Have Blog, Am Narcissist

That little pearl came from my mother.

That sentence bothers me, on a very deep level.  Nobody wants to be tarred and feathered with the nasty ol' narcissist brush.  Hopefully those who know me (and love me anyway) recognise that I'm way too sad, pathetic and insecure to fall in love  with my own reflection in the murky pool of life.

However, in thinking about life, love and lard I've come to the conclusion that all of us are blundering (or thundering depending on poundage) through this journey so why not share? Hell, it may even make you, dear reader, feel better - knowing that there is someone out there who is more neurotic-paranoid-insecure-fatter-and-clueless than you. 

In my typically verbose manner, what I'm trying to say is this is not going to exclusively be an whiny weight-loss blog where I walk to the mailbox once a week, keep hydrated with 3 litres of Coke a day, subsist on the dodgy end of the food pyramid  then whinge about the scales moving in the wrong direction. 
No sireeeee, this blog is going to be about LOVE, LIFE AND THE AUSTRALIAN WAY (hear the fanfare, those angels trumpetting).  Yes, my dear surrogate psychiatrists, you'll hear it all as I meander through motherhood, fight flab, occasionally want to smother my husband and sell my children on e-bay, and sometimes get pouty about the scales.

In the interests of being transparent I will reveal that I am the mother of two Sprites, hereafter referred to as such or as Thing 1 and Thing 2, depending on their level of compliance on the given day.
Husband will remain mute, as all husbands should, and will be referred to hereafter as Humphrey (only Australian residents will appreciate this. Humphrey Bear was a mute children's television character).
Husband is completely adorable and I love him to pieces,  but I reserve the right to indulge in his character assassination and he will have no right of reply. (After all, he is mute).

You will also meet some of my gorgeous friends.  The best of whom are Maggie and Belle (names changed to protect the wicked). Belle is actually my sister, but really my cousin - don't worry it's complicated.  She's the only person in the world who can tell me I'm being a stupid cow and I won't cry (though she'll more than likely receive a bruise).  Maggie is beautiful, inside and out, is an amazing mother, fabulous wife and Upstanding Member of the Community.  I hate her. Anyway, you'll meet them along the way.
Family-wise you'll meet Ingrid, my sister.  She's sassy, gorgeous and appears to have inherited any of the few brain cells that were lurking in the family gene pool.  She reserves the right to insult, lambast and call me a moron without fear of retribution (she doesn't know what I do to her coffee though, but that's another story).

Me? Well I'm five eleven, athletic and gorgeous with an IQ of 180 ..... oh sorry, that was a figment of my imagination.  I am a 30-something (shuddup, I'm going backwards now ok?) ex journalist/broadcaster/chocolateseller/childprotectionworker/makerofjewellery/gyminstructor/check-outchick/stationhand  (not at the same time).  I love writing and hate ironing.  I'm  actually quite shy, but if I'm your friend I can be loud and obnoxious.  I'm great to have around in a crisis (CucumberCool, that's me).  I'm loyal and kind.  I look hideous in the morning and it's best not to talk to me before 10am and a strong coffee.  My aphodisiac is intelligence and wit. I am a voracious reader and the proud owner of  thousands of books.  If there are no books I'll read anything from cereal packets to number plates. The only time I will be incited to violence is if you hurt my children or forget to return one of my books. I can be fickle and bad-tempered.  I love to learn and loathe cooking.  I save grudges for a privileged few and don't let go of them easily.  People who don't talk proper-like rooooolly irritate me.  So basically I'm flawed.  Loveable, but flawed.

(Oh for the love of God, I've accidently pressed cntl + p and prematurely published this post. How the frig does THAT happen? Don't ask, I was looking for an asterix.)

So now I've done the basic introductions.......
Hey, you there! Yes you, with the lolling chin and drool dropping on the keyboard....WAKE UP.  The dull bits are done....moving on....oh shit look at the time.  I've got to clean up this sty. Jesus, someone might actually visit and not be able to find me amidst the detritus.

Later......

Back again. Actually the house wasn't in bad order. I'm leaning to loathe black and white chequerboard ceramic tiles.  They look sooooo stylish in the glossy magazines but they're just so freaking needy in the attention department. If I don't vacuum and wash them everyday they look unloved and downright grotty. And dog fur? Don't get me started. I think I may well have to vacuum the dog daily too.

Today whilst I was doing the daily treadmill I was pondering and interesting phenomenon.
(WARNING: I'm going to be making gross generalisations and sweeping statements, so if you're easily offended or just premenstral and argumentative, go and watch the shopping channel or something).
Now, where were me, oh yes, why is it that women are so damn hyper-critical of themselves and men can be so damned deluded about themselves?  This is clearly evidenced in the fact that perfectly lovely ladies with beautiful personalities are crippled with self-doubt (and even loathing) whilst fat, balding, middle-aged male fur balls in Speedos persist in polluting our beaches and espousing their general fabulousness to anyone daft enough to listen or too disabled to evacuate.  Perhaps it is a question of balance.  We women need to recognise our fabulousness (be it because we're empathic, intelligent or can make a mean curry) and accept our flaws (flabby thighs, morning breath and an inability to comprehend algebra).  Being a combination of all these things is what makes us interesting and individual and so NOT beige.  And we can work on the flabby thigh thing, and the algebra, but morning breath is a universal quantifyer.
And the budgie-smuggling guys? For God's sake, just get rid of them.  They don't look good on our Opposition Leader and they don't look good on you.  This is the one exception where More Is More.  Get some funky boardshorts.  And yes, your mother probably did tell you that you were a "gift from God" (we know who we are referring to here), but this is the real world. Your shit does stink and nobody wants to hear how fabulous you are from YOU. We know you probably are a pretty ok kind of guy, deep down, and it's great to have a degree of body confidence, but be realistic.  It's enough for us if you are kind, sensitive and funny.  In fact if you are kind, sensitive and funny a pendulous belly, furry shoulders and bald head are invisible to us. 
We will think you are adorable.

A Gift From God even.

But only in boardshorts.