but you are a bit of a bitch once a month when Aunty Flo comes to visit), get thee to the health food shop and buy this stuff already.  It’ll change your life, or at least the life of those around you.   In that there still will be lives around you.  I’ve been using it for a bit, and I didn’t know if it was making any difference, so I had a three day break this week.  Seeing as I wanted to CRUSH ALL OF THE JOY out of my children during the ‘break’, I think it’s safe to say it works.  Get some.

If you are a lady.

If you are a man, why are you reading this chick-blog?  Maybe you need some too.  For your mangina.

3.  This watch.

I bought it at the airport the day I was flying down to Newy on the day my mate Hayls died.  I knew why I was going down, and I knew it wasn’t going to be anything good, so I wanted to get something to mark the day.  Something I thought I might never wear, but something to etch out a space.  To take out from time to time and hold.  And remember.  And laugh-cry-rage-sob-grieve.

Turns out, I wear it a lot.  And there is not a time that I look down at it without thinking of my mate.  I think of the time we had together (not enough) and the good times (many) and then all of the times that I wish I could have her back.  Not like some people say, “for just one more day”.  Stuff that, I want her back for good.  For all the times.

4.  Have I raved on about these kids before?  Probably.  But in case I haven’t, check out Lennon and Maisy here.  I want to be them.  Or be like them.  Or something.

5.  This:

Seriously, Queensland, you have gone mad.  And I like it.  Happy Winter.

What are your hits?  Any baking ideas?

…From The Ashers xx

I just looked at a photo of myself taken last weekend, and I look about two hundred and eighty-six years old, the bags under my eyes are big enough to pass as suitcases, rather than little nightclubbin’ handbags, so I think I need to go to bed early, without writing a blog.  Seriously.  Sorry about that, getting you here, under false pretences.

<Imagine I’ve inserted a nice little pic of my bags right here>    I tried to take you one, but I have no makeup on, and selfies on the reverse camera are never very nice… I couldn’t take one without looking like Grug.  And a little bit like my brothers.  Which sounds mean, but I’M A GIRL.

My nose is really big. Is it growing with The Menopause?

Don’t worry, I won’t leave you completely empty-handed, here is a little thing from my Instagram Lovely, @smilechickie:

I like it.  Even if I’ve never heard of Bob Moawad.  So no apologies.  I’m going to bed to work on these John English eyes of mine.  See ya on the other side.

…From The Ashers xx

People who have more and more clever words and freely flowing intelligence than me have written about Peaches Geldof, and with their empathy, have done something to stem the tide of dumping waves of drivel written by people who see this varied, beautiful, hard, unique world in stark black and white.  No, not stark: sanctimonious.

It must be simple to see the intricacies of life like that, with no margin for human-ness.  No value on individual variation, or the magic of creativity.  No striving for something rare, something raw, something real.

For I suspect that is the bland type of world we would have, if people, individuals, weren’t striving for truth, beauty and passion.  And I suspect that sometimes those who burn the brightest are singed then scarred by their very own flames, and perhaps, in choosing to pursue the highest of ideals, they can get lost along the way.  At least they are looking for a way.  Forging a path.  Instead of sitting comfortably at home armed with a keyboard, waiting for someone to fall and fail, so they can shoot out judgement on the choice of vehicle, or lack of navigation skills.

I have known six people with six different addictions, that started as something fun and ended (does it ever end?) in pathology.

One never even discussed her addiction, so normal it was.  So much part of who she was.  She was lost inside the behaviour, not even realising she didn’t know the way out.

One knew he was addicted, but chose never to say it in case that made it powerful, so instead he shrunk it down really small, tiny small,  and hid that significant pebble somewhere in his marrow, never to be seen again.

One saw the problem, made an assessment,  went through the steps, and stopped.  “Forever”, she said.  And to test herself, surrounded herself in the very substance, and all of the substance-users every day for work.  Until she was diagnosed with death.  It was the first thing she did, leaving the hospital, because “Shit, I’m gonna die anyway, I might as well die happy.”  I was sad that she had deprived herself so long, if that was what she really wanted to do.

One was so riddled with demons and horrors that he would trip over them any time he ventured inside his own mind, and so he chose to keep them anaesthetised and groggy lest they chase him down, until one day they fought him to the death.

One was completely in control of everything.  She could stop any time she liked.  She only did it because she liked it.  She was in charge go ‘it’.  In fact, she shouldn’t even call it ‘it’, as it wasn’t anything.  Every single day she woke up to stop it again this day.  It was exhausting, but better than losing control again.

One knew it all.  He knew he was an addict, and that he always would be.  He knew he had to get clean, get clean, get clean because he had a wife and children and he owed it to them to be/do/see/have it all.  He both owed them and resented them in equal measure, and he was sure that he would kick it for them, kick it tomorrow, but oh what he wouldn’t give for just a tiny taste.  No more, just a taste.  He told me he loved it more than anything else in the whole world, and part of me thought he should just be using and forget the rest, if he loved it so much.  But that wasn’t for me to say.

Because none of it, not one bit, of any of it was for me to say.

Or condemn.

Or pretend to know what life is like for another.

All I know is that we would all do well to look for something to love, something to love more than anything else in the whole world.  I suspect then we should do that thing, as much as possible.  And hope that thing is a good thing and not a bad thing, because the world tells us there really aren’t any shades of grey.

…From The Ashers xx

I’ve just been watching Total Recall.  Not the Arnie one, the other one.  Besides being an unreal adrenalin-fest that is setting my Sympathetic Nervous System on FIRE, the heightened neural function has got me thinking.  Unusual for 9pm on a Monday night.  The discussion is around having memories implanted by changing body chemistry.  i.e. You choose the ‘memory’ you want, perhaps something you might not be able to afford or ever dare to do, and they inject you with the chemicals required to make you believe you did it.  Affair with George Clooney?  Here you are luv, can’t you almost smell the Nespresso from here?  Trip to Paris?  Oui, and here are a couple of extra kgs on your bum from all the pastries.

We already know this to be the case, don’t we?  Our memories are simply a bunch of chemically modulated neurones firing at a particular frequency, painting a picture of something we assume to be true.  And the more we play that movie in our minds, the deeper it becomes entrenched.  The more connections we make for that chemical tale, the more we interpret this imprint as fact.  The Reality.  For it is our reality, but is it actuality?  Our cells tell us it is.  But is it?

It is said that “the mind doesn’t know the difference between something real, or imagined, if repeated in great and vivid detail”.

Our technology is not such that we can simply inject ourselves with holidays to Disneyland and weekends with River Phoenix, (Yes, yes, I know, STILL.) but could we not at least try?

Would it be possible to enhance our happiest or most thrilling memories, and modulate our most distressing ones?

Could we, with regular, repeated and comprehensive practise, modify the way we perceive our past, and hence potentially change how we react to current situations and circumstances?

And who would that make us, if we could?

So please excuse me, whilst I go and imagine eating this lot:

No Turkish Delight in my imaginary box.

Who am I kidding?  Imma eat them for realz.

What “memory” would you implant?  And hands off River and Johnny Depp, they’re mine.

…From The Ashers xx

Today the following things occurred:

I did a presentation.  The computer and the projector did not communicate.  So that was fun.

I did a presentation.  For free.  From the goodness of my heart.  And I got trolled, IRL, by a dude from Deliverance (Or possibly regional Queensland.  Same-same.  Apologies to regional Queensland readers, but if you are reading this, I am not referring to you, because: computers and READING.)  So that was “fun”.  I might tell you about it someday.

I did a presentation.  AT 8am ON A SUNDAY.  If this doesn’t put me closer to someone’s god, then I give up.

Then:

I sat in as the support person, with Coco as the patient, for four hours whilst would-be paediatricians poked and prodded her, trying to figure out what the hell this rare and usual thing she has, is.  Hint: read my blog MoFos.  This is our fifth time in the hot seat.  I can’t wait for the day when I have a book called ‘One in Four’ on the best-seller list, and they can just waltz in, recognise us from the INTERWEBZ  and stop saying weird-ass shit like; “I think she her liver measures within normal limits” or “her bruising is pathological” (she just learnt to ride a two-wheeler bike MoFos) or “her dentition is normal”.*

And lastly: I have just found out that Elementary is not on tonight.  I do not know what sorcery has created this travesty, but I fear I shall be forced to go and watch that 50 Shades of Shit trailer…again.

Oh no, Sweet Baby Cheeses, I just switched over to some crap channel and I saw precocious children singing duets.  Synapses: seared.

But, because the world can only exist when there is a balance of negative and positive (Is this true?  Or an AlisonFact?**) these things also happened:

NAPOLEON DYNAMITE IS ON THE TELLY RIGHT NOW.  Forget Pretty In Pink or St Elmo’s Boring, this is the movie of EVERY generation.  (Also: I love you Channel 11.)

Also:

Flowers. Sooooo glad they are Gerbys. They might be SO 1995, but THEYDON’TSTINK

I found this cashola in a secret spot in my handbag whilst looking for a lippy. 4 pineapples and a slice of lettuce? Yes thank you.

Dunno what it is, but I’ll say YES (x4). So I might be a bit wobbly whilst writing this post. Hence, all of the boldz.

Also: The Silverback has done the food shopping for the week, AND is now doing the ironing, whilst I swill away. Schwiiiinggg!

So there you go: It’s a Sunday Night Shutdown here at The Asher’s Joint.  (Thanks for the advice Mrs Woogie).  The Evil Geniuses were allowed to stay up 47 minutes past curfew,  til 7.30pm, with a pinky swear that they would not emerge from their bedrooms until 6.30am or later.  So we shall see.  Could be a sweet deal.

Hope your weekend was a ripper, and deserving of a true Sundyniteshutdown.

Over and out.

*Sorry if you are one of those docs.  I know you were nervous.  But: normal dentition???  She has seven good teeth.

**Alison means “Little Truthful One”, so QED

….From The Ashers xxx

Here are the hits of the week:

1.  This funny thing, by @emrusciano on Instagram.  I don’t really know why I’m laughing so much at it.  I mean, I know it’s a joke and all, but it’s not really that funny.. Is it?  But there’s just something funny in the way the tree is ‘running’.  Or maybe it’s just that someone took the time to make and post that pic.  Either way, it has given me lots of giggles.

2.  The feedback I’ve had from the dreaded presentation last week.  People have been lovely and kind.  Some said they laughed and some said they cried.  So I guess I achieved my goal of moving people in some way.  You know how I am, I love to make y’all emote and shit.

3.  Yoga stretches.  Also from my seminar: one of the chiros had some very concerning x-rays of young people with very ordinary spines, such that we have never seen before in people so young.  I suspect this brave new world of devices has a lot to do with it.  So The Ashers have decided we are doing something about OUR spines before it is too late.  We are calling our morning practice Spine Tingles, and it’s a mix of yoga and gentle stretches, with a bit of dancing around thrown in, and finishing with an affirmation or two.  One Evil Genius is into it, and sets up the mats at 6.15am, the other CBF, but he has to do it regardless.  It’s the new tooth brushing around here.  Not negotiable.  And I’ve gotta say, I feel better for it.  More connected with my body or the sense of myself in space.  Shame I nearly tore a hammy trying to outdo the kids in the forward bending.  Stupid old contracted body.

4.  Finally getting my friend back.  Travel is a dumb idea.  Anyone who is thinking of leaving me to look at other places: just don’t okay?  It’s unnecessary.  There’s Google maps or something for that.  Anyway, I got my friend back, you know one of those ones who lets up parp on about ridiculous things, and then buys you a coffee anyway?  Yep, that one.  Welcome back, luv.  And don’t get any more silly ideas okay?

5.  An interesting side-effect of doing ‘that shit talk’ was that I got to stay in Briso for the night, just hanging out with my Mum.  She had a magnificent dinner ready for me, heater on, fancy wine all chilled… Just perfect.  We chatted on the couch for hours, with no kids and no snoring “I’m not asleep” male adult (I’m not naming anyone) to interrupt us.  We then woke up according to our body clocks, and sauntered down to the local cafe for a relaxed breakfast.  Wall to wall luxury: no clocks, no whinging, no work to be done by us: no worries.  I’m blessed to have such a cool Mum (with a cool pad in Briso to crash at), who is funny and caring with a bit of naughty thrown in.

**I’m also aware that I have a pretty good husband (snoring on couches notwithstanding) who willingly looks after the kids all weekend without complaint, including Netball, food shopping, present buying and kid’s birthday parties to attend. xx

What are your hits?  Did you have a nice glass of vino on Saturday too?

…From The Ashers xx