Problem: Make a crazy sleep deprived decision. Announce it to the world. Catch a fleeting glimpse of reality and realise you have now committed yourself to posting every Friday. Not only that, but the first one can't be some lame fluffy bunny story, because my readers would wonder if I had been lobotomised (hell I'd wonder). Well in truth they probably already wonder, but have just been polite enough not to say.
Solution:Boobquake. The story that kept me laughing all week. It's the logical choice as it has the Bedazzling built in, particularly if you chose to participate by embracing pasties as part of your official Boobquake uniform.
(Who knew you could buy hand crafted pastie tassels on Etsy, at Fondapetting Designs. For those with Bob, check out the purple furry heart ones. Now you can match your pasties to your feet.
I am learning so much doing this post.)
The power of the mighty boob. We all knew they were powerful, especially when combined with a Wonderbra or a well made corset. But little did we know that the humble boob can actually cause earthquakes. Yep, that's right all those jokes about "did the earth move for you" had absolutely nothing to do with the horizontal ramba, and everything to do with evil Boob power.
Take one Iranian cleric who shall remain nameless (as I can't be bothered looking up his name). Combine with some highly original, mysoginistic comments. Toss it on the airwaves. Add in a bright young thing from Indiana. And you have Boobquake.
Yes we immodest women are the cause of all the earthquakes on earth. Personally, I think there are many men out there with man boobs who should be taking some of the blame.
(Is Wonder Woman really a force for evil?)
In the name of science this theory was tested. On the 26th of April 2010, women world wide heard the official call to arms
and let the girls out, all in the name of science.
Now as a science nerd myself, I am wondering if there is some sort of formula to this phenomenon.
Is it purely number of boobs, or is it size of boob?
Are 2 inches of cleavage worse than 1?
Is it a question of symmetry or directionality?
Do plastic fantastics outweigh the au natural?
What about if I choose to wear pasties?
Are stars less points than tassels?
Would the use of tassels cancel out the microscopic nature of my super twins?
These are the questions that need to be answered people!!
As many of you will know I am not adverse to "freeing the twins". So I for one had my super twins decked out all day in the hopes that my two little peas could cause the next apocalypse. Alas it all appears to be a storm in a D cup or in my case AA cup, well if I put in the chicken fillets. The world didn't end. Apparently there were a couple of quakes but none of any significance. Apocalypse averted people we can all go home. Phew.
I love that Boobquake removed the religion and political aspects and focused on the simple absurdity of the original comment. Lets face it, Iran hardly has the monopoly on these type of comments. You could pretty much insert any fundamentalist religion in any country, into that story and find some mensa like anti-female (or gay, or race, or.....) statement.
An added level of hilarity was brought to the table by some groups of feminists who were up in arms at Boobquake, and formed Brainquake in response. I'm all for the power of the sisterhood, but really? Get a life ladies, being a feminist does not mean you have your sense of humour surgically removed.
There were also commentators who were angry that the Boobquake did not meet scientific standards. People the hypothesis was that boobs = earthquakes. Boobs? Earthquakes? Boobs! Earthquakes! This is not supposed to be Nobel level science, this is Homer Simpson level science.
I really love that there are official "I survived Boobquake 2010" t-shirts with 100% of profits going to charities like the Red Cross. Science, humour and charity work, what more could you ask for on a Fabulous Friday.
So thank you Boobquake, for making my first Fabulous Friday so sparkly. Humour truly is the solution to all life's problems.
I shall now pack away my miniature mammaries of mass destruction, and bid you all adieu.
Till next week.
Michelle :)
Side note: I realised as I was writing that my boobs tend to insert themselves into a lot of my posts. This is rather perplexing on a number of levels. In reality they have absolutely nothing to do with B.. He Who Shall Not Be Named, on Fabulous Friday. They'd also be lucky to be called poffertjes (pancakes would be dreaming), and even a Wonderbra would simply shake its head and walk away, after a glance in their direction. Small in size but big in attitude, watch out tectonic plates.
I'm honoured to have been interviewed by the lovely Ruth, from Precious Things this week. Ruth's blog explores the meaning of the everyday object. As she says:
"I am a sociologist who is fascinated by everyday objects: the beautiful, the ordinary, the unusual. From humble teacups to abandoned chairs, I'm trying to work out exactly why these things matter. Why do we love or loathe them? And what can only our most precious possessions tell us?"
Proof that I can occasionally act like an adult can be found here.
We are now in day 950.5 of what has been dubbed, the Rusty Hostage Drama. Whilst, the majority of Michelle's brain cells remain prisoners to the BLF (Bob Liberation Front), Eunice, the lone brain cell who remains free, carries on valiantly. She may sob into her Weeties every morning before arriving at work, but she puts on her game face every time she clocks on.
Eunice does her best to keep Michelle functioning throughout the day. Unfortunately, despite her best intentions it appears that Michelle is going to hell in a handbag, as evidenced by her pouring the milk into the sugar bowl as opposed to her coffee cup this morning. This is not the first instance of Eunice's dropping of the Michelle ball, and evidence is building to suggests that Eunice may be getting ready to retire:
Exhibit A: Michelle tried to put the keys in to start her car. After 5 mins of frustration and swearing Michelle thought to glance down only to see her husband's keys already in the keyhole.
Exhibit B: Michelle keep yelling at her son to grab her a fork, getting more an more peeved as he stood there confused with a spoon in his hand, only to realise some time later that she had said spoon...repeatedly.
Exhibit C: Michelle went to put her large glass cookie jar in the sink to soak. Unfortunately she managed to place the cookie jar on the edge of the sink with some force thus shattering the jar.
Exhibit D: Michelle has forgotten how to judge distance thus walking the left side of her body into the wall today and yesterday and the day before yesterday, and......
Exhibit E: Michelle was unable to recall how to spell her name when signing her credit card slip thus looking like a criminal and receiving some very suspicious looks from the dread-locked emo petrol station attendant.
Exhibit F: Michelle stood up to go to the loo only to forget that she had her lap top on her lap. The lap top was deposited on a very unhappy geriatric cat who then bit her on the ankle with her one remaining tooth.
Exhibit G: Michelle spent a half hour looking for her car keys only to realise she already had them in her hand.
Things are not looking good for Eunice and I fear she may be heading to early retirement. Or at least a ban from sharp objects.
(She may be a little tired, but Eunice can still rock a tiara)
Eunice is desperate for the return of her sisters, in the hope that they will be able to lighten her load. If they fail to return home soon, Eunice has made the difficult decision to move to a part-time or casual work format.
Eunice has formed the 'Free the Rusty Billions' movement, in the hope that she will one day be reunited with her beloved sisters. Unfortunately, Eunice is one busy braincell and only got as far as creating the catchy name for her campaign before passing out with exhaustion and requiring a week long holiday.
(Eunice and some of her sisters in happier days)
It is hoped that the BLF will soon be defeated and Eunice and her sisterly billions can get back to their job of making Michelle a fully functioning human being or at least as good as she was before the hostage drama began.
Being chronically ill can kinda rain on your parade. I'm talking the monsoonal, flooding, keep an eye out for The Ark, kind of rain. So I've made a decision. Probably not a good decision as it was made about 3am this morning when I was contemplating the myriad of ways I could BBQ my dogs, who kept crying at my bedroom door because one of them was on the other's bed and they wanted me to get them off. So if this goes horribly wrong (think the decision to make Speed II or the Star Wars prequels) I am blaming my dog induced sleep deprived psychosis.
So what's the plan you ask? Well I'm going to pop my umbrella, put on my gumboots, and demand a colourful fabulous, Sydney Mardi Gra, kinda parade, for one day every week. I want sequins and feather boas. I want drag queens with better cheek bones and tighter buns than I could ever dream of, and perilously high, stilettos. I want sparklers and fireworks, disco balls, strobe lights and infectious electro-samba beats. I am over viewing the world through a big pair of nard coloured glasses, well for 1 day out of every 7 anyway.
So I am starting a new section on my blog, Fabulous Fridays. Fabulous Fridays will be a Bob-free zone. No woe is me, no glass half empty, no sitting sobbing in the corner, drowning my sorrows in a block, or 6, of Green & Blacks. I am going to give myself a big can of Harden Up Princess, and staple some rose coloured glasses to my pasty face.
Fabulous Fridays will be dedicated to the good things in life. I am going to delve into the old dusty box of craft supplies under the stairs, and Bedazzle the crap out of my life for one day a week. There may be moments of fluff, there may be moments of mindless insanity, and there may be moments of touchy feely, for which I apologise in advance. I have no real idea what will end up on the list but damn it I'm going to be annoying perky girl one day a week, even if it kills me, and it just might. I'm pretty sure I'm allergic to perky, (even my boobs have formed an anti-perky movement), so I'll have my trusty Epipen sitting right next to the keyboard in case my head decides to impersonate the Good Year blimp at the first sign of a positive attitude.
My new Friday motto is "Don't be dull. Be Bedazzling".
So put on your sequins, grab your rhinestones, and tune in next Friday. Prepare to be Bedazzled, and probably bewildered, befuddled, and be-what-thed?.
With Trolls becoming an increasingly prominent feature of the blogging landscape I thought it was time to shine a little light on these irritating creatures.
(As I have found recently that my sense of humour doesn't always cross international boundaries I will now state for the record that this is a satirical post. I am not discussing actual Trolls, as they don't actually exist. And I am not insulting the loveable green cartoon variety, like Shrek, who again isn't real and therefore wouldn't care if I dissed on Trolls of any variety. Additionally, I don't know Sir David Attenborough personally, he's not really writing this post, but I do love a man with a whispered British accent, comb-over and a safari suit).
*
NB. This post requires that you have installed Sir David Attenborough Version 8.3, to view. If you are not currently running this program, a free sample of Sir David Attenborough Version 8.3, can be downloaded by touching the elderly man tickling the lemur below.
As night falls the first stirrings can be heard, as the Trolls begin to awaken in their shadowed, odoriferous dens. The Troll (genus. trollatus malodourous), once only found in the pages of children's fairy tales, can now be found moving from their fictional bridges and caves, to the digital realm. The Troll is thought to have escaped it's native lands of Faraway, Mordor and Narnia, by hiding in an on-line order for a crate of bananas destined for the international market. Once ignored due to it's mythical status, the Troll has now been designated feral by the UN, having reached plague proportions on all digital continents.
The Troll is known to have a number of species. Perhaps the best known of the species, the Ricardo Craniosum, have a very distinctive, although tiny, flaccid phallic protruding from their forehead. Other common species are the feather coated, Ornothosis Cerebrum, and thevampiric, Guano Loco*. All species are known to be hideous to behold and have a distinctive smell of immaturity.
Trolls are known to be very flexible creatures. Zoologists have reported that some species may spend up to 24 hours, with their head up their own arses. Accordingly, they are also known to suffer from anosmia (no sense of smell), thus believing that their bodily excretions have no offensive odour. Trolls are known to be afflicted with a number of genetic defects such as Gluteus Oralis, whereby their mouth and anus are joined, thus resulting in frequently disabling incidents of verbal diarrhoea. Penis Minutis is also prevalent in the genus.
The mating habits of Trolls remain unknown as they are traditionally solitary creatures. Less than 1% of Trolls are reported to have mates. Some scientists have hypothesised that Trolls may be hermaphroditic as their reproductive opportunities are severely limited, yet they continue to reproduce. This lack of new genetic material has been hypothesised as the cause of the Trolls lack of mental development. Many Trolls are known to suffer from severe cases of repetitive strain injury, often losing the use of a hand by their mid-fifties. Interestingly this condition appears to affect only one of the Trolls hands. This condition is known as known as Unilateral Simian Chastisement Syndrome, by the scientific community.
The Troll is a vicious. mindless creature. All are born without a frontal lobe and severely damaged amygdala. As such the Troll is unable to be reasoned with. It is known to be tangential, and use circumlocutions in discussions. Trolls are unable to link ideas, understand tone, or whole sentences. Trolls frequently revert to primitive language skills, rarely using words containing more than four letters or one-syllable. Sadly the limited nature of the Trolls' cognitive abilities result in a severe spelling deficit as evidenced by the frequent use of words like 'cuz' and 'mutha'.
Most Trolls are known to self-name, with their choices reflecting their limited imaginations. The most common Troll name is 'Anonymous', but variations such as 'Anon' and 'Anony Mouse', have also been recorded.
Trolls are notoriously hard to kill. Interruption to the food cycle appears to be the most effective method of removal. Traditionally they are known to feed upon the reactive outrage, fear, and hurt of their prey. If the food supply dries up, they are however, known to move onto more fertile ground.
Trolls are a fascinating genus. Their haphazard and primitive mentation can be a source of great humour. The Troll, although frequently led astray by its single brain cell and grandiose delusions, is a caring soul. It seeks to better the world by freely giving its opinion on all matters. The Troll is perseverance personified, and a lack of knowledge is no impediment to it's desire to ensure others are educated and/or chastised, as they feel the case may require. However, in their presence one can't help but feel pity for these simple creatures. Their childlike idiocy and inability to understand basic social morays, are impediments to their ever integrating into mainstream society.
The WWF has recently set up a fund for the betterment of the Troll. Dr Rupert Schmecktenfetzen, head of the Brothers Grimm, Get a Troll a Life Fund, said his hope is that one day all Trolls will get a life and return once more to their traditional homelands in the pages of Fairytale Land...
...and we can all live happily ever after.
Sir Dave :)
* This post is dedicated to the increasing numbers of my fellow bloggers who have had infestations of Trolls. Whilst most have managed to encourage their Trolls to move on I did find this handy product, which they may find useful for re-infestations.
After requests here are some quick clarifications:
Ricardo Craniosum - aka Dick Head
Ornothosis Cerebrum - aka Bird Brain
Guano Loco - aka Bat Shit Crazy Unilateral Simian Chastisement Syndrome - Single Handed Spanking of the Monkey
I'm not a kiddy person despite having popped out a couple of rug rats of my own. Babies don't make me clucky. I'm not overly impressed when they can roll over or get thier first tooth. I prefer my kids speaking and toilet trained and perferably with a decent return policy, as in not mine so I can give them back to their parents. On second thoughts scrap the speaking part. I now have two argumentative, hormonal timebombs, otherwise known as teenagers, and I would do anything to install a mute button on their foreheads right now.
Now I'm not saying I don't love my kids, cause I do (just after you give birth, when your senses are dulled by pain and exhaustion, they put a chip in your brain to ensure this), and if anyone hurt them in any way, I would rip their head off and beat them senseless and dispose of their bodies in a wood chipper, Fargo style. I also think they are kinda special, but I maintain a carefully crafted air of nonchelance regarding their evident brilliance. (Crap, I hope they don't read that. I have been working hard on my "your the world's worst mum", "you're so unfair", "you just don't understand", "everyone else's mum would say yes", "you suck", persona). But I also have many days where I think that woman in The States who stopped her car, shoved her wingy and fighting kids out the door, and drove off, was a genius. Truth is, I have come to believe that the whole mummy gene appears to be missing, or at least not quite right, from my repertoire.
I enjoy time away from my children. I want time away from my chldren. I NEED time away from my children. When they go to the grandparents for a week I do a dance of joy. If they don't ring I don't mind. The best part of the school holidays is the Sunday right before the Monday they go back. Its a toss up if I was more impressed when they learnt to use the coffee machine or when they finally learnt how to hold a note on the trombone (now that was an excrutiating, paracetamol filled, few weeks). I have also been informed by said children that I have been known to do a fair impersonation of the mum on Malcolm in the Middle. I fear I have failed on the mumminess test.
When the big guy (or girl, or spirit dude/dudette, universe or however you swing) was handing out the mummy vibe, I was obviously out having a glass of wine and spending my lifesavings on the perfect pair of shoes. Incidently I was also MIA when he handed out the co-ordination skills and technical know how, much to the amusement of my husband.
I'm sorry people, but all children aren't inherently cute and many should come with a warning sign stappled to their forehead. I will admit occasionally one will do something to deserve being called cute but these are very few and far between, and I generally require that they be related to me by blood. And even then if they jump on my couch with their shoes on ( I don't care if they are showing me their dance moves) or draw on my walls (this is not them expressing their artistic talent) I have to restrain myself from picking them up by their ears and threatening to feed them to sharks. Yes I know, I'm a bad bad person. But hey at least I don't actually do it, I just play it over and over in my head.
I loathe school concerts, where 80,000 grades of 20 five to 12-years-olds are forced to sing some schmaltzy song in bad costumes. There's little in the way of singing and much in the way of nostril exploration, dress lifting, pants investigating and screaming. And why must they go on for hours? Primary school-aged kids are really upleasant at 11pm. Especially after hours of waiting, not touching their makeup and too much sugar. We popped a celebratory bottle of bubbly when the youngest was finally out of primary school and the torture was over. At least at the high school level there is a chance that one or more of the kids can hold a tune, though I'm enough of a realist to not expect Glee level tunefulness. I can sit through my own kids' efforts but I do not find other kids cute and I most certainly do not get clucky. I pray for the day when you're not looked at like the spawn of Satan because you suggested to the other mums that you all make a run for it and head to the nearest bar; or, at the very least, put some vodka in that special mummy juice box.
I have sat through years of excutiating instrumental soirees. Hour after hour after mind-numbing hour of Three Blind Mice, played by tone deaf offspring, on everything from a glockenspeil to a tuba. My eldest played trombone for many years and let me tell you trombone practice/concerts makes Chinese water torture feel like a day at the beach. Yeah it's great that little Johnny is giving it his all and that he has the guts to get up on stage, but he is tone deaf, not a child prodigy and I don't want to be subjected to an impromptu concert every time I come over for coffee. A couple of years ago the organisers started selling alcohol at these events. A wise move by the fundraisers who know that the ability to endure these events and maintain sanity is reliant upon the ingestion of large amounts of fermented grape juice.
I want to throttle people who live vicariously through their children (and yes I mean you Band Nazi woman). Who put Little Johnny in 15 after school activities just so they can tell you that Little Johnny is in 15 afterschool activities. Who spend every second of dinner regailing you with every single aspect of little Johnny's achievements. Who make you feel like the shite parent because your kids only do two afterschool activities and spend the rest of the time using their imagination to entertain themselves or learning social skills. (Mind you I can't help thinking that if Little Johnny was such a genius he would've learnt the words 'please' and 'thank you' (no doubt in 12 languages) and the concept of sharing). I really don't want to hear about breast pumps, toilet training or be hit up to buy chocolate bars for Scouts. There is a time and a place people. Don't these people realise that you go out to dinner to get away from your kids?
I want to whack the children in supermarkets, restaurants, meetings, movies, planes etc who scream and run around and kick your chair and throw food and.... This is not cute. Your child is not learning by exploring the world. Your child will not end up in years of therapy or sitting in the corner sucking their thumb rocking because you told them 'no' or made them use the increasingly foreign words 'please' and 'thank you'. Your child is not a mini-adult and does not need to be included in adult conversations. If I am paying good money and getting out of the house for the first time in a year, to eat food that I don't have to prepare and clean up after, I don't want to listen to Little Johnny scream and throw his plate across the room becasue he didn't like the shape of his potatos (true story).
However, every now and then the little buggers do something and I am overwhelmed with a big case of "Awwww", and my best laid plans to be the rational woman who just happens to have kids are thwarted. I've tried to raise my kids to have a social conscience and not care or define a person by their religion, race, sexual orientation etc, and to instead focus on whether a person's behaviour reflects a heart of truth and love. Shock horror, I find that despite repeatedly getting the look of "here she goes again, time to bring out her soap box", they have actually listened.
My youngest has decided he is going to save the world one inch at a time. When he heard that our elderly neighbour's kids didn't bother to visit her for Easter (all five live within 10 minutes) he offered to help her and is now sweeping her steps and front path and spending time chatting with her. When he was on camp he gave all his left over money to the Salvation Army, as they needed it more than he needed more lollies. When his friend (the only Asian child at his school) was surrounded and being bullied he was the only kid to stand up for her and tell them to stop. How can you fight that stuff. It brings out the mummy pride and awwwwness in spades. It makes you feel like putting a full page ad in the newspaper and putting it on the loudspeaker for all to hear.
(Yes it's a girl but hey it was late, I was tired, and well damn it it's close enough)
I should probably add, before I get another course of "you love him more than me", that my eldest also does these things. When I'm ill he brings me drinks or makes me snacks. He doesn't complain if I can't drive him somewhere due to dizziness and will often say "sit down and I'll make dinner" (he makes a great spaghetti carbonara). He sticks up for the kids with challenges at school and is always ready to help someone in need. When it comes to girlfriend's birthdays he searches to get something personal, including many hours shopping to find the perfect stuffed elephant, for the one who liked elephants (I never want to see another stuffed elephant as long as I live). For me that kind of caring heart is far more important than a top grade in math, or getting into the state sports team.
Now having said that I will continue to loathe kiddy concerts. I will continue to buy a glass of wine to make it through every ear splitting violin solo, un-co dance routine and voice-breaking version of Leonard Cohen's Halleluja. I will continue to want to throttle the "look at my kids" parents. And I will continue to sit back and be very grateful for my two offspring and the fact they haven't turned out too bad despite getting the mum from the shop-soiled seconds sale.
Cheers Lois Michelle :)
Mother, Mother, Tracy Bonham (1996). A touchy feely interlude. Well touchy feely for me.
Well my short lived affair with Midodrine is over. I should have know that he was going to be trouble with all the effort it took to arrange our first date. High maintenance, and a bastard to boot. It was all about him from day one.
Our days together went pretty much like this:
"Take me now Michelle" (lifting my eyelids and sticking his face 2cm from mine).
"Well I really don't want to. I'm tired and I want to sleep in".
"Take me now (pout). Take me now, take me now, take me NOW"
"Okay. Okay. I'm getting up. Geez Louise take a chill pill".
"Take me now". (stamping feet and pouting like a two-year-old).
"All right I've taken you. Will you shut up and leave me alone, I'm tired".
"You can't lie down. You have to stay up and spend time with me".
"Listen buddy I don't really want to do that".
"Well I'm going to scream in your ear, poke you in the eye and jump up and down on your chest if you lie back down. In fact I'm going to do that anyway cause I find it fun".
"Okay okay. Can I lie down in a little while"?
"Nope. Have you seen that episode of Buffy with the creepy floating Gentlemen? Remember, I'll scream. Oh, and in four hours you have to take me again. And then again four hours after that. It's all about me lady".
"I don't think this relationship is going last".
"I don't care.
"You're a bastard Midodrine. Have you heard of Lorena Bobbitt?"
So after a delightful pain-filled trial I have kicked him to the kerb. He and Mestinon can go hang out together. No doubt they'll have their own reality show soon, The Bastard Bachelors, complete with smarmy host, and a group of desperate, fame-hungry, vapid, peroxided, 20-somethings vying for their attentions. Good luck ladies.
Since I gave him the "It is you. Not me" speech, I've been walking round the house singing Paul Simon's, 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover.
Now as happy as I am to be out of such a bad relationship, it has left me in the middle of no-man's land. My cardio can no longer suggest any new meds to try. I knew it wasn't going to be a good appointment when I was lying on the bed in her office and she looked at my legs and went "Hmmmmm" and did her "Oh Shit" face. Apparently if Midodrine was going to work my legs would no nolonger resembles those of the rotund, purple McDonald's character Grimace. After much hmmmming and scratching her head, she actually leaned back in her chair and said "I really don't know where to go from here".
Woo Hoo just what you want to hear from your specialist. She did give me some huge insights for my money though.
I'm really ill (no shit Sherlock).
My venous system in shot (ahhh yeah)
There's no doubt I have dysatonomia (didn't we figure this out a couple of years ago).
I don't fit into any of the standard sub-types (again, didn't we establish that a couple of years ago?).
I have "Michelle's disease' (see above parentheses).
I don't respond well to the available meds (Duh!).
I'm not a nutter (parentheses people).
$120 well spent I say. She did say if I (who knew I'm an autonomic/cardiac specialist?) can come up with any ideas she's happy to write a referral. There are a couple of long shots that potentially may be of use, which I'll get into if they come about. But I'm pretty sure from the look on her face that my chances of success are about as good as my chances of actually becoming Heidi Klum. I know she cares, is frustrated, and is trying her best, but I'm pretty sure a "Dear John" letter is on it's way to my door.
After many hours of internet procrastination/research I did run across one med that might just be worth a try. I wonder if my cardio will write a script?
What do you think?
Cheers
Michelle :)
Okay this is a late addition but I only just saw it on a friends FB page and I feel it may be the solution I've been looking for.
I have been searching high and low for an appropriate Easter pressie for you all to say thanks for reading. I have forced myself to eat copious amounts of chocolate Easter eggs, bunnies and chickens in hopes of finding the perfect little chocolatey treat for you all. I have eaten more hotcross buns than should be humanly possible; traditional, mocha, chocolate, fruit-free, and even taste gluten-free. I have sacrificed my hips and increased my blood sugars to dangerous levels, all in the quest to find you the perfect gift.
All of this hard work made me rather thirsty, and that was when I had an epipheny. I opened our special parental cabinet, reached for a bottle of mummies little helper and there it was. The perfect Easter gift.
Aesthetically, pure brilliance,
A cacophony of retro chic,
Combines two of my greatest loves, and
Technically, it's medicinal.
I give you Kellermeister, Sable. Port for the descerning consumer in search of "elegance and lingering pleasure".
(You may note in the background that the couch cushion is looking a little worst for wear. It could have something to do with Feyja's payback for making her wear a birthday hat).
(Take the hat off me stupid woman. It's my damn birthday. You really need to get out of the house more.)
The label alone, makes it worth purchasing a bottle. I love the tribute to 70's glamour. The porn mo on the guy is perfection. You can just hear the bom chiki wa wa, in the background combined with witty discussions of pool maintenace techniques. The lovely tones of brown, brown and more brown, that scream 70's. Tis a thing of beauty and joy.
At the end of a long day what could be better than a tipple, or 3, of port in front of an open fire? How about a port stepped with dark German chocolate? If that doesn't scream Easter joy I don't know what does. The blurb on the back even suggests that you enjoy it with more chocolate. If only the Easter bunny would leave a little basket of these bottles next to my bed.
Perhaps best of all you can consume your tipple in full knowledge that it is essentially a very palettable version of the multi-vitamin. Anti-oxidants, potassium, what more could you want. Apparently chocolate is good for your blood vessels and has mild anti-depressant effects. A glass of wine is said to make your heart stronger and boost your memory. There is even a study that states that women who drank moderately (one drink per day) gained less weight than women who abstained. Woo Hoo! It's an Easter miracle.
So there you go. Beautiful to look at and good for your health. The perfect Easter gift.
So a happy Easter to you all.
I will have a tipple in your honour, whilst I sit back in my paisley bell bottoms and cork wedges, put on the Bee Gees, and have an "experience in elegance and lingering pleasure".
