Stale? Me? Never!

Thanks to an overwhelming respose of supportive comments (shucks, you guys, am blushing!) I've been provided with a nifty stack of writing prompts to keep me going. And going. And going. Heck, by the
time NaBloPoMo rolls around this November, I'll have nothing else to talk about. (Except for maybe one thing. Yep. Bunnies.)

The lovely Miss Heidikins suggested embarrassment, which is always a good conversation starter. Except, of course, when you're like me and have conviently locked all of your embarrassing memories away into the
'Derrrrr' (also known as 'I Simply Can't Remember') section of your mind. Seriously, I'm not just piking out on you. I honestly find it really difficult to think of any moments that I would deem hugely embarrassing. After sitting here for a good half hour and resorting to the bribing of my brain ('I promise, tomorrow we won't think at all!'), I've come up with a couple. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Alright, so there was this one time when I was learning how to drive and let my true blonde colours shine through; if you've read my 100 Things, you'll know this one already. So I was happily driving along in
my instructors car, when he abruptly asked me to signal and turn left. I obliged, doing what I thought was a great job, until I heard the car crunching, and realised I had actually driven across a concrete island in the middle of the road. What's that? Oh. The other left. Silly me. I didn't cause any visible damage to his car, but I think he was pretty surprised when I finally managed to pass my individual driving test.

How about all those times when you get yourself all dolled up, think you look fabulous but then see photographs a few days later and wonder what the fuck you were thinking going out like that? And since when did a hippopotamous take up residence in your trousers? Blech.

And then there was this one time where I was meeting a few fellow bloggers, had a couple too many glasses of yummy white wine and then found myself gleefully screaming out the number of counting the bats I saw flying past the balcony. '33!' '39!' 'Jase, do you think they're all different bats, or is it the same bat doing laps and just fucking with my head? No really. That's alot of bats.'

(Don't you all REALLY want to meet me in person now?)

Actually, any situation where I drink a wee bit too much alcohol is prone to ending in embarrassment. A few late nights in Europe fit well with that statement, and really, anytime I get up on the chair and start dancing with my shoes off, you know it's going to be one to remember. Or not remember, depending on the morning after.

My verdict? I obviously need to get out more often.

Confessions of a Semi-Burned out Blogger.

I fear that things are getting a wee bit stale around here as of late.

Let's face it; over the past few weeks the majority of my posts have revolved around late night ramblings, whinges about sickness and sore lasered eyeballs, my insane ability to keep on rescuing bunnies that hate each other, some semi-lame attempts at wittiness topped off by some completely random picture posts of no real importance.

And I don't even particularly like picture posts. Ack.

Even before NaBloPoMo was created, I was already posting at least once per day. Not for comments (as anyone who reads back that far can see that my readership was a whopping one fellow blogger who may or may not have been my own mother) and not for any particular reason at all, other than to keep myself writing something. I started dabbling in Sunday Scribblings to keep me going, which I really should start up again someday soon. Heck, I even created my own Sunday Google-age stats round-up to keep myself occupied, which is now just another blogging aspect I've let slide. My attention span is shot.

I love to write, I really do. But not only that, I love the interaction that comes along with it. It's been over a year since I started this particular blog, and the people that I've met from it never cease to amaze me. If it wasn't 2am, I could go through my blogroll and discuss how each and every person on there has had some sort of impact on me, simply through words. Excuse the warm fuzzies, I'm sleepy.

I realise that this post is just another batch of random ramblings; reading these posts makes the title of my blog seem pretty appropriate, don't you think? But just so you know, underneath all the wordplay, there is a reason for this post. That reason? I need your help getting out of the blogging rut I'm in. In the past, I threw an invitation out there to any readers I had, asking them to toss me a topic or question or scenario which I would then discuss on my blog. Keeping in mind that my readership wasn't overwhelmingly wonderful, my efforts flailed around in the air for a bit and didn't get very far.

So, I'm being brave, and I'm asking you all again. Give me some inspiration to keep on going, to keep sticking to my post-every-day vow. Stop me from talking about biting bunnies and snuffly noses, before I bore you (and myself) to puddles of tears. Boss me around a little, take control. I'm going to be brave, and take whatever gets thrown at me. (Hopefully what you're throwing at me is gentle though. And unbreakable. And soft and squooshy-like.) And seriously? All this talk of bunnies is making me sound just like Anya.

Thankyou, friends from the blogosphere. For wading your way through the boring bits of my life, and for sticking around for the long haul. Let's just hope the staleness wafts away very soon.

(Preferably with my cold and flu germs swiftly floating along behind it.)

(Way too) Early Morning Musings.

When it comes to relationships, I would like to think of myself as a pretty mellow girlfriend. I don't think I'm clingy. I don't think I'm obsessive. I think I'm pretty patient. I can watch football with the best of them. I'm all for some alone time, for myself and for my partner. Sure, I have my flaws and insecurities like everyone else, but all in all, I think overall I'm pretty okay.

Take this whole England situation, for example. (A brief summary for any new readers; the plan is that Jason is heading over to the UK in August, and I'll fly over to join him in January of next year.) Yes, I'm apprehensive about it all but when it comes down to it? I'm supportive. I know the reasons behind his leaving so early. I know it's for 'us' in the long run and that I'll join him eventually and that everything happens for a reason.

It's going to be horrible without him here for five-six months. I can't even begin to imagine how weird it will be not being able to see him whenever I feel like it, I can't even comprehend the thought of us being a 'long distance relationship' yet. But as scary as it all is right now and will be in the future, deep down I know that it will all be okay. I understand how things are happening, and I'm comfortable with them.

I'm happy taking a risk, and ultimately doing all of this together.

So . . . the question is this:

Why does the fact that Jason has already recieved his UK working visa in the mail as of today, terrify the bloody pants off me?

[Cue ghost feelings of paranoia, worry and overwhelming loneliness.]

The Head Cold Made Me Do It.

Considering that last Monday on my return to work, I was greeted by seventeen seriously snotty children of whom at least half should have been at home in bed, I consider it about bloody time I ended up sick.

Yes. Sick. Again.

Surely by now, everyone here knows I have the immunity of a fly?

Yes, well, now you know.

It's now 4am and I can't breathe sleep. Wonder if there's a way to figure out which kidlet gave me their germs, or if it is just all of the kidlets germs having a good old-fashioned romp in my system?

Whoever they are, they're totally getting an E on their report card.

Yes, I'm kidding, of course.

Besides, I am much too busy feeling sick and sorry for myself to even think of writing any report comments today. Boo bloody hoo.

I am Witty, oh so Witty!

Overheard in the kitchen earlier today;

Ajay: [struggling to clean the kitchen floor with our pretty purple Dyson vacuum] Man, this vacuum cleaner is really sucking today.
Aly: Isn't that what it's supposed to do?
Ajay &; Mum: [groaning in unison]

Well, at least I am content with keeping myself amused.

A Birthday and a Bunny.

Today is Jason's 25th birthday! Woo! Happy Birthday! Yeah!

(And no. I am not wearing a bunny suit. The two are totally unrelated. Sort of. Kind of. Not really. Well, actually . . . no. I really am NOT wearing a bunny suit. Sorry if I let you down.)

Anyhoo, as a) I am terrible at buying gifts and b) The boy is hard to buy for, we came to the agreement a few weeks ago that he should just buy himself something that he likes and it can be from me. Sweet, eh? He decided on a business shirt, and since he is the fussiest man alive when it comes to that particular style of clothing, I let him go with that. That present has been ready for weeks.

I've bought him a few novelty type presents too, since I felt like the worlds slackest girlfriend. Best one? I bought him his own pet rabbit!

(Shit, is she talking about rabbits again? [audible groaning] Squee!)

Er, yes. We are the proud owners of another bunny, a wee baby this time. Though he's not as small as Lucy was when she was a wee baby, he's (eek, boy!) cute and squishy and white and also has floppy ears. He was also lonely in the shop, since he was a big boy and nobody wanted him. Being a sucker, I fell in love and ah . . .

Happy birthday Jason!

(I'd let Jason name him but, well, we've already decided on a name. And I'd let Jason take him home but, well, he's going to be friends with Lucy soon, so he might as well stay here. And I'd let Jason HAVE him as his own but, well, he is heading to England soon, so he's better off staying here with me and Lucy. Totally justifiable, right?)

We've decided to call wee baby bunny Ricky. Hard to figure that one out, eh? (I didn't get it at first. I wanted to call him Fred.)

Er, back to Jason. It's his birthday! Yeah! Now sing, bitches!

(And I'm going to book wee little one in to get his bits snipped as soon as can be, because as much as I love baby bunnies? I don't want Lucy and Ricky to be, ha, breeding like rabbits (!) in my backyard. I just want snuggling. Lots of snuggling.) I think I need help.

Give Me Your Happy Walks!

Today at school, the kidlets got to participate in a professional dance lesson, which was hilariously fun. I'm still thinking about it now, hours on, and smiling. The aim is that each year learns a different cultural dance, and in a few weeks time the school will have a big celebration with all the classes dancing (complete with costumes made out of garbage bags, no, really.)

My class learnt a Swedish dance, so automatically I was laughing on the inside, my random brain thinking about Abba music, cute names like Inga and Sven, and Masseure sandals. (Sorry to any Swedish readers, I really am that hopeless and blissfully ignorant.) It was so damn cute.

They have to do lots of hand holding, skipping around in a circle, clapping, jumping and stomping. And the most wonderful part of the dance? The happy walking! When the kidlets are walking/skipping around in their circle, they need to do it swaying their heads from side to side in a 'happy walk'. Being the fabulous little petals that they are, most of the kidlets did this; even going as far as copying the completely fake and painful looking smile that the instructor was giving them as he pranced around the circle with them.

(For those of you who like mental images; Imagine about 75 kidlets skipping around like penguins with their arms to their sides, bobbing their heads from shoulder to shoulder, all the while smiling psychotically and staring into space. Happy dancing, indeed!)

We have lots of practice before we get it right, because it actually was quite tricky. The kidlets do half the dance sitting down doing the moves, and the other half standing up, and they're still working on getting up and down faster. But they're quick learners. They'll even get to wear cute little costumes, made entirely out of garbage bags and crepe paper.

Me, on the other hand? I've been fighting the urge to do the bloody 'happy walk' every time I get up and move around. Woo!

Oh, the things I could say . . .

I'm following in the footsteps of NPW today, because she is fabulous. (And because I am tired, back-achey and just plain lazy, if you really wanted to know.)

In random order, the things I'd say to people right now if I could; (And no, I'm absolutely not telling you who is who. Unless bribes are involved, of course.)

1. Sometimes you irritate me to no end, but despite what advice other people have given me, you'll always be someone I care about.

2. I don't even know you that well, but there is something about you that I find intriguing. Why is that?

3. You are someone I haven't made up my mind about; to like or dislike? I'm still in two minds about you, and I'm not sure that I trust your motives.

4. You don't realise how terrified I am at the thought of you leaving. And as much as you say you feel the same way, deep down I don't think you can even begin to feel the way I am feeling. I wish you did. And why don't you ever just CALL?

5. Sometimes, you just need to shut the fuck up. Seriously.

6. I really think you are an amazing person, we are so much alike, and I wish we were friends outside of this little thing called the internet.

7. I envy you because of your social life.

8. I wish I saw you more, because I think you are an amazing person and are someone that I think about often.

9. I feel like you don't find me useful at all, or worth keeping around.

10. I really hope you get what you are trying for, I really do.

11. It makes me jealous when I see your beautiful engagement ring.

12. You are looking really amazing, I want results just like yours.

13. I think it's about time that you started acting like an adult.

14. Some days, every little thing you say pisses me off and I can't stand the thought of you. Other days, I think you're grand.

15. I wish you would think of me more as a friend than just a person.

You know, that actually felt mighty good writing all those out. If you're up for giving it a try, feel free. Stealing is a sign of flattery, don't you know?

Addicted to Love . . . er, Ebay.

Have spent the last few hours selling random things on Ebay.

Still have a crapload to upload. Have too much junk in bedroom.

Back aching rather badly. Think it's broken. Or something like that.

Require immediate (and possibly forceful) removal from computer.

Ebay = browsing. Browsing = spending. Spending = bad. Bad!

Send for reinforcements, pronto! Must. Avoid. Ebay. Help!

Bet You Didn't Know..

(And no! It's not the meme; been there, done that!)

Every morning in class, we run literacy groups. The kidlets get to practice their reading, do activities with comprehension, practice their reading, complete spelling games and puzzles, practice their reading, learn about books, and did I mention practice their reading?

Having a support class this year has made literacy groups a real challenge. In the past, I've been able to have groups running independantly, but with this group of kidlets, they really need structured tasks that they understand. Give them something that is too advanced for them, and you've lost them for the hour. It's a very fine line, and I'm still learning how to walk around it.

Regardless of their reading levels, I'm happy to say that most of the kidlets I have this year actually really do like to read. (Sadly, they don't get much/any support from their parents at home, which is very sad.) For that very reason, literacy groups are important to me as a teacher, and for the kidlets as learners, so I make it a habit to rotate my groups so I'm hearing most read aloud every single day.

Today I decided to read with my top group. Their book of choice? Snow White & the Seven Dwarfs. 'Excellent!' I thought to myself. 'They'll have an idea of the story, so that should make them much more fluent in their reading.' Er, no. Would you believe that not one of my group had even heard of that fairytale before? Amazing. (So, so different to my own childhood, where I was reading any book I could lay my hands on before I was even at school!)

But back to to kidlets; we did a story orientation, talked about things that happened in fairytales, walked our way through the book together just as we would with any other story. All was well, until we flipped back to the books cover and looked at its features. There was a bit of chatter as they talked about why she was called 'Snow White' (they figured it out pretty quickly!) and then a pause. One little girl put up her hand, and asked 'Miss, what's a d-w-o-r-f?' Silly me, the thought that the kidlets wouldn't know what a dwarf was hadn't even crossed my mind. [insert quick explanation here]

Onwards we went, to our individual reading. It was a long book, but they got through it (despite every kidlet in the group having the sniffles, I predict getting sick within the next week; I ended up having a tissue box in the middle of our circle) and all was well. Are you wondering why this particular teaching moment warrants its own blog entry?

Ha! The reason is this; some key words changed by the kidlets whilst reading today, has given this age old fairytale a completely new title;

'Snow White & the Seven Giraffes'.

Perhaps we ought to send the original authors a memo?

Tomorrow's lesson: Comparing Giraffes and Dwarves. Oh dear.

So I'm Smitten.

Back to school, back to school,
To prove to dad that I'm not a fool,
I've got my lunch packed up, my boots tied tight,
I hope I don't get in a fight.
Ohhhh, Back to school, back to school....

Er, as you MIGHT have guessed from today's little sing-a-long, I'm back to work today after the eye surgery of the past. I'm still a wee bit squinty eyed, especially in the sunlight and trying to do things up close, but I've got my eyedrops and some Panadol ready to go. And I'm trying not to even think about how far behind I am in my teaching programme, but we'll do what we can to get it all sorted out.

(Plus, I miss my kidlets. I know. Crazy. It'll last an hour or so.)

So why the title post? Because I just happen to be having a moment with those good old fashioned butterflies in my stomach, and it's all because of the boy. I do love him. Lots, in fact. Can you tell?

Happy Monday, everyone. May yours be filled with butterflies too.

The Household Genetics Debate.

Before we start with this one, here's a nifty pre-warning for you.

The post you are about to read requires the use of your non-lasered and/or currently-haemorrhaging eyeballs to make some comparisons between photographs. Thankfully these were taken prior to the arrival of the burst blood vessel of doom, however you will still be subjected to several extreme close-up shots of yours truly. To
conceal as many blotches as possible ensure that the pictures are as similar as possible, they have been converted to black and white and are roughly the same size. What am I on about? You'll see, soon enough.

For as far back as I can remember, there has been a long-running topic of conversation in this household  about genetics. To put it frankly, a long time ago I came to the conclusion that I don't actually resemble my mother, father OR brother in any way and am therefore the outsider of the family. It's true. I don't look like any of them. My brother looks like both of the parental units, squished in together. My parents don't resemble each other in the slightest either, which is actually a positive because otherwise? Things could get very weird around here. There's just little ol' me, all round cheeked and puffy eyed.

We recently had some family portraits taken and after viewing the individual portrait shots, I realised just

how often I am always right how much I really don't look like my relatives. Mum found it pretty amusing too, so we have decided to put it to the test. And we're using our blog friends, both hers and mine, to be the guinea pigs and give us some feedback and to offer your thoughts on it all.

Your missionshould you choose to accept it, which you have already accepted by default, why thankyou, is to be assaulted with photographs and to make your subsequent judgements upon them. (If you say mean things, I may hurt you. Or cry. Or both.) Unfortunately, I can't pay you for your troubles (am poor, laser surgery) or even offer you baked goods for your troubles (on diet, cookies bad). But I can um, promise to, um, blog about any topics you are game enough to throw at me, and um, answer them as truthfully as possible. Or just give you a simple thankyou via email. Whatever floats your boat.

Alright. You've seen the pictures. You've closely examined each and every distinguishing feature of our faces, down to the very last pore. (Or, you know, you've just glanced at them really quickly before moving right along, which is fine too, cough, slacker, cough.) You've come to your own conclusions about the similarities and differences of our facial characteristics. (Oh, these big words are hurting my brain.)

Now it's up to you to help us solve 'The Household Genetics Debate': Who do I mostly resemble? Am I actually an alien who has simply taken on human form? Do I need to quit convincing myself that my eyebrows are much too pale to bother ever plucking or waxing them? And which bits and pieces of each person
do you see in my own face, if any of them? The answers lie with you, friends.

So now that I'm busy imagining myself as the Frankenstein monster (I think it was all that talk about body parts) I am going to put myself on mute and let you get on with your commenting.

To borrow a quote from Tolkien;
This task was appointed to you,
Frodo of the Shire
Readers of the Blogosphere.

If you do not find a way the answer to these questions, no one will.

I am NOT dramatic. Nuh-uh. No Sir.

I bet you thought you came here today and were going to be greeted with another post all about my post-lasered eyeballs, right, right? Ha! You were so . . . correct. You would have to be completely bonkers if you thought that spending a week cooped up in a house eating recuperating has left me with any witty stories to tell you.

(Aside from the whole Rusty story, that is. Quick side note; Laurel, it totally rained the next day. I now dub thee, Sassy Rainmaker.)

Anyhoo, I may or may not have mentioned previously that the operation has left me with a particularly fugly deformity. There is a gigantic burst blood vessel on the side of my left eye, and it appears to be moving every now and again.

(Another side note; I totally just had to do the "L" signs with both hands to figure out which one was my left and which one was my right, and then magically use that knowledge to figure out which eye was blotchy. Am clever like that.)

I went into panic mode at first after seeing it because, it's um, really ugly? And as exciting as it sounds, I don't particularly like walking around looking like I've taken some kind of illegal drugs, have had several huge nights involving alcohol or have some strange eye disease. Next, I decided it must be somehow related to my vision and that its presence is a forewarning that I am going to go blind and OMG what the fuck was I thinking letting them zap my eyes with laserbeams? In true cycle form, I'm now back to focusing on the ugliness factor. I dislike it. Alot. I want it to go. Away. Now.

So I did what any neurotic sensible blogger of the internet-age would do; I consulted Doctor Google. Turns out, the icky red spot seems to be something which can occur after the stress of any eye surgery; "The procedure can sometimes cause small blood vessels to burst, resulting in
bleeding or subconjunctival hemmorage
into the
white of the eye, a harmless
side effect that resolves within several weeks."
I just hate it when I fall into the 'sometimes' category. Fuckers.

But more to the point, see? Not a thing to worry about! (Other than terrifying small children and possibly being arrested under suspicion of illegal narcotics.) All is well. I felt much better afterwards. And I'm absolutely not paranoid anymore. Everything is just dandy.

[Cue to a conversation taking place inside my brain at this moment.]

Crazed Brain: Fuck! The spot is a hermorrhage? Oh no! Shit!
Rational Brain: Settle down dear, it's just a fancy schmancy word for popping a blood vessel. No worries. Is it lunchtime yet?
Crazed Brain:
Rational Brain: Your eyeballs are fine, shut up dork. It's common after laser surgery. They say it will go away in a week or so.
Crazed Brain: I have a HEMMORRAGE! And it's MOVING. In my eye.
Rational Brain: I'm hungry. I feel like a chicken pot pie.
Crazed Brain: But it's a HEMORRHAGE. And it MUST be bad, because people can't even decide how to spell it on the internet!
Rational Brain: If it makes you feel any better, let's go check your Itunes. Haven't you got a Fuel song with that name?
Crazed (and temporarily distracted) Brain: Ooh! I like that song!
Rational Brain: They say HEMORRHAGE. See? They must be right.
Crazed Brain: Okay then. I feel better now, thanks.
Rational Brain: Better? Really? You're pretty calm about it all. But you're still bleeding from the eyeballs. I'd be panicking if I were you.


Crazed Brain: [flails off into the distance and then explodes.]

I'm Environmentally Challenged, er, Friendly.

Since a lot of my blogging friends are of international origins, you may not be aware that Australia is actually in the midst of a pretty horrible drought. Our dam levels are diminishing and to put it simply, we need it to just start fucking raining already. (And keep it up for a few weeks. Or months. Not bloody likely.)

Where I live, we're on minimal water restrictions; no sprinklers, no washing cars with hoses, little things to salvage whatever water we can. Even so, our water levels continue to shrink pathetically. In other states the restrictions are even stricter, with showers being limited to under four minutes, and higher fines being put into place. It's not looking good.

Here at home, we're busy doing our little bit for the environment too. (And no, I'm not just trying to justify the reason why the grass on our front on lawn is well and truly dying. We're just terrible gardeners.)

Our kitchen has a 'double' sink, one smaller half and one larger half. My mum went out and purchased a round and slightly flattish (totally a word) bucket to place in the larger sink; its job is to collect any stray water that usually would go down the drain while we're using the sink while cooking, cleaning or doing whatever else one does in a kitchen sink. (The possibilities are endless.) The idea is that as the bucket fills up with water, we take it outside and use it on our wilting back garden.

Since I've been lazing around at home for the past few days while my eyes get back to normal (they're getting there, but the dryness is horrible), yesterday morning I was given orders to clean the kitchen. Which is fair enough. I'm at home anyway. And other than squinting at the computer monitor updating blogrolls and selling off old textbooks on Ebay, I'm not really doing anything useful. After pottering around doing nothing for a few hours, off I trudged to the kitchen. Half an hour later, said kitchen was all clean and sparkly. There was just one thing left to do: empty the water bucket.

Now I'm not too clever at the best of times, let alone when I'm . . well, actually, I don't even have any excuses to insert here. My common sense is just plain pitiful, really. I could have been logical and lugged the full bucket onto the counter near the door, opened the door while I was bucket-free, then grabbed the bucket and stealthily evaded the dogs before getting rid of the water. I could have even simply yelled for some help, since dad was working from home and was right around the corner. Oh no. Much too easy! And I am an independent woman who doesn't need any help, thankyouverymuch.

Instead, balancing the water bucket precariously against my bosom, I trudged over to the still closed back door. Shouting at the dogs to stay put or else, I held the bucket steady with my chin, flicked the latch and opened the door with my toes. The dogs surprisingly behaved, so I stepped carefully outside, closed the door with my toes once again and hobbled over to the garden to dispose of the water.

Rusty, my somewhat excitable wee chihuahua was happily trotting along beside me, following my progress and probably wondering what the heck I was actually doing. Feeling insanely proud of myself for accomplishing SUCH an important task all by myself, I felt a case of the warm fuzzies come on. Seeing Rusty sitting beside me, especially after having him not do the bolt inside whilst I was juggling both the door and the water bucket, I offered him a big smile and knelt down to give him a pat.

All but drowning him in dirty kitchen sink water in the process.


I couldn't believe what I'd done. He was literally dripping wet.
And remember, he IS an extremely small little dog.
And the bucket? Was kind of big.
And extremely full of dirty water.
I felt absolutely terrible.

That is, until I saw him sniffing himself excitedly with a wonderous expression on his face. Most likely wondering where that smell of kitcheny goodness was coming from. That's when I saw him wag his tail at me, turn around to his behind and proceed to lick it all off.

And that's about the time that I peed my pants with laughter.

We're pro-environmental, Rusty and I. Fighting the Australian water shortage one blonde moment at a time. And damn proud of it, too.

Stalkeriffic Blogs.

[This post is still under construction, and is being edited as we speak. Or type. Or speak-type. You get the idea.]

I've been meaning to do this for a while, actually.

"This" being to jump on the Bloglines bandwagon, mainly so I can tell who has updated and who has been too
lazy busy to update. {Waggles finger at all of you, tsk tsk.} I could say that it would help me spend less time on the internet and more time frolicing in the sunshine, but that would be a lie, so I won't say it.

Wait . . . I may have already said it. Shoot.

So here's the deal; Today I'm going to remove my blogroll.

Since I'll be moving to Bloglines anyway (therefore stalking you in a much more sensible way, or so I've decided) I won't be needing them on my mainpage. I have also decided to create this here post, which I will link to my information. This are the goals;

I'm going to list all of my original blog friends on here.

I'm going to link some new blogs that I've discovered recently.

I'm going to list all of my stalker-only-and-no-contact blogs here.

And I'm going to link some blogs that YOU recommend.

So what are you waiting for? While I'm being a busy little chook updating you all to Bloglines AND creating this-here linky page, I'm going to put this post on up on the website, and I want you to get cracking making suggestions for me to read. It can be several blogs, heck, four hundred if you like. Just tell me why you love 'em, that's good enough for me.

START RIGHT NOW. Why are you still reading? Get busy, folks!

(You'll eventually find the blog list by clicking the following link;)

Original Bloggy Friends:
(You should visit them because I love them dearly, and I already would stalk them everyday if I could.)

Brilliant Donkey
VBG (hee)
NPW (hee)
Teacher Jane

New Bloggy Friends:
(You should visit them because they are friendly and I love them already, even if we have just started
stalking talking more.)

Reformatting My Brain
Teacher Anonymous
The Corrections
A Horrible Warning
Simply Stated

New Bloggy Stalkees 
(You should visit them because we can find out about them together. Like one big happy bloggy family. Aww.)

And You Know What Else
Anchors Away
Virginia Gal
All or Nothing
My Left Nerve
Carrisa Blog
Dietgirl aka Shauna
Suddenly Sometimes
Looking at Frema
Hollow Squirrel

The Popular Bloggy People/Sites:
(You should read them because.. heck, everybody else does read them. Let's all jump on the bandwagon, folks!)

Hola, Isabel
Joy Unexpected
No Pasa Nada
I'm Not a Girl, Not Yet a Wino
Not That You Asked
Rude Cactus
The Superficial
Go Fug Yourself
Post Secret

Newly Recommended Bloggers (found by YOU):
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Irony Sucks.

After yesterday's plea for a little extra sleep, my body obliged.

All too willingly, it seems. It's now 6am wake ups for this chook.

Thanks very much, assholes.

I think things are going well in the healing process. The sarcasm is coming back in waves, the whinging has already begun PLUS I am having my old crazy dreams again, therefore? All must be well. (This time, I'm going to be a bartender in a haunted house. Neat.)

Am feeling much, much better. Now if only I could think of something to blog about that didn't involve the zapping of the eyeballs, things would be just dandy. But it just sounds so dramatic! Lasering! Zapping! Surgery. Yeah, I'll stop now. Promise.

(Edit to add: If I read ANYTHING Gilmore Girls related that spoils the finale, I shall perform at home Lasik surgery on you, so help me, roar.)

Let Me Sleep!

A letter to my dear, dear brain,

Hi there; it's your minion, Aly here. Listen, I know you've been put through a sort of stressful ordeal over the past weekend what with the panicking, crusty eyeballs, laser beams and all that jazz. I understand that's been sort of stressful for you, I really do.

But I think, old brain old pal, that you need to have some serious words with whatever part it is inside you that controls my body clock. I would pretend to be all smart and google it myself, but fuck. I've just had my eyeballs fried, and I don't want to squint anymore than I have to, alright? Alright? Good.

Anyway, back to you and your body clock. Since I've already admitted I have no effing clue as to how the damn thing works other than the fact that sleep is good, very good, I just want it fixed please. Waking up at 5am for the second morning in a row is not only plain ridiculous, it's dangerous for the whole of mankind. And yes, I'm talking about the grouch factor and the worlds blackest and puffiest eyes. All I can say is thank goodness I've been instructed to stay indoors this week, because no one would be spared the ferocity and extreme fugliness that is Aly without sleep.

I should also mention here just some of the things that you, dear brain, are responsible for in this whole ordeal. (Other than the horrid wake up calls.)

Let's start with the killing of my poor Ipod. Do you realise how many times I've recharged its feeble batteries over this weekend? If it ass-plodes, it's all your fault. Why? Because there is nothing else to do at five in the bloody morning when you can't read, watch television or stare at the computer for long periods of time. (Except, of course, while blogging, for this is perfectly normal and acceptable.)

Also? Let's talk about lard. My lard, to be specific. Do you realise how much shit I have put into my mouth over the past five days? I've consumed enough lollies to justify ripping all my teeth out and just buying dentures already because the sugar? Oh man, don't talk to me about the sugar. When my weight has gone up by next Monday, it's all your fault. Why? Because it's YOU that is making me crave naughty things and my poor, damaged will power is still knocked out from the Valium of four days ago. (That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.)

Brain, I've also got this horrible blotchy red blood vessel that has all ass-ploded over my left eye, and it's completely feral. I realise this is not your forte so to speak, but maybe you can have some choice words to my eyeballs too, and ask them to heal just a wee bit faster? (It would probably be wise to give them a hearty, but gentle, pat on the back for doing such a great job in the meantime.)

Thanks for listening, brain. I feel it's helped clear the air between us both, wouldn't you agree?


P.S. One last thing; the dreams about giant rabbits? Are starting to frighten me. Please make them stop. That's all for now.

The Whinger Has Returned!

Right. So no-one told me this whole lasering of the eyeballs thing would leave me waking up at 5am in the bloody morning craving junk food. Now, who do I have to kill? [squints in your general direction.]

(The somewhat sane part of my brain is trying to tell me that the fact that I'm also beginning a lovely phase of the lunar cycle known as "Crazy Woman Time" is not helping my predicament, but that part my of brain clearly doesn't know what it's talking about and needs to shut up because I. Am. In. Charge.)

But I am back! And I can see . . . sort of. And am still wearing my sexy sunglasses. In fact, I've been wearing the sexy sunglasses so much that I actually have blisters forming behind both my ears, so really? Not so sexy. My dad was making buzzing fly noises whenever he walked into the room a couple of days ago, but I think he fears for his safety now that I am weaned off the happy pills.

Ha! Happy pills my arse! Although I do remember having a giggle about lots of random things, I also remember puking twice into the bathroom sink because my stomach? It does not like the happy pills so much. And I definitely do not like the puking. Blech.

Anywho, since I'll be most likely swooning off into sleep again like the drama princess that I am, I wanted to get my surgery story up here before the snoring begins. (Yes. Princesses snore. Didn't you know?)

Surgery Day

I remember feeling all brave that morning, I ate my breakfast and gave my animals a random squish and then pulled my traditional 'We're going to be late, it's all your fault, hurry, hurry, wah!' spiel as we rushed out the door. I then proceeded to tell my very-profiecient driver (also known as 'Dad') the way to get to Manly, because please. I have been there, done that. (Let's collectively ignore the fact that I got completely and utterly lost the last time, alright? Grand.) About fifteen minutes before we arrived at the surgery, I got some calming text messages from friends, to which I responded something along the lines of 'I'm crapping my pants!' My stomach then literally turned to liquid, leaving me groaning in the backseat of the car in a mild state of panic.

We arrived at the surgery, I paid my hefty fee (sniff) and sat down in the waiting chairs with my parents. I was also not-very-subtly checking out some other patients there, who were already decked out in white scrubs, blue footsy cpvers as well as a very sexy shower cap. About two seconds later, I was called in for my pre-op exam, where I got to don the fashionable gear and shuffle around like an old lady. (I was also extremely proud to announce my weight to the poor lady taking my details . . . what? I've lost weight! Why not be proud? Not that she would have known that, but whatever.) She then proceeded to give me drugs. Oh dear.

I came out of that little room feeling very relaxed (drugs) and found poor Mum in the complete opposite state; turns out the nurse who had been filling her in on all my post-op treatments had flown through them and confused the crap out of her. She was sobbing in her chair, Dad was calming her down and I was gazing aimlessly around the room. (drugs) Although at the time I was swearing the Xanax tablets weren't doing anything, I was probably already off the planet because I don't remember much else. When it was my turn for surgery, I gave dad my handbag and shuffled in to see the doctor. There was a huge viewing panel of glass, so I was waving cheesily to my dad through the glass until the nurse told me to shut up and lie down, crazy woman get comfortable and lie down. Then I got scared.

The surgery really didn't hurt, at all. It was bloody weird, and the eyeball burning smell was terrible, but the absolute worst part? Was them flushing out the eyes for about thirty seconds with freezing cold water. For all the numbing drops they gave me, the cold water burned all the way in. My teeth were chattering, and the nurse told me my lips had gone blue from it. It was horrible! Then it was all over, and the surgeon led me outside and told me to read a car number plate, which I could! Then we waited in a dark room, and shuffled off to the car. I think I was magically teleported home, because I don't remember that car ride at all. (Drugs)

That night was filled with eye drops, sleep and that's pretty much it. And painkillers - Valium and Panadeine Forte. I've never taken so many drugs before in my life, honestly. I did sleep well, though.

The Weekend of Pain

Yeah, I'm exaggerating. It did hurt an awful lot on Saturday, but thanks to a superb staff of healing professionals (also known as Mum and Dad) we got through. I was sick once after having some tablets, which was not pleasant at all, but we just assumed it was because I wasn't eating much and was taking a rather large amount of drugs. I listened to the entire nine hours of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone on Saturday, which I think is a pretty incredible feat. My parents had a party to attend that night, so Jase got to be the babysitter for the evening, lucky man.

I greeted him with a hug, and then a cheery exclamation of 'I think I'm going to be sick!' which left him looking shocked and me being, well, sick. Then I slept lots, while he gave me eye drops and enjoyed a nag free night of watching football. Hee. My parents were late out, so Jase ended up deciding to stay the night. I was half coherent at this stage and gently suggested gruffly informed everyone that Jason was to be sleeping in my bed, with me, thankyouverymuch because I was sick and I wanted him there. Being a good boy, he obliged, and I slept well that night.

Suffice it to say, I didn't touch the Valium anymore after that. I think it was just too strong for me, but by Sunday most of the pain had settled down anyway. I could open my eyes in small amounts, and looked a lot like a zombie. Still do, in fact. I bet you $10 that my puffy and baggy eyes would scare small children. Or even old ladies.

The Check-Up and Onwards, Soldiers!

Being spoiled, I had not one but two handsome men take me to my post-op visit yesterday - Dad and Jason. I had a massive headache on the way over, probably from being in the sun so much. (Bright lights! It burns!) That didn't stop me, however, from being a terrible backseat driver the entire journey to Manly, and I had several hissy fits at Carmen the Garmen (our navigator system thingy) who just didn't know where the fuck she is going. There were no drugs involved this time either. Just plain weirdness.

After putting numbing drops in my eyes, the orthoptist told me that one eye had healed faster than the other. My left eye had its protective contact lens removed, and I'm now to just continue with three drops (4x a day) plus night cream in that eye. As for my right eye, I had one tiny splodge in the middle of the cornea that hadn't healed yet, so she placed another contact lens over it and I get to remove it myself later on today. She also told me I had 20/20 vision after reading the sign, though I'm not sure that I believe her. All good.

I can open my eyes more, though for small periods of time only. I can see better out of the healed eye than the other, but hopefully that should clear up soon. I'm also having trouble focusing on things, especially close up. (Hence me writing this by increasing the text size about a hundred times.) My orthoptist informed me that I should go back to work next week, so that my eyes don't strain themselves too early in the healing process. Yes, yes. That's all well and good. But I can't even watch Buffy! Or read! (A 24 hour recording of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire should fix all boredom, right?)

As for food choices? I had my parents worried that on top of being eyeball lasered, I was also pregnant. I wanted lots and lots of toast. I wanted fake mashed potato wrapped up in devon slices. I wanted lollies. And icecream. Oh, the icecream. (And for the record? Not pregnant. Well and truly NOT pregnant.) Although I should have bought stocks in the Allens chew-mix lolly company for this weekend. Sherbies, Redskins and Milkshakes. They are my saviour, they rescue my tastebuds from the horrible eyedrop taste that drips down my throat once every hour. Yeeeeech. Not enjoying that part.

A huge thankyou to my parents and Jase who have looked after me this whole weekend. Heaven knows I'm not an easy person to look after when I'm sick and incoherent, but they did a wonderful job. No bleeding from the eyeballs, or eyeballs falling out of their sockets or anything like that! High fives to you guys!

Now that I've well and truly worn myself out, I'm going back to bed. The sun is rising, and the daylight hurts. I think I'm turning into a vampire. (I've already got the paleness factor down.)

I'll be stalking you all soon! xo

Send payments to .....

As requested ... Aly aka Nicole. Please make cheques payable to "Aly's mum" .....

Don't let that little smile fool you - she was in quite a lot of pain when I took this.

She was pretty sick yesterday - had to take something for her queasy tummy - and lots of pain killers. We are weaning her of these today and already she seems a little chirpier.

Happy mothers day to all the blog reading mums !!!


[Dude, Mum! Capitals! Where are the capitals? Even my lasered eyeballs just died a little because capitals? Needed capitals?! Okay, I am a dork. Love you! -Aly P.S. What a terrible photo. Need more drugs to get the image out of my head.]

update from Mum ....

Aly is home recovering from her surgery. Doesn't seem to be in much pain - but lots of drugs have helped... in fact she has been quite 'funny' in her drugged state !!!
she also looks very cute in her Nicole Richie styled sunglasses to protect her eyes - i've begged to let me take a photo but she wont be in it !!!

she says HI !!!


PS - i neglected to mention the part where they took me aside to tell me about all the medications and drops and all i heard was " there might be pain" - which i heard as "my baby is gonna be in pain" so then all i heard was "blah blah blah blah blah" - so had to get her daddy to go and get all the info over again cos i didn't comprehend any of it !!!!!

I'll Be Seeing You! (Hee)

In two hours, I'll be heading into the city to have my ASL procedure done. I have to be there by 10.30am, with surgery time at 12.30pm.

My stomach is in knots! I know it's not a huge thing, but still - scary! Someone will be lasering my eyeballs, my poor eyeballs!

Anyhoo, blog lots for me while I'm missing in action so that I have LOTS to come back and read about. Oh, and watch lots of TV for me. No doubt I'll probably be stumbling around and squinting to try and read blogs quicker than I should... computer withdrawals and all that.

A Micro-What?

Have you ever got in your car, arrived at your destination and realised you have absolutely no recollection of the drive at all?

That was me today. I remember nothing. Nada. Zilch. Didly squat.

I tidied up my classroom, left notes and my teaching programme ready for the casuals on my class until next week, said goodbye to a few people, and walked out to the car clutching a big box of books I was loaned by someone at work. I fumbled around for the car keys, lugged everything inside, and remember cursing as my Ipod slipping out of my hands and under the car seat. I drove out of the carpark and encountered no traffic, so turned smoothly through the roundabout, sailed through the green traffic lights and . .

That's all I remember, until I got out of the car and tripped over my handbag strap, losing half the things out of my bag in the process.

I don't remember which other lights I stopped at. I don't remember what the traffic was like. I don't remember anything of note about the drive home at all. Just . . nothing. I must have zoned out completely.

Since coming to that recollection (or lack of recollection?) I'm a bit paranoid. I would like to think I'm a safe driver, but it's not so much me that I'm worried about. What about all those other drivers out there, who maybe aren't as cautious as me? What if I broke a road rule driving home? What if I had a microsleep as Dr Karl would put it.

I'm glad I'm not driving anymore today.

Ah, crap. I'm heading grocery shopping soon with mum. And guess who's driving? Perhaps it's time to break out the caffeine?

They Say It Like It Is.

Dear Mum,
I love you. I will always love you. I will never stop loving you.
From T.

Dear Mum,

Thankyou for tying my shoelaces for me when I don't want to.

From D.

Dear Mum,

Happy Mothers Day! Thankyou for the $5 you gave me to spend on you for Mothers Day. I hope you like your present. It is chocolates!
Love B.

Dear Mum,

Hope you have a good day even though you gave me no money.

Love C.

It was our Mothers Day stall here at school today, meaning that if they had money, the kidlets could go and purchase pretty gifts. Watching the kids randomly point at gifts and gleefully put in their bags and take home brought out the warm fuzzies in me, it's obvious that they really loved choosing them.

It's days like this I love being a teacher.

Why? Because floral pink coat-hangers are all the rage these days. Just like they were fifteen years ago when I was the child delightedly taking them home to mum.

(I bet that it was exactly what she wanted, too.)

Some things never change.

It's Official.

I have absolutely nothing of interest to report today.

So instead of writing my way around the fact that I am boring, I shall instead go to bed early and spare you from an endlessly repetitive drone about how I still, two minutes later, have nothing to say.

(And implore you to please, please, for the love of all things not boring, leave me some comment love and tell me how interesting your lives are compared to mine. I want to live vicariously through you.)

Oh, and before I go - did I mention I have nothing to say?

This is Boring McBoringness signing off for the evening. Yawn.

I'll Take Whinging for $200, Thanks.

After some depressingly terrifying less than positive responses to my concerns about what to do this weekend post laser surgery, I've been thinking about it an awful lot. No really. What was I going to do? Since I have no way to judge how much pain I'll be in, how tired I'll be, or how much vision I'll have back over my time off work, all I can do is go by the advice and experiences of other bloggers who have had similar procedures done. Oh, and allow myself to start crapping my pants out of nervousness, so to speak.

(Especially when the surgery called today to confirm Friday's appointment. There's no backing out now. Lasers, here we come.)

Anyway, thanks to the lovelies who suggested audiobooks, I've had it in my head that I had to find some before this weekend. It's perfect! I love books. I love my Ipod. I love lying in bed not moving very much. Together? A delightful combination. I have heard lots of people discuss audiobooks before, one of my favourite series (Outlander by Diana Gabaldon if you were wondering) is apparently read really well. But where to find them at short notice? Hrm.

Ebay proved useful, but they wouldn't get posted here on time. Same went for any of the online stores, the delivery times were pretty much useless. I was heading out to visit a friend yesterday anyway, so I figured after watching our chick flick (Because I Said So - how effing hot is Mandy Moore's hair?) I could venture into a couple of bookstores and snag me an audiobook or fifteen. I was pretty chuffed when I saw there was a huge wall full of books on CD, and even happier when I saw the range of titles they had.

Memoirs of a Geisha! The Historian! Ice Station! Temple! Contest!

I may have even peed in my pants a little at this time, because of your usual bookstore excitement and also because I had just consumed a large coke zero at the movies, but that is absolutely not the point. They even had a special on, buy 2 and get an extra one free. Nothing like a bargain, especially when you're planning on being blind for the weekend. I frantically grabbed the nearest one, flipped it over and checked out the pricetag, ready to buy.


Do you know how much they were charging for audio books?

[Leaving you some time here to guess. Go on. Guess. NO. Don't cheat and look down. Sigh. You're hopeless.]

For an audio book.
For a freaking audio book!
Do you know how many normal books I could buy for that?
Or shoes!
I could buy lots of shoes!
Oh hell no.

After ogling the price tag for a couple of seconds, I showed Kirby who also looked shocked. Maybe it was just that one book? I picked up a couple more, and lo and behold! $89. $62. $83. What. The. Fuck? Needless to say, I left that store empty handed and rather pissed. Of course, the cheaper department stores don't stock audio books (and were also sold out of Gilmore Girls Season 6 and the frypan I wanted to buy my mum for Mothers Day, bastards!) and the prices were just as extravagant in the next bookstore we found.

I was not a happy Aly, at this point.

Getting home, I searched for some more online sites and ended up resorting to my local library; but they don't specialise in very much audio fiction so I was left disappointed once again. What was I going to do this weekend? In a huff, I decided to go and download a song or two that I had been meaning to add to my Ipod. I think this is about the time when the lightbulb above my head flickered on. (I think it's faulty, it doesn't come on very often. Who do I speak to about this?)

Without going into too much detail, (cough) I am now in possession of every single Harry Potter audio book, as well as the Lion, Witch & the Wardrobe and Interview with the Vampire. Sadly, no Memoirs, Outlander or Historian (anyone care to donate?) but I do have a very full Ipod. Suck on that, Borders! [sticks out tongue.]

P.S. Limewire, I love you and want to have your babies.

Speaking of yesterday, I should inform you that I once again managed to drive myself one toll and fifteen kilometres in the wrong direction before I realised that I possibly wasn't going the right way. Yes, being the superb navigator that I am, I paid $3.80 and wasted petrol going north up the freeway instead of south. I am very, very clever.

(One could ask how the hell I manage to get myself so hopelessly and utterly lost everytime I get in a car to drive somewhere, but even I couldn't answer that one. Sorry. I am just that good. Be jealous.)

Reminiscing . . .

Lately, the subject of conversation on everybodys lips is moving overseas. Granted, I'm often the one to bring it up, but there have been some occassions where it hasn't been me. Other than send off a few inquisitive emails to teaching agencies to get some information about working overseas, I've really not done much about it yet. I'd actually prefer not to think about it just yet actually, I'd rather just put it off and worry about it later. Works for me.

(Especially the financial aspect of it. Ooooooh boy. Hide me!)

All the talk has made my brain go into hyper-nostalgic mode though, resulting in me going on a frantic search of the house looking for my CD full of Europe photos from the last time we were there, in 2004. A half hour and several messy rooms later, I emerged triumphantly and treated myself to a slide-show down memory lane. Care to join me?

Freezing my butt off in Paris. (Also looking terrified for some reason.)

Up close and personal (and freezing my butt off) in Vienna.

Freezing both of our butts off after mountain climbing, in Scotland.

Enjoying ourselves in Venice, Italy. Smile, bitches!

Well and truly posing in Munich, Germany. Mmm, beer. (ha!)

Getting drunk (or already drunk?) in Florence, Italy.

Carnivale! In Venice! With hats! And face painting!

My favourite photo - beautiful Scotland and my sexy, sexy beanie.

Did you notice the recurring theme? Freezing our arses off. That's what we got for travelling in winter, though I wouldn't have had it any other way. Less crowds, cheaper prices, snow! I plan on visiting all of these places and more when I'm back . . . but for now, it's just me and my photos, reminiscing. And look how long my hair was! (sniff)

Hit Me!

I've found another activity that I thoroughly enjoy playing, yet sulk when I am losing. (See also: minigolf, ten pin bowling, most board games.) That activity is a little thing called gambling.

After enjoying a nice long sleep-in, Jase and I stumbled downstairs to be greeted with the sight of my brother lugging a huge cardboard box across the hallway and into the dining room. Being half asleep and more preoccupied with finding breakfast, I didn't pay it much attention until he told us what was inside.

A poker table! Which also turns into a blackjack table! Which flips over to form a roulette table! With coloured chips! And cards! And spinny wheels! And little silver balls! Squee!

When we happen to be near a casino, Mum heads straight to the computerised roulette tables and disappears for an hour or so. Nan also has a bit of a fling while she's there, and has quite a lucky streak actually. Me? I take my trusty $5 and tend to make it last a couple of hours playing the one
cent poker machines. (As you can see, I'm a huge gambler and must be
monitored closely.) Suffice it to say that I know nada, zilch, didly squat about the different games.

Playing roulette was fun, since I'm a big dork and stuck to my black or red guesses. I even ventured out to odds and evens when I felt a little braver. I've played poker before, but just your standard version. (Stripping optional.) Jase and Ajay wouldn't let me play it that way, oh no, it had to be Texas Hold'em. I'm a terrible poker player, me and my face that lets everyone know what I'm thinking. To bluff or not to bluff, bah. Anyone could win easily against me.

But my favourite of the games? Definitely blackjack. It's bloody wonderful! I won so many games that the dealer had to resort to opening his second bank. If we had been betting with real money, I'd have just about paid off next week's laser surgery. If only.

Blonde moment of the day goes to me again, thinking I'd beaten
Jason and his full house with my three pairs. Yes, three pairs. What?
No-one told me I could only use five of my cards!

(I'm still too much of a scaredy-cat to ever actually gamble on these games with real money. Until I learn how to do a poker face anyway.)

You Know You're Looking Grouchy..

When the first thing your kidlets mutter to one another as you walk them into the classroom in the morning is;

Kidlet #1: "Miss S isn't happy. Quick! Let's sit down!"
Kidlet #2: [slapping forehead] "Noooo, I forgot my homework."
Kidlet #1: [shocked face] "Good luck!"

Apparently my overly cheerful (ha) expression had led this particular student to believe that her forgetful friend was apparently going to be blasted into shreds for leaving her homework behind. Please, am not that nasty a teacher. (Although it was hard to not laugh after overhearing their conversation. She basically hugged her goodbye.)

There's no real culprit for the grouchiness other than life, programming, junk food cravings and stupid people in general. Yep. That's all. Bloody glad it's the weekend now.

(Although I'm dreading next weekend. I'll be post-laser-eyeball-zapped and bored out of my brains no doubt; no reading, no television, no computer, what the heck am I going to do?)

Todays Blog Contains No Expletive Language.

I have a feeling it is going to be a very interesting day, today.

I'm off class from 9-11am, on my usual RFF (release from face to face) timeslot, where I'm going to try to get some programming done, since I'm very behind this term already. (Yes, try is the operative word in that sentence.) Then I have from 11.20-12.20pm off class again, this time to do some mathematics testing and analysis for this professional development class I'm doing. I've even got my playground duty relieved today, which was an added bonus.

That means I only see my kidlets for an hour today. An hour! Yikes.

Anyway, onto the most important and exciting news of all;


So, I do get why most of you are sitting there thinking er, yeah, so? But dudes, this is BIG news! The department went through a phase of blocking any website that was deemed as not suitable for school, and somehow Typepad landed itself on that list. Suffice it to say, I was very, very sad. What could I do in my lunchbreaks now?

Seeing as though I finally have internet access in my classroom again, I thought I'd try my luck and see if it was still classed as a naughty site. Yes, well, here we are.

Be afraid.

Be very afraid.

(And yay! [dorky moment])

Overheard in the Playground.

Here are some random snippets of school life for you, friends.

Chorus of Kindergarten kidlets: Hello Mrs Slowwwww!

(See? Am married to myself. And also? Having a surname that sounds like "slow" in certain accents is a pain in the arse. But still kind of amusing, really. After a term of it, I've given up correcting them.)

Kidlet #1
: How old do you think Miss S is?
Kidlet #2: Oh, I think only 40.

(Alright, I know I act older than I am sometimes but come on, kids!)

Kidlet: Miss S, is this the grandma booklet?
Aly: The what?
Kidlet: The grandma booklet, the one you said not to write in.
Aly: [stares at paper] Grandma booklet?
Kidlet: [nods, confused]
Aly: [thinks, confused]
Aly: [lightbulb flickers] Ah-huh! The grammar booklet!
Kidlet: Yeeeeeeeah!? That one.

(I swear, I had no idea what she was on about, and I think that now she thinks I'm crazy. And she might just be right.)

Aren't They Meant to Mean Something?

Fellow readers, I am in dire need of your interpretive skills at this hour, in order to decipher the really bloody weird puzzling dreams I had last night. Forgive me if they seem to jump all over the place, it's just that, well, they jumped all over the place.

If you're up for a challenge, read on and feel free to jump on in.

Dream #1:
I was walking through an unknown shopping centre, one that was completely foreign to me. I have a feeling it was in a different country, but couldn't tell you more than that. After running into some contestants from the recent series of Australia's Biggest Loser (Hi P'eta! Hi Damien!) I headed into the lower level by escalator and ended up in a mall of some sorts. All of a sudden I was surrounded by people with clipboards, all asking me for the opinions on the shopping complex, did I like it, why, why not, had it changed since I had been there last? That part of the dream ended up with me running away.

My Interpretation:
I have no idea. But it was nice to see some familiar faces there, even if they were only pseudo-celebrities who don't know who I am.

Dream #2:
I was having a massage performed on me, and I remember it clearly being an arms, shoulders and back massage only. The lady told me to lie down on the bed, which was actually a really skinny ironing board. She then informed me that in order for the massage to be done correctly, I needed to be lying as flat as I could get, and not to move a muscle. After I had flattened myself out on the ironing board (!) she then asked me take my shirt off and lie on a towel, yelling at me all the while as I "unflattened" myself. Once I was flat on the board again, she made me do these arm exercises; raising them up, shoving them out the side, pushing them down, think cheerleading type actions. Then I needed to put my chin to my chest and push down with my arms, resulting in my body flipping through the air.

My Interpretation:
An ironing board that can hold my weight without collapsing? A genius idea! Don't ask me what the whole stretching and flattening business means, but a massage really does sound good right about now.

Dream #3:
Jason and I were in my backyard, not really doing much of anything that I can recall. He suddenly dropped to one knee, and when I realised what he was about to do, I exclaimed something along the lines of "Oh no! You're not really doing what I think you're doing, are you?" He then placed a ring on my finger and asked me to marry him, to which I responded "Oh, of course!" We then came into the kitchen and ate breakfast, and I got to examine the ring a little bit better. I was horrified to find out that it looked terrible! It was like a childs ring, with a big giant love heart in the middle on a coloured band. I left Jason in the kitchen and ran upstairs to talk to my mum, who I found in her bathroom drying her hair. I then asked her a very important question; "Mum! Jason just gave me a ring and look at it! What do I do if I don't like it?" That dream abruptly ended there.

My Interpretation:
Bahaha! Have I been thinking about proposals? Oh hell no. [shifty eyes] I remember the tacky ring so clearly now though, and how panicked I felt when I rushed in to ask my mum what I should do.

Analyse away, my friends. Make some sense of these for me.

Koalas and Wombats and Kangaroos, Oh My!

There's nothing like starting off the school week with an excursion on a Monday, that's for sure. Even though they're usually filled with stress, emergency phone numbers and the fear of kidlets puking up their breakfast on the bus ride, I genuinely love excursions.

Since we've been doing a unit of work on Australia, we decided on Featherdale Wildlife Park as our excursion destination. Not too far from the school, nice and open to walk around in, and not too expensive either. Since I have such a tiny class this year and some students didn't pay, I ended up having 11 kidlets to watch all day; in other words, I was completely spoiled.

The bus ride over was fairly uneventful, thanks to a certain clever lady and her lolly game. Wait, did I say uneventful? Perhaps I forgot to mention the part where our bus was being stalked followed by a mother whose daughter was late to school and missed the bus. Nevermind the fact that her daughter a) has head lice and b) was late to school, she ended up coming along anyway. (Sigh.)

I could go on and on with the details of today's trip, but I figure I'd save you some time and stick with the more humourous highlights. And some pictures too, if the camera decides to play nice. Favourite moments would have to include witnessing a snake peeing on the shoes of its handler, patting a snake, baby wombat and koala and contemplating stealing one of their baby rabbits from the farm area. I'm also awarding the blonde moment of the day to myself (as per usual), when I couldn't figure out why all the photographs I was taking of the wallabies were turning out all black and not processing properly. Any guesses why?

Oh, and this particular part merits a paragraph all to itself. We were just about done with wandering around the park, so we washed our hands and were lurking around the side of the cafeteria building when one of the park handlers walked past with a wombat on her heels. It seemed quite tame and was quite happy trotting along behind her, at least until it got near us anyway. It was then that the scent of primary school children got up its nostrils, because it charged at one of the kidlets on the outskirts of our group and st
arted er, having fun with his ankles. The trainer hadn't noticed that the wombat was missing at this point, so it turned to the next closest person (which happened to be head-lice girl) and started attacking her feet!

To this day, it has to be the funniest thing I have ever seen on an excursion; the wombat having a ball playing with their feet, the kidlets looking terrified, and the trainer wrestling to get it off their toes. Of course while all this was happening, I was too busy giggling being shocked to take any photos, but hey. At least the kidlets will have something interesting to write about in their recounts tomorrow!

And for the record? No animals were harmed during today's adventure.


Some gloriously random picture notes;

See? Cute bunny, must steal! Can you spy the joey in the pouch? Just smile and wave boys, just smile and wave. I captured an echidna mid-step, looks like he's tap dancing. Oh, oh, and beautiful photo of the day? Definitely goes to the snoring koala. Dude. I love excursions.

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