Out of sight, out of mind

The attic is almost finished and I couldn’t be happier. Now I have somewhere to put stuff that I don’t want to look at. Like my childhood doll that mum took to the doll hospital and had repainted. She bought it a new dress and unfortunatley snapped it’s fat pink arm off while she was dressing it. Shame that. She was so happy with it that I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it gives me the creeps. So it can go in the attic.

So can all the outfits that Shaun brought up from his days of growing up in a small town. I concede that it’s hard when there are only about 5 shops and they all sell the same thing, but surely it’s time to get rid of them. We simply are never going to go to a fancy dress party where it’s appropriate to wear that… stuff.

Speaking of fancy dress, the suit that Shaun’s dad got married in can go up there. We borrowed it for a party that had a theme that I can’t even remember. (All I actually do remember about that party was that for some reason dad took a dingy out into the middle of the lake and managed to fall in.) It was a couple of hours drive away. Shaun squished himself into the suit (his dad isn’t a big man) and then managed to break the zip the first time he went to the bathroom. I don’t know whether it’s lucky or not that it got jammed down rather than up. Due to the particularly tight nature of the pants and the rather short jacket, there was no hiding it. Two hours was a bit far to drive to get changed. He tried to make me stand in front of him for the rest of the night.

My wedding dress can go up there. I wanted to sell it after the wedding but mum insisted that I keep it. She said I might want it one day. Why? For my next wedding? As a reminder that I’ll never be that tiny again? It cost $400 to clean and box up, for the love of god.

 So this attic has the propensity to become a bit of a dumping ground. No house is complete without one.

Stuff you can’t live without knowing

I have some very important bits of advice to dish out. Seriously, I don’t know how anyone can expect to get through 9 months of growing a parasite without knowing this stuff.

Apparently ginger is a great natural remedy for nausea. I have drunk so much ginger beer and eaten so many ginger biscuits over the past few weeks that I’m more than convinced that my kids are going to come out flaming orange. It’s a big risk, but I’ve gotta get through the day somehow.

If you ever get preggers and decide to take Omega 3 supplements in the form of fish oil capsules, take them at night. As much as I love fish, burping up fish oil for the first half of the day isn’t conducive to anything much at all. It’d make much more sense to share it with your husband in bed. After all, he’s the reason you’re in this predicament.

Only buy the smallest pack you can get of anything you pick up at the supermarket. You’ll go off the crap before you get half way through. I can’t open my desk drawers any more in case I catch a glimpse of the 500 tins of Chop Chop Chicken, or the gwazillion bags of Vogels Apricot Scroggin or the pretend cheese spread and cracker snacks. What the hell was I thinking? There’s only so many times a day you can throw up into your mouth before you destroy your teeth.

If you don’t want people to know you’re ‘with child’, don’t walk around stroking your stomach. Only pregnant women and weirdos do that.

The fact that you’re getting fat everywhere is nothing to do with the eating. Babies store stuff in your thighs. My babies are storing quite a lot of stuff.

Practice your ‘wow, that is so interesting’ smile. Everyone will have a story for you about when they were pregnant. Work on a look that cuts people to the bone. You’ll need it when they give you their giving birth story. Why is it that people think a pregnant person would want to hear a giving birth story? Or a miscarriage story? Or a morning sickness story? Or any story at all, come to think of it.

That’s it for now. I have to go and feed my babies.

Eating for three

It’s surprising that I’m finding time to blog, considering the fact that every waking moment of my day is currently occupied with eating. I wake up hungry and I go to bed hungry. People say it’s hardly surprising, considering I’m eating for three, but you have to consider that two of us aren’t particularly big right now.

I don’t have strange cravings, but I certainly have aversions. Before I got knocked up, my standard work day lunch would be a can of tuna, salmon or chicken mixed with dry coleslaw. Not particularly inspired, I concede, but I was perfectly happy with it at the time. Now the thought of it makes my stomach turn. The thought of any kind of canned meat does, actually.

At the moment I’m on to canned soup with roast chicken added. That’s for one of my lunches. I usually have 4 or 5 lunches a day. I can only just fit them in between my 5 breakfasts and my 10 dinners. All the research I am doing says that with twins you’ll naturally be more hungry. I should be eating around 3000 calories a day. For someone that used to eat around 1200 per day, that’s quite an increase. I’m loving every second! It’s justified weight gain.

I’m eating bread for the first time in forever. And pasta. In fact, I’m loving the carbs in general. I thought I’d have issues with making sure I ate healthily while carrying, but it’s been the opposite. This is the first time in my life when I’ve genuinely loved eating and appreciated the changes in my body that I would have perceived as negative in the past.

I am starting to show. I realised this morning when I got changed after the gym that I am going to have to try on my work outfits at home before packing my bag each evening. The dress I am wearing today only just fits now. It used to be my favourite. I haven’t told people at work that I’m pregnant yet – I guess some of them are getting suspicious. There will definitely be people that are wondering what the hell is happening to me. I probably spark all sorts of rumours in the cafeteria when people see me eating bread.

So life is good. Who knew that it would take getting fat to help me get over my eating hangups?


Insurance is one of those things that everyone hates until something goes wrong. Then suddenly it all seems worth it. The same can’t really be said for life insurance of course. Well, I suppose you get peace of mind from knowing that your family will be looked after if something happens to you. But if something goes wrong you won’t be doing much appreciating. You won’t be doing much of anything.

People without insurance are idiots. Yup – you heard me. People that don’t stay on top of their insurance are also idiots. It’ll never happen has a way of happening. We lost everything in a burglary a few years back and if we weren’t properly insured it would have destroyed us. As well as losing everything from our TV to my underwear, they also trashed and flooded our house. We maxed out our insurance claim and realised that had my parents not lived around the corner, we would have been paying for a hotel for a month out of our own pocket. It was a timely reminder to revisit our policies.

Until we bought our first home I didn’t bother with life insurance. Once I saw that mortgage figure in black and white it became apparent to me that should Shaun die, I’d be royally screwed. Especially now that I have two impending mouths to feed. So we took out insurance to the value of our mortgage, so that should something happen to one of us, the other one would at least freehold the house.

When we bought our second house we tried to increase our insurance. The guy looking after our policy turned out to be not a person at all, but a monkey. He would call us ‘guyz’ when emailing us. How professional of him. He promised to get things sorted for us approximately 5 times over the last 6 months. He still hasn’t.

So we’re walking. We met our new insurance guy at lunchtime yesterday. As is the norm at the moment, I was starving. I’m starving 24/7. It’s hard eating for three, even if two of you are the size of acorns. So we thought we’d have a quick chat with the guy and then eat. Hahahahahahahahaha. The chat part was quick. It was the filling out of ONE MILLION forms that seemed to take half of the afternoon. The fact that no one does handwriting these days meant that after the first form I had OOS and was bored to tears. Just 999,999 to go.

They wanted to know the date of the first asthma attack I ever had. To the day. They wanted to know the phone number of the surgeon that took my tonsils out when I was 11. They wanted to know approximately how many drinks of alcohol I had in the last year. Holy-what-the-hell?

After an hour and a half we walked out. It was just as well. No one could hear me talk over the sounds of my stomach rumbling. Shaun considered teasing me about it when he realised that he’s worth way more to me dead.


This time last year I was feeling about the same as I do right now. Last year it was my fault. Well, mine and Moet’s. This year the ball falls squarely in Shaun’s court.

Last May I accompanied my brother to the Lewisham Foundation Awards. The Lewisham’s are the Auckland hospitality awards. Those hospo guys sure know how to party. I was so trashed that I was showing my knickers to strangers before we even made it to the award ceremony. But it was worth it. Dave took away best wine list (for Suite) and the big one – Hospitality Personality of the Year. I was SO proud. It made the hangover worth it. This year I am SO proud again. Suite took away Outstanding Bar.

Due to the two growing babies inside of me, I wasn’t there to celebrate with him. Usually I’d look on the bright side and be grateful that I don’t have a hangover. Unfortunately though, I’ve had a perpetual hangover for the last month. But I’m not moaning – it’s a sign that things are going well.

My very clever acupuncturist has come up with a strategy to assist me with the nausea. Seeds. Yup – she tapes little poppy seed type things onto pressure points on my wrists, ankles and collar bone. When I feel sick I press on them. They work!


That kind of seedy I can handle.

As an interesting aside… I had a sip of champagne the other night and it tasted like battery acid. The human body is an amazing thing in the way that it protects us.

The best of it and the worst of it

So it finally happened. After a couple of years of hard slog I’m finally preggers. Truth be told, I’ve known for about a month now. I’m officially 8 weeks pregnant tomorrow. It has been 4 weeks of the most amazing highs and the most amazing lows. And certainly not quite in the way that I expected.

I had always said that I was going to be someone that hated pregnancy. It was my dream to have twins so that I only have to go through the whole ordeal once. I thought I’d hate not exercising like a demon. I thought I’d hate not being in charge of my own body. I thought I’d hate being off the booze.

Man was I wrong.

The second I got that positive result, something changed within me. My number one priority became looking after that tiny person that I am growing inside of me. I thought I would feel this amazing feeling of elation and relief. I did – for about a day. Then the anxiety of possible miscarriage set in. 20% of women miscarry in their first trimester. That is the same odds that I had for twins (on fertility treatment). Suddenly I had a million things to consider. What can’t I eat? How hard can I exercise? Can I have baths? Why the hell isn’t anyone telling me all this stuff?

But you know what I found the hardest? Keeping secrets. I have never, ever been good with secrets. That’s why you – someone on the other side of the world that I have never laid eyes on – reads the intricacies of my life on a daily basis. That’s why you know that I’m having a baby, when the people that I work with don’t know yet.

For a month I have told only my family and about 50 of my closest friends. See… not so good with the secrets. Shaun and I decided to wait until we had our first scan at 7 weeks to make sure we could see a heartbeat. Once you see that, the odds of miscarrying drop significantly. And last Tuesday we had that scan. That was without a doubt the  best day of my life so far.

My dream came true. Two heartbeats.

The elation was slightly tempered by the fact that one of the twins was smaller than the other, which can be a sign that it may not survive the next couple of weeks. The specialist suggested that we don’t tell people it’s twins until our next scan at 9 1/2 weeks. So this time we only told our closest 30 friends and family. I certainly wasn’t going to write about it today.

Until yesterday.

I was sitting at morning tea eating some form of nutritious snack in order to feed the two babies with whom I have already fallen in love, when I started bleeding. With my heart in my mouth I called my specialist who booked me in for an emergency scan and told me to lie down until it was time to go to the hospital. I lay there with my friend and we talked about anything he could think of to distract me for 2 hours. I was feeling pretty calm but fairly certain that I was losing the small twin. It seemed so unjust.

But I’m sitting here writing this today with two fully intact babies. The scan showed that not only are both hearts still furiously beating away, but that the small twin is in fact not that small. This scan showed that they have grown since Tuesday and are both within the healthy size range for their gestational age. The bleeding is unexplained, and while it is certainly of concern, some women do bleed and go on to have healthy babies. So all is not lost.

I’m on bed rest for a couple of days and I am grateful for the exhaustion and the nausea that are plaguing me, because they are signs that things are continuing on as they have for the last few weeks. When you wish for something as hard as I have, you take the bad with the good.

So there you have it. All my secrets. If yesterday taught me anything, it was that I need to talk about things. It’s how I deal with them. If I lose my babies (because if I miscarry, it’ll be both that I lose) then I’ll need the support of those people around me. I don’t see how keeping it a secret will be helpful.

But for the record – I don’t intend to lose them. I’ve worked too hard for these babies to say goodbye now.


Well bloody hell, I’ve had a bit of a shocker. Actually, I’ve kinda come right now, but it’s been an unpleasant experience.

I’m quite proud of my vege garden. I put seeds into the ground and stuff grows. Then I harvest it and declare myself a bean farmer. Or a carrot farmer. Or a capsicum farmer. Or in this case, a chilli farmer. My chilli plant is something beautiful to behold. It is covered in amazing green chillis which go red almost before my eyes. In the weekend I picked a few and put them in the fridge. I’ve cooked with them before, so I know that they’re pretty hot, but it would seem that some are hotter than others.

Last night I was putting some stuff into the slow cooker for dinner tonight (I’m quite the house wife). The recipe called for dried chillies. It clearly wasn’t written by a chilli farmer. I split open one of my prize chillis and used my fingers to pick the seeds out. That was my mistake. It felt a bit like the underneath of my fingernails were on fire. I ignored it and continued, figuring it would pass. It didn’t. When I finished preparing dinner I scrubbed my hands with soap and cold water and they started feeling ok.

I went to my office and did some work. At one stage I must have touched my mouth because with every minute that past it got hotter and hotter. After about an hour I thought perhaps someone had lit a fire on my lips. In my attempt to feel what was going on I accidentally touched my tongue, which joined in on the raging inferno. I managed to ignore them for the rest of the evening (although it wasn’t easy) until I washed my face before bed. Somehow I touched one of my eyelids, which immediately melted off.

I went to bed. It would appear that I slept with my hands in my mouth as I woke up this morning with a forest fire raging in my throat. Still, not one to complain, I went about my business.

Then this morning happened. I went to the gym and then showered. So far so good. I was getting used to my poison fingers and managed to keep them away from all other parts of my anatomy. Until my brain went on holiday just around the time that I went to insert my contact lenses.


Let’s just say it’s a good day for wearing glasses.

It’s amazing what a break can do

I have been sleeping badly of late. It’s frustrating. I wake up in the night and lie there getting frustrated at the fact that I can’t turn my mind off. I lie there thinking about sparring moves or rearranging the furniture or what I’m going to cook when Shaun’s parents come and stay in a couple of weeks time. Not things that really need to be thought about at 4 o’clock on a Monday morning. It was starting to affect how I felt about things.

I would sit at my desk and stare at my monitor, trying to do that sleep-at-your-desk-with-your-eyes-open thing. I considered having a sleep under my desk but I wondered how I would just reappear without people noticing the fact that I hadn’t walked into the room. One day last week I actually went down and had a sleep in my car in the carpark during the afternoon. It was ok until a guy came to get his cross bow out of his car (yeah – what the hell?) which was parked beside mine. I had to sit up and pretend I’d just popped down to look for something under my drivers seat. I figured he wasn’t really in a position to judge me for weird behaviour. He was holding a cross bow for god’s sake.

So I snapped on Thursday and headed home at lunch time for a sleep. I ended up sleeping all afternoon and most of Friday. I woke up on Friday afternoon and went for a well needed walk through the park and finally felt on top of things again. It’s amazing what a difference giving yourself a break can have. I’ve always felt guilty for not being at work if I’m not bed ridden with some illness or injury. I was thinking about that when I was walking though, and it occurred to me that if you’re not being productive at work, there really isn’t much point in being there. You’re doing both yourself and the company a disservice.

So I was feeling refreshed and revitalised.

Unfortunately I spent most of last night thinking up good names for pets.

You rude b*tch

Let me tell you a story. Once there was a girl whos name was Tania. She moved into a new flat and needed some appliances to furnish it. She needed a freezer, a microwave and a dryer. Tania worked in an administration role for a small, non-profit charity organisation, so she couldn’t afford to buy new appliances. She decided to rent them. While she was at it, she figured she might as well hire a new home entertainment system as well. After all, what’s a flat without a flash stereo?

So Tania moved into the flat and Mr Rental arrived to drop off all her new appliances. How exciting! She wasn’t too concerned about paying for them as she was getting the first two weeks free anyway. She’d worry about money after that. Right now she had some TV to watch and some drying to do!

Meanwhile, across town, another girl, Sarah, was sitting in her work cafeteria with her friend Ross. They were reading a flyer for an amazing raffle that was being held by a charity to raise money for troubled kids. The prizes were fantastic and it was for a good cause, so Sarah decided to buy 10 tickets. She filled out the form and mailed it in, along with her Visa card number. She didn’t think about it again, as is usually the case with raffles, and got on with business as usual.

Two weeks came and went and a bill arrived in Tania’s mailbox for the rental that was now due on her appliances. Tania was still broke and was a little nervous about what to do next. She threw out the bill and hoped that by the time they got hold of her, she’d have some money. That wasn’t the case. She started to get emails and phonecalls. In order to buy herself some time, she spoke to the rental company and told them that she’d drop in some cash at a prearranged time. She didn’t.

An email arrived in her inbox telling her that if she didn’t get in touch that day to organise paying her account, the company would assume that she wasn’t going to and they would collect their goods. Poor Tania. What a mess. But no problem, it was easily sorted. She emailed Mr Rental and apologised for having her phone switched off. She had been very busy. She was also very sorry for forgetting to pay, but she would supply her Visa card number and they could debit all she owed straight away. So she did.

Apparently though, Tania was confused. She didn’t actually have a Visa card. Luckily though, Sarah did. She had been kind enough to supply that number when buying her raffle tickets for the charity that Tania worked for. In all her confusion, Tania somehow supplied Sarah’s Visa number to Mr Rental to pay for all her gear. A month later, when her account was due again, she was able to tell Mr Rental to use her Visa again. What a stroke of luck. It sure took the heat off when someone else was paying.

Unfortunately for Tania, she made a couple of stupid mistakes. Before deciding to carry out her credit card fraud, she had filled out a contract with Mr Rental giving her name, address (for delivery of the goods), phone number, employer, drivers license number and the details of two security references (her mother and a friend). That was mistake number one. Mistake number two was her choice of victims. Sarah has two credit cards. She primarily uses her Amex. The Visa is only for emergencies or vendors that don’t accept Amex, of which there are about 2 per month. So the Mr Rental transactions weren’t hard to spot.

Now Sarah has all the supporting documentation from the fraud squad and it’s an hourly battle not to email Tania to tell her this story.

What a stupid, stupid b*tch.