A rare breed indeed

Despite many an attempt to suppress the fact that I will sometime very very soon need to begin planning a wedding, this insight keeps making itself known.

Much, I have to say, to my dismay.
Because, ugh.
I don't wanna.

Don't get me wrong, I really really want to get married.
The marriage part isn't what's making my neck twitch nervously. It certainly isn't the reason I feel like taking a nap anytime anyone has questions/opinions about it.
And although I can't definetly rule out that that isn't what's causing me to break out in some rather stubborn hives, I'm almost a hundred percent sure that it's not.
It's something else.

It's the wedding.
Or, in my case; the W-E-D-D-I-N-G.

I know that being a female, living in a first world country and having obsessively watched Disney's "Cinderella" growing up, I should (in theory) be able to perfectly execute this whole bridezilla routine that's become so popular with the kids. You know, the crazy-eyed obsessive compulsive bride-to-be reducing waitstaff to tears and throwing temper tantrums over the fact that "these napkins are ivory! I said egg shell! EGG SHELL!!!!" .

I'm supposed to be overjoyed by the thought of picking out colour schemes and centre pieces and wedding cakes and thank you cards, and apparently I should be keeping some kind of scrap book containing an over all "theme" for the wedding.
(What?
What do you mean "a theme"? How bout "we're getting married"?
Is that theme enough for ya?
No? That's not what it means?
Oh, ok. Right.
Sorry.)

But, as you might have gathered, something has gone horribly wrong somewhere, and all these things added up make me feel the opposite of excited.
So, "not excited" I guess.
I mean, all I want is to wear a pretty dress and marry the loveliness that is fiancé.

In Vegas.

With Elvis (or someone vaguely resembling him) conducting the ceremony.

Is that so much to ask?

Desperate houswife and why I shouldn't have children

The past few days I have been channeling the life of a house wife.
Or, according to a few people that shall remain nameless, "doing stuff kind of expected of you since, you know, you're unemployed".

Huh. What a curious thing to say.

Anyway.
For example, I cooked a nice mushroom risotto for dinner last night and had it ready, with the table set and drinks poured, when fiancé came home from work.
However, I was not cooking and serving said risotto dinner dressed in a full skirt and pearls but hey, if there's one thing reading Cosmopolitan has taught me it's that as a woman there are always things about yourself you can change and improve. Yay!
How wonderful it is to be told I will never be good enough!

Also I've spent a whole day doing laundry, hand washing things (note to self: start looking at the laundry tags of garments before buying them. If laundry tag says "cold hand wash only", gently place garment back on hanger and move away from the cash register. I repeat, MOVE AWAY FROM THE CASH REGISTER!), hanging and folding and what not.

Realizing that I have agreed to let fiancé's two little nephews stay over night with us on Friday night I have promptly broken in to a nervous sweat and, going about it like I have a severe case of OCD, tried to come up with activities and meals and treats that will translate to nephews telling their parents about what a great time they had staying at our house.

Because yes. I, a 26 year old woman, am scared of the potentially disapproving judgement of two small children who's collective age is less than mine divided in half (and apparently reminicent of a fourth grade math problem).
Why is this? And also, if it comes to the end of Friday night and it's apparent that nephews have had a less than incredible time, will slipping half a roofie in their warm milk help with wiping those memories out of their pliable little minds?
And more importantly, is this something that will go on my permanent police record if discovered?
Cause I really can't have that.

My brain needs a defrag

I woke up to find that this lovely lady will let me have one of her precious books after I enquired whether it is read worthy or not. I guess this means it is. Or, she's just pawning some of her unwanted stuff off on me. But I'm ok with that.

Something I'm not ok with is knowing that when Alanis Morrisette sang this little gem of a line:
"...is she perverted like me, would she go down on you in a theatre"
she sang it to and about Dave Coulier.
Yes, that is "Uncle Joey" from "Full house" which I watched religiously everyday after school when I was nine.

This information is really causing me some anxiety here, and there is no apparent reason for my brain to, completely out of nowhere bring this very disturbing information to my attention, especially since I've gone to extensive lengths trying to forget.

Ok, maybe not really "extensive lengths"...
Actually probably no real conscious effort on my behalf has been made to forget said information but that doesn't change the fact that I was still pretty happy having it stowed away somewhere in the murkier depths of my subconscious, leaving it to cob webby canoodling with grade nine maths and an incident in a tent when I was 15.

The thing that really gets me is that because of this Dave Coulier bullshit I'll probably forget something else, something way more important.
Like turning the stove off or taking the bullets out of the gun before fiancé and I joke-play Russian roulette.
And seriously, I'm not super excited by that idea.

My brain has turned to mush

This morning I was rudely awoken by the sound of what I’ve now managed to identify as a Kookaburra.
Which, as some of you might know, is a bird.
I, on the other hand didn’t, and in my hazy and very annoyed state of mind thought the sound molesting my ears to be that of an equally annoyed, and perhaps lethally so, monkey.

What a business an angry monkey would have to go about in a tree outside my bedroom window I’m not completely sure, but then again I’m told Kookaburra’s don’t usually hang out in the city either. So yeah.
That’s the very exciting story of how I was woken up by a bird, though at the time thought to be a monkey.

Whoever said I don’t lead an exciting life just got proven wrong, right? Right? AM I RIGHT???
Oh lord, mommy’s on the drink again…

Going to the movies just got a whole lot more appealing

It seems Melbourne is caught in some sort of mini hurricane (for about three minutes there, I couldn't remember the word "hurricane" but instead my brain kept suggesting the word "trombone" as the proper term for what dictionary.com defines as "a violent, tropical, cyclonic storm of the western North Atlantic, having wind speeds of or in excess of 72 mph". Yeah, not sure what's going on there).

And for a good part of the day I just saw that as a convenient excuse not to have a shower, get dressed and go see "the September issue" like I'd planned to do. But then, after realizing that I was in fact watching an episode of "Days of our lives" (and not the first one this week I might add...) and having the words "crazy cat lady" flashing before my eyes (why does it keep doing that?) I decided that having a shower might not be such a bad idea after all.

So now I'm back home after an hour and a half of watching Anna Wintour & co and stuffing my face with hand made chocolates (it's a documentary about Vogue, I couldn't very well eat buttered popcorn now could I?) and wine.
Yaha, wine!
Cause apparently cinemas can serve alcohol in Australia.
How, I ask you, is it possible that I did not know this? I did after all receive a "Welcome to Australia"-pamflet when my visa came through, one would think that this information would have been in there somewhere between the national statistics and the helpful tips on how to maintain an acceptable level of personal hygiene, no?

Well, no.

Obviously someone, somewhere, in a governmental writing-of-pamflet type job has a somewhat askew list of priorities.

Does Ruddy know about this?

Sweet dreams are made of cheese?

Arrgh, my subconsious is driving me insane lately!
This past week I've been waking up several times per night from either laughing like some kind of crazy person or being on the verge of tears, whimpering.

The dreams causing this very unwanted behaviour have been various and has included some real gems, such as:

The one where I hang out on a meadow by myself, and after getting a surprise visit from the Jonas brothers I and one of the lads belt out a beautiful duet while standing under a cherry blossom that showers us with pink flower petals.
Yeah...
Yeah.

In another one (and I'm pretty sure that even just admitting to having a dream of this rather violent nature will put me on a watch list somewhere), I run around a house, sweaty and panic stricken, tracking down and shooting people (not the Jonas brothers though. I think.) Every once in a while this switches and all of a sudden I'm one of the people being shot at. It's all very confusing and it's all taking place in a vacation home in Palo Alto.
Just how exactly my subconsious knows about Palo Alto I'm not completely sure, especially since my consious self doesn't. Or at least I didn't until a quick Wikipedia search informed me that Palo Alto is indeed an actual town, located in northern Silicon Valley, California.

Which sort of makes me wonder:

Is this the point where, through a series of seizure inducing flash backs and strangely familiar dreams, my past as a murdeous CIA agent unravels? Will I discover, as someone tries to steal my purse, that I have the reflexes of a feline and a level of martial arts skills even Bruce Lee couldn't keep up with?
Is that what's gonna happen? Will I discover that all my memories are not mine at all (and if so, can I just say "Good riddance, memories of puberty and general teen awkwardness!") but inplanted in my brain to... uh... protect the... uh... secrets of the CIA..?

Wouldn't they just kill me for that?
And where in all this does the third dream, the one where I binge eat wheels of cheddar cheese, fit in to all of this..?

For the love of sports (or fiancé)

As might have been hinted at in this blog before, I'm not overly excited about sports.
This lack of excitement also extends to sporting events, sports related tv shows or really anything with the word sports attached to it.
Physical exercise has always failed to appeal to me and much like me during gym class in the glory days of high school, it seems that in my genetic setup the gene that constitutes competitiveness has gone awol.

Which is fine with me. I don't pretend to be concerned with my lack of physical fitness and I figure that the amounts of money I'll need in order to unclog my arteries and replace this in red wine marinated liver of mine sometime in the perhaps not too distant future will balance out nicely with all the money I've saved on gym memberships, sports bras and protein shakes through the years.

So until recently, sports and I co-existed in a mutual understanding that we not bother each other. Sure, there were times when I felt sports overstepped the line, deleting episodes of Grey's anatomy from the tv-guide in favour of some ice hockey semi final (just how important can something with the word "semi" in it be anyway?), and sports in turn I'm sure wrinkled it's nose in disgust at my rare and flawed attempts at spin cycling or (worse), anything requiring hand/eye coordination.
But for the most part, we got on, leaving each other to do whatever it was we were doing.

I say until recently because it turns out that the man I'm marrying has a rather passionate and loving relationship with sports in general, and Australian football in particular.
At this very moment I'm sitting on the couch in the lounge room with head phones on and music turned up to a potentially lethal volume.
On the floor to the left of me is previously mentioned man banging his fist on the floor and shouting things like "Go Blues!!!", "Ball!!!" and "Bastard!!!". All of these with no less than three exclamation marks. Hence the ear phones.

Which I just now took off because I saw some rather wild hand gesturing going on out of the corner of my eye. Turns out, they came with a rather colourful audio commentary.

Again, that inside voice chanting:
"This is the man I choose, this is the man I choose..." and the realization that my relationship with sports has been altered against my will and now more resembles the one of a wife and her husbands mistress.
And knowing that this particular mistress is of the sticking-around variety I will turn a blind eye.

Cause that's just the kind of of wife I'm gonna be.
Apparently.