Oh my gosh, so sweet

This week has been a cake kinda week.



I made Collingwood inspired cupcakes on Friday night, in support of my team ACTUALLY winning. But that didn't happen. We still enjoyed the cupcakes though. I bought (most of) them to the grand final party Hubbie and I were invited to: they were a chocolate quick-mix cupcake with a dark chocolate ganache as frosting, and white chocolate melts and white chocolate bits as decoration, to give the effect of a 'magic mushroom' as the recipe called it. But I looked at it as black and white colours, (if you squint) therefore Collingwood cupcakes.

They were good.

Then we saw some of our other footy mad friends on Sunday arvo, and I received a whole plate full of leftover cakes from their grand final footy party the day before.

There was a combination of tiramisu, white chocolate cheesecake and also chocolate cupcakes with chocolate icing, and white choc bits throughout it, to represent the Maggies.

YYUUUUMMMMMMMMMMMMMM.

All soooooo good.

So this whole week I have been having, like, 2 cakes a day. Taking them to work, eating it with dinner/lunch.

Today I've come in to work, and it's my boss' birthday. And guess what is on one of the benches here: small little teeny tiny cupcakes.

YUM!

I've just eaten one, and thank goodness for it's size as they are so incredibly sweet. The icing is so sweet, it makes the vanilla flavoured Melbourne black tea I'm drinking not taste so sweet. And I have sugar in the tea.

Now that's sweet.

Funnily enough I was observing my bare midriff before having a shower earlier today, astonished by myself at the fact that with no willpower, and no considerate focused effort, my little womanly bump that was once my stomach has gotten smaller.

I know I shouldn't be so picky with myself (but I am me, and I'm allowed to be how I like I think) but in my dangeorus pursuit of perfection, I want to have a flat tummy. I've seen supermodels on the catwalk with a similar type stomach to mine: you know the one that has a slight bulb in the lower stomach? It's just genetics and the type of body you have. I know that. But it's still not good enough for me. And seeing supermodels like that made me feel a little better. But I'm Miss S and I'm stupidly difficult.

So should I eat more cake? Will that do it? LOL. Can you imagine the joy for women around the world "Eat more cake, you will get a flat belly!"

As much as I wished that were the case for me and my fellow women around the world, I have a feeling that it's more to do with my changed lifestyle since marriage: eating less carbs (mum used to stuff me with them), doing housework (I was a princess at home with my parents) and also the stairs at home. Yes those stairs, the stupid ones I fell down. When I walk properly and I'm not tripping over stupid slippers, I walk up and down the stairs, and I think all this combined eating differently, and being physically-active activity has done it. And an attitude of constantly looking at my midriff and saying "it's flatter."

Honestly, I do not lie, I really believe that saying postive affirmations to yourself works. But you have to take steps towards reaching your goal as well. Which in a roundabout way, I have done.

So, how did I get from deliciously sweet cakes to my stomach?

I don't care. All I care about is that I have one of my Collingwood cupcakes waiting for me in my locker, to have as dessert after my dinner tonight...... :-D

Crazy Eye Update

So, the crazy eye is still here. I thought perhaps that all the right-eye twitching was a premonition of the highly unlikely and rare, ill-fated DRAW that was seen on Saturday that my team the Maggies was a participant of, as the twitching seemed to mildly subside following that horrific event.



However after some subtle twitches, I realised it was still there.


Then yesterday, I fell down the stairs at my house (yes, I actually FELL DOWN THE STAIRS HEAD-FIRST NO LESS) but today the right eye is still a-twitching.


I don't know what to think, it's been going on for at least a month now. I'm worried that it may be a future predictor of the grand final replay on this Saturday, and going by my mum's definitions of eye twitching, that it won't be a happy ending. I just don't know whether my eye is so clever that it can actually foresee an event as huge as this one.


Or maybe it isn't anything bad..... perhaps it's even a good sign. An extremely good sign that something awesome is coming....


I did do my taxes today, and I'm getting $$$ back! YAY! It may not be heaps, but any shopping money, is good money.

:-D

Maybe my little financial windfall is the beginning of some amazing monetary rewards.

Ahhh, the shopping possibilities.

But, then again, my right arm is actually somewhat damaged (I don't know how much) from my very random fall down the stairs yesterday. Maybe the twitching was a predictor of.... that.

Ugh.

Yuck. I don't like thinking of my eye as an evil forcaster of random stupid events happening to me. It makes me feel creeped out.

Creepy crazy eye. Don't make me fly down stairs and have my team draw in the most unlikely of events.

Give me $$$.

Lost In Limbo

Standing there, watching the big screen, wide-eyed.

Bubbles sparkling in the glass of my cold hand.

Drinking so to do something, anything, to preoccupy myself and to ease the tension, the insurmountable knots in the pit of my stomach that I'm feeling.

Watching the men on screen, run and fall and jump and kick.

My heart beats increase by the second. I'm sure I'm having palpitations.

My free hand grasps at what's in front of me: it thrusts forward when my guys have the ball; it clutches at the air when they run for it, somehow hoping my unseen hand will help to make the incredible, the seemingly impossible happen.

I feel wheezy. Faint. Distant rings make their presence in my ears. I hold onto the adjoining shelf, other hand desperately clutching the now-flat bubbly. The champagne has lost it's purpose: it should be there as a celebratory sign, rather it's use is to numb the shattering shock of it all.

I crouch down. The sudden light-headedness is too much for me. I manage to lift my head to observe the screen, willing the team to fight forward, to make the dreams and hopes of so many thousands and thousands of followers become reality.

I can hear the blood of my heart, pounding in my ears. My breath is ragged. I chant quietly under my breath "Collingwood, Collingwood, Collingwood..."

I stand up. We scream, holler and yell at them. We pump our fists in the air with excitement, and then we stare in shock, bowing our heads and muttering under our breaths.

When the siren sounds, there are yells of incredulousness spreading around the room. Some laugh, some yell.

I stare, open-mouthed at the score.

68-68.

It's a draw.

And now, after all the hoping and the praying, the excitement and the despair, we must wait one whole week to see the Pies meet the Saints again, to settle the score.

Shoot me now.

Take Note

So, I find myself sitting here in front of my laptop, approximately 12:17am Friday morning.
Yes, approximately. That's a joke Red and I have.

I really should go to bed. I'm not at work tomorrow, but for some reason the thought of climbing into bed right now isn't sitting well with me. Maybe because it would be like I'm making peace with my scrambled thoughts and uneasy feelings, when I'm definitely not.

So instead I've been sitting here for the last 10 minutes, clicking "Next Blog," in my search to find great blogs out there in the Blogger-verse.

Amidst the bike riding and personal blogs (there were a few parent/kiddy ones too, in true Blogger style) there were a lot coming up about religion, in particular Christians and pastors, with many a Bible quoting.

I was thinking "enough already," especially since I know that once Blogger gets onto a theme, it won't stop.  It seems the shorter you stay on a blog and the quicker you click "Next Blog," the more of that kind of blog you will get.

Eh, Murphy's Law.

But then I stopped and thought. What if this is trying to tell me something? I happened to be on a Christian blog (I told you) so I stopped and looked at some words on the page:
"Stop looking at the struggle, look at the joy!"

Here I was feeling down and depressed for no apparent reason other than from my own doing, and totally ignoring the subtle signs around me. Maybe I was supposed to be focusing on good things in my life, rather than letting myself feel weird. I should just put it down to my latest 10-day work marathon and lack of sleep this week, rather than look to some fake external cause to my recent state of mind.

Ok, not so subtle sign. Something just totally slammed/fell/broke in this silent house. Not kidding. I have no idea what it is.

So maybe that's a wrap up. The blogs are telling me "don't be so sad dudette," and my house is telling me "go to bed or I'll freaking kill you."

Going now.

20 years in waiting....(I strongly apologise for this sport-focused post, but I must)

No time for regrets, on with the show!



So, this week is going to be M-A-J-O-R. Super major in the lead-up to a monumental weekend.

The AFL team I support, good ol' Collingwood, is playing in the grand final this weekend against St. Kilda.

This is soooo major. AFL (Australian Rules Football) is a massive deal in Australia, none more so than in our fair city of Melbourne. The way the Americans go crazy over the NBA play-offs, is the way the folk here go mad over footy. I know this well because Hubbie would love to live in the U.S., purely for his game of b-ball.

It's a tough sport to play. I mean, our Aussie men are tough. And hot. They don't wear loads of protective body or head gear while on the ground playing. In fact, they wear none at all. Oh, well, when one of them has an injury and are still playing (because they're tough) they might have a helmet or a mouthguard to protect their injury. But otherwise, just their uniforms, just their nice fitted, tight, muscle-enhancing uniforms (!)

I follow perhaps one of the most loved and hated teams in the AFL, as before mentioned, the Collingwood Magpies. I think one of the reasons that they are hated so much is because of their strong, passionate following of devotees, and the fact that they are quite possibly the most popular AFL team of all time, with the most supporters. You know, tall poppy syndrome and all that? The haters just can't take it :)

And so this coming weekend is the culmination of what we 'pies supporters have been looking forward to ALL year. In fact, the last 20 YEARS. 1990 was the last time they won an AFL premiereship, and all mighty, they, and we the supporters, are sooooo hungry for it.

I'm fearful, however, because the Saints haven't won a premiereship for almost 50 years (ouch!), and I'm afraid that they'll use that fuel to propel them towards.....you know. Gulp.

Not to say that the 'pies don't have fuel of their own. They were in 2 finals in the last decade of which they lost both, to the same freakin team! Watching your teams' dreams be shattered 2 years in a row is very difficult to swallow. In fact it's tear-jerking, pain-inducing, and all round the worst thing that can happen in the last week of September.

I don't think I could go through this weekend, watching the 'pies lose. I think it would actually shatter me, affect me to a point where I would be a changed person and not ever fully recover from the loss.

So that's why they must win. For me. And for the thousands of supporters out there that have been waiting for this moment for so long.



COME ON 'PIES!!!!!

I just have to vent that I don't suck arse

Yes, arse, as in the Aussie spelling of it.




You know, I just get peeved when I see people blatantly selling their blogging brand in a pathetic attempt to create pity and blogger generosity. There are people who use their blogs as a social interactive tool, where they try better the lives of others and create general goodwill. (Insert blog case carrotspeak.) Carrie, she's awesome. There are those that like to educate, reviewing social media such as television, books and the like. (Insert blog case LikeTelevision Blog). That is cool. I read some interesting things on Quentin Tarantino not too long ago. And I luurrvvveeee Quentin.

Then there are others that like to talk about their life (like me! sheepish grin ensues ;) ) I have found the blog of 'Clever Girl Goes Blog' most recently, and her blog is especially entertaining to read.

Then there are those, who it seems simply want to use their followers in an effort to gain popularity and better their own cause, without a thought as to the true intentions one is supposed to be involved in, in the unofficial etiquette of the blogging world. (Not naming ANY names) Why can't we all just blog together in happiness and not be selfish with our blogging intentions?

As a purely fabricated example, would YOU be happy with a blogger indirectly asking you to help them out by being their taxi driver 24/7?

(As I said, purely fabricated example, it's late and quite surprisingly my creative juices are at a nil, and it's late at work and it's past home time. 'Nuff said.)

So this is just me people, getting frustrated by annoying people again.

Why must there be so many annoying people in this world?

Sucking arse, is sooooo annoying. This anonymous blogger that I randomly came across is sucking arse in asking his/her (haha, didn't think you'd get it out of me that easily now, would you? I'm not that tired) followers to pick them up and take them around the city, and shockingly, these followers are so desperate to gain followers and suck arse in return, that they are willingly begging to be the taxi driver! Yes! All of them! One stupid person yes, but a zillion?! This is why I ask, why are there annoying people out there?

Sigh.

Going home now.

And like the morning after a one-night stand, in the morning I will look at this post and say "Ugh, I did that?!"

The Train Chronicles #2

He shuffles his way onto the train. Moving through the thick density of commuters crowded at one of the train doorways, he eyes an empty seat, cradled away in a corner. He has to make his way past all the people sitting around it, but it will be well worth it.


Perfect.


He squeezes through. Pushing, worming his way past the crowds; it makes him feel weird. All the more uncomfortable. Every touch, every nudge, every accidental brush-up, brings goosebumps to the back of his neck. Through the aching misery of it all, he manages to get to the seat. At last, solitude.


Shuffling into position, he at once hangs his head. Sitting there, slouched into the seat, wedged against the wall, his head is completely hung. Shunning himself from the people. Getting away from the daily grind. Removing himself from all forms of existence. He sits there, head hanging low, eyes on his lap. If his head was any more hung, he would be looking at himself.


She sits across from him.

She's perplexed. She glances over at him every so often, hoping to catch a glimpse of his eyes. What will they tell her? Will they speak of a troubled soul? Someone shying away, due to loneliness, fear of rejection..... what?


He continues. Head hung, stance mainly unmoving. Occasionally he quickly glances out the window, checking to see where the train is at. He shuffles around slightly. Moves uncomfortably in his seat. Adjusting himself without reason to. And the head remains. Hung.


She stares at him now. Longer. Willing him to look up at her. Willing him to meet her eyes, to meet her expression of confusion, sadness, empathy. She stares at his stocky frame, wondering how a man of this size could feel so uncomfortable and unsure in such a strong physique. His olive-brown skin, so smooth, so silky, his dark black hair, wavy and tousled.... where has his insecurity come from? What has shattered him so much, that he cannot keep his eyes level?


Her hand twitches. What does she want to do? Comfort him? Tell him it's okay? The maternal instincts are clear in the young girls' eyes. She wishes to help. To take the pain away. To offer an ear to listen, a shoulder to lean on, a hand to reach out to.


She continues her watch, as he continues his downward stare. What will become of him? What will be when he walks out the door? So many questions to ponder, as the train continues on its journey.


His destination has arrived. He makes a furtive upward glance, before slowly getting up and making the slow, painful squeeze through the commuters again, out the train doors.

He walks out. Never to be seen by her again.