Bored shitless, and trying to avoid Twitter (Yes, that Mia Freedman victim-shaming-rant fallout is still going on) so we decided to watch Dancing With The “Stars”.

Oh Holy Mary, Mother of God what the Hell is going on here?

Firstly, there’s a new host.  Where is Sonja?  And why does this new chick look suspiciously like her?  Is Channel 7 having a “single white female” moment?  And why did she just say “cock-a-roaches” instead of cockroaches?  If she says “aks” instead of asks, I’m ringing the switchboard.

Secondly, some dude just did metal fingers because he got a “rock” song for his poncy dance.  But he didn’t really do metal fingers, with the index and little finger like pointy debbil-horns.  No, he did the two-fingered “up yours” fingers from 1974.  But he meant them to be horns.  What a tool.  Plus: not a metal song.

I’m cringing so much I can hardly watch.

Cut to the audience, and by the looks on their faces, I think some of them are experiencing the searing pain, of images burning, burning, their retinas.  The rest are sitting quietly, zombiod*, reflecting on how they may best re-arrange the soft furnishings in their lounge-rooms tomorrow.

Thirdly, who are these stars?

One of the contestants was so uncoordinated, the choreography was designed to prevent him from, well, dancing.  The Annoying Judge said, “You just might win Non-Dancing with the Stars”.  What?  What stars?  Doesn’t he mean “Dancing with the Non-Stars”?  WE DON’T KNOW WHO ANY OF THEM ARE.

So we have invented a game**.  The rules are as follows:

1. Turn down the audio and avert eyes whilst the intro and mini-montage of the “journey” part is on
2. Watch the dancing bit
3. Try to guess which one is the dancer and which is the “star”
4. If you get it wrong: scull.
5. If you get it right: also scull (otherwise the show really is unbearable)

That is the end of the game.  Brilliant in it’s simplicity, no?  It seems the show is getting better each time we follow steps 1 through 5.  I am considering adding in some new rules.  Like: every time someone mentions how they hope they aren’t going home this week: scull, every time someone mentions how much they’ve grown: scull, every time Daniel McPherson says “That might just be the dance of the night”: scull.

I’m changing my mind, this show, really is pretty good.

OH BLOODY HELL, NO, THE RUDE AND ANNOYING CHICK FROM THAT HOME COOKING SHOW JUST CAME ON, HOW ON EARTH IS SHE A STAR? SHE DIDN’T EVEN WIN: Scull.

Okay, I take it aaalllll back. This show bites: scull.

*Possibly a made-up word.

**We didn’t invent it, and it’s not a game.  It’s just called getting pissed I think.  But with added yelling at the telly.

Do you watch DWTS?

Have you invented any excellent games I must know of?

My favourite animal is the sloth.  Always has been.  Even before the internet allowed us to see baby sloths eating flowers and yawning.

Sloths are happy and kind and peaceful, smiling benignly and slothing about.  Sloths make me feel good.  I don’t have to feel inferior and lazy when I think of what I don’t get done in a day.  I did more than a sloth.  Winning.

My favourite thing is to sit in the sun and read all day.  And in doing that, I prefer to use economy of movement.  So if I absolutely have to move, I like to plan out all the steps of the task, in order, so that I do the minimum possible.  Just like a sloth would.

A friend of my Mum’s has a theory that he calls the Heartbeat Theory.  He believes each of us have a predetermined number of heart beats, and so we shouldn’t use them all up doing silly things like exercises, which would hasten our demise.  I first heard this idea when I was about thirteen.  Stopped me in my tracks.  And I’m loth to test the theory even now.

My problem is: children.  They encroach on my slothful ways because they need things, like food and, stuff.  Lately, even worse, they have become indolent.  In fact, they are so lazy that they can’t even be bothered to find their own deadly sin to live by, they’ve just copied mine.

Today was a pupil free day.  A perfect chance for family bonding and fun activity, yes?

It started well: dippy eggs for breakfast, in the sunshine.

But we couldn’t go our into the sunshine because it was: 1. Too hot.  2. Too sunny and 3. Too hard to carry our plates outside.

So we sat inside.

Then The Weird One sniffed his spoon.  I don’t know why either, but he did, and apparently he then couldn’t use that spoon because, “It smells like Coco”.  Which is a bad thing.  Renders spoons unusable.   He couldn’t walk the three steps to get a fresh spoon.  Unfortunately, neither could I.  Coco said she would but: smell, so he had to turn the spoon upside-down and use the handle to get the egg out.  The sloths would be proud.

After breakfast I suggested some options, all of which involved some minimal effort like: getting out of pyjamas, going outside (and shockingly) walking the 150m or so to the beach.

So we stayed inside.

And we would have remained so, had I not had a brilliant idea after lunch.  Liam wanted to use his computer.  I had been expertly ignoring his pleas, so I made a bargain: if he had a swim, he could play Minecraft for half an hour.  He wanted all the details: how long did the swim have to be, did he have to go under, could he wear a wetsuit?  So he could make “an informed choice based on the costs and benefits”.  This was testing my lethargic ways, so I pushed him in.

And made him stay in until he was suitably bluish.

I let them have a shower afterwards to get that job out of the way warm up.  I asked them if they wanted to get dressed again or put their pyjamas on, and they both chose pjs.  Otherwise they “would just have to get changed again later”.  It was 1.30pm.

No wonder I love sloths.  They are my children.

What’s your favourite animal?  Do you live by a deadly sin?

www.cutestuff.co

I just heard some shocking news.

Brace yourselves.

Apparently there is some world wide shortage of cacao beans or whatever the hell bean it is that makes chocolate.

That’s right: World wide. Shortage. Chocolate.

Sorry everyone, but I don’t give a shit about you lot, I’m stockpiling.

I just checked the pantry, and I’ve found some cooking-chocolate chips: hidden.

I snuck into Liam’s room and found his remaining Easter Eggs (They might be going a bit white-ish, but they’ll do): hidden.

I’m not bothering with Coco’s room, she won’t have any.

Tomorrow I’m going to the shops, so look out Coles and Woolies and Aldi, you aren’t gonna know what hit you.

Remember when you have some left and I don’t, who worded you up.

You’re welcome.

So I guess now I’m a food blogger.  (Recipe book coming soon.)

I used to work with a bloke whose sister, Kim Farrant is a film-maker, and I met her about nine years ago when she was making a doco called Naked on the Inside.  We met because my friend Ricki was one of the people featured in the film, and I was filmed for a bit of it.  Unfortunately I ended up on the cutting room floor.  So there goes that Oscar.  Sooo close.

Kim has made another film, and from the little bits I can bear to watch, it seems like it is her life’s work.  You see, Kim was molested by her Father for most of what should have been her childhood.  She has made the film ‘Between Me’ which is about three adults, showing the ramifications childhood sexual abuse has on them.

In order for the film to go to the next level, she requires funds to complete the package (final edit, musical score etc).  For a few more days you can donate on pozible to get this important film over the line.  If you can, go have a look at the site.

I believe this is a film that will start a discussion that needs to be had, about guilt and shame, and hopefully also, survival and strength.

If you are able to donate, there are some perks, including tix to the premiere.  It will be a chance to rub shoulders with someone who will soon be an even greater force in the movie world: Kim has just gotten the green light to make her film Strangerland, starring Nicole Kidman, Guy Pierce and Hugo Weaving.

Kim, you are one tough cookie, and I am amazed at your resilience and your courage and your bravery.  You are a shining star, and I hope that the healing you have gone through will inspire others that they too can move through terrible experiences, and move ahead with their lives.

All the love to you, you gutsy chick.

This is not a sponsored post, I just reckon this is an important project. The stats on child abuse are truly shocking.  

(Even if I am still a bit cut about being cut out of the last one)

HIts of the week:

1.  Blood donors. “Bloody” legends.  And lifesavers.  Our life is completely different this end of the week, with Coco all topped up with the claret.  Can’t thank all those anonymous donors enough.  Call 13 14 95 to find your nearest donation spot.

2.  The music therapy lady at Nambour Hospital.  I’ve got be honest, although my face was saying “Oh yes, music therapy whilst my screaming child gets treated like a pincushion, what an smashing idea”, my head was saying, “FFS you crazy bloody hippy, piss off and leave us to our misery and our work you friggin’ lunatic.”   Turns out, she was right and (gulp) I was wrong.  The music did help.  Go figure.

3.  Oh hello coffee delivery, yes please.

4.  And to go with said coffee, check out this mug.  I have no idea what or why this was invented, but who wouldn’t want one?

For the person who gives you the shits?

5.  These new shoes.  I know, I know, they’re bloody ugly, but in my other life I have a real job (No I’m not a highly successful and award winning author- who knew?) where I spend the whole day on my feet.  This week I finally chucked my old pair, and got these babies.  Just like going home.  Thanks Get Set Footwear on Gympie Terrace… (Tell ’em I sent you, they’ll give you a good deal.)

And a late entry… After my anti-bird rant, this popped up in my Instagram feed. Oh Jamie, I already love you, and then you wear this.  Not sure if its a turkey or a giant penis, but I like that you don’t look impressed. #birdssuck

What are you loving this week?

And what do you think of Hitwave Alison?  Should I also be including my top 5 shits?

I live in Queensland.  We can’t have daylight savings up here, because: cows and curtain care, so sometime around 5am an INFERNAL RACKET starts up.  No, it’s not the kids sneakily turning on iDevices to play Minecraft (that starts at 5.28am), it’s BLOODY BIRDS.

Billions (yes, that’s right, billions) of them.

Outside.

How dare they? You’d think they bloody owned the whole of outside, they way they carry on.

I hate birds.  Yes, even Rainbow Lorikeets.  Yes, even Doves.  Yes, even tiny little Finches.  Yes, even your cute little pet that is so friendly and cute and wouldn’t peck anyone and for some reason you have taught how to repeat inane phrases.   All.Of.Them.  Winged rats they are, spreading disease (maybe) and poo (definitely) and making noise, and waking me up every.single.morning.  They are vermin and they should be stopped.

The good news is, I have a cat.  Woofa, her name is, and although I don’t want her to go around killing birds (maybe), I got her to be an effective bird deterrer  great pet for the kids.  Trouble is, this is Woofa:

Woofa the Shitcat

and that is what she does all day.  Finds things (in this case it is Kid 2’s reading folder) and lies on them, sleeping all.frigging.day.  Putting long white cat fur on the dark coloured stuff, and long dark-brown cat fur on the light coloured stuff.  You could be forgiven for thinking the cat has no eyes, because you never see them.  But this is not a post about that shitcat, it’s a post about birds and how much I hate the infernal pests.

Did I mention I hate birds?  It’s not Ornithophobia, I’m not scared of the bastards (any more), I just abhor them and their stupid little pointy mouths. And their ugly little stick legs.  And their beady dead eyes. Evil, beady eyes.

So, the morning birds: they suck, but today a new horror began: afternoon birds.  Some kind of huge, black, cockatoo things have come to roost and shriek like Nazgul in my front tree.  They scream and squeal and decimate the bottle-brush and chuck the bits they don’t like all over the drive way.  Or, like today, onto my head.  It bloody well hurt. I may have been seriously concussed mildly stunned.

Birds=1, Me=0

Tomorrow I’m gonna fix them and this terrible situation.  I’m getting a hacksaw out of Nath’s trailer and I’m gonna hack off every one of those bottle-brushes so they won’t have a single thing to eat.

Yeah.

Birds=1, Me=1.

But then: birds starving and die, so,

Birds=1 (and dead,) Me=2.

I win the bird wars.

What do you think of birds?  Ever been pecked by one of those filthy magpies?

What’s your worst animal?