The Scales Never Lie

I had the shock of my life this week when I leapt onto the bathroom scales to discover I had put on three kilos over the weekend.

Whaaaat!?

In sheer terror I pulled on my new joggers and walked frenetically around the farm for eight kilometres with the dogs.

Got back on the scales the next morning, but still not back to my normal weight. More frenetic walking, this time a little slower as I was tweaking from the previous day's effort. Also ate lettuce and leafy things for lunch. Had no red wine with carb free dinner (agony) and no delicious morsel with coffee (further torment.)

Got back on scales the next morning. Still not back to normal weight. Blind panic by now. Did silly shuffly run down the drive and back (three kilometres) carrying weights, and luckily didn't pass anyone coming in or out of the farm. More leaves and grasses for dinner with small glass of red to keep husband company (let's hear it for the husband....Yay!)

About to get back on scales this morning (with glasses on for some reason,) and on looking more closely at weight indicator needle, notice that it is indicating three kilos before anyone steps onto the bastard.

Brilliant! Now weigh two kilos less than normal weight. Bottle of red open, creamy carbonara for dinner.

P.S. If any of you are rude enough to look at the scales in the picture to see how much I weigh by zooming in on the photo, let me tell you I am not a total idiot. I set the scales back the other way to my advantage before I got on to take the photo!

Who's got my bottom?

Can anyone tell me what has happened to my bottom?

Someone out there must know. Did the Bugalugs Bum Thief (Tim Winton) rip through the Beaumont district last night and have himself a bit of sport swapping the bottoms of the inhabitants of our small community whilst we all slept through blissfully unaware......until this morning?

Cruel joke, sir....and Queen Victoria is definitley not amused! As I prepared to slip into my undergarments this morning I caught a glimpse of my derriere in the mirror, and nearly toppled over in shock, catching the toe of my right foot in my Bonds cotton gusset.

Having hopped and staggered to the edge of the bed before nose diving onto the doona, I girded my loins, and by God they needed girding, and prepared to take a second look. Horror! That was not my bottom......surely? My bottom looks like the one in the picture. Well it did until this morning. This other person's bottom, now attached to the top of my legs, is not mine! It hangs a little lower than my original, and the tone, texture and bounce seem to have dropped too. I want my old bottom back, not this 'old' bottom. Who the hell has got it?

I'm giving you all a warning shot so whoever has it can come clean and return it to me in the next couple of days. I promise nothing more will be said. Otherwise you will all have to put up with me touching you all up in an attempt to discover who the thief is, and I won't be at all suprised if I find it on a man either. I know what you boys are like......

In the meantime I'd better concentrate on the top end of my body. I have just looked down to see I have spent the entire day wearing my cardie done up incorrectly having mismatched the buttons to the holes. What a plonker!

I feel as if I'm on a down hill slide.......

The Last School Ball

This is the last of our offspring at his Year 12 school ball, and look at the gorgeous girl he took! How did he get this vision of loveliness to be his partner? Is she aware that this handsome dude does not usually dress like this? Would she have accepted his invite if she had known that at home on the farm he normally wears daggy grey ruggers, flanelette shirts, odd socks, work boots and a hair style that looks as if he has been dragged through a bush backwards? Is she aware that his all time heroes are Bart and Homer Simpson and his idea of a good night out is to take the dog in his ute shooting rabbits followed by a Bad Boys movie and a Beryl's Burger with the lot?

The one good thing about this blog is that he is highly unlikely to ever read it. Mothers are an embarrassment, so he is hardly likely to visit my website, and even more unlikely to be my friend on facebook, so I feel I have carte blanche to write whatever tickles my fancy. Sorry mate, but you kids have always supplied me with such wonderful material.

He took this lovely lady to the 'befores' and then piled her onto 'the party bus' that the boys had hired to take them all to the ball. My lot have tried all the options. Daughter number one went to the ball in a London taxi cab via King's Park for a photo shoot. Daughter number two hired a limo with her crew of party goers and went via some coastal venue for a photo shoot, whilst the boy opted for 'the party bus'. The cheapest option. If there was a photo shoot of any description on the way to his ball it is highly unlikely that I will ever see any of the photos. He's just not interested in that sort of thing. He doesn't even own a camera. The girls are on their third each I think.......

Daughter number one wore to her school ball a Ruth Tarvydas ball gown, had her hair, makeup and nails done and had new shoes and jewels. Daughter number two had her dress made by a seamstress, had her hair, makeup and nails done as well as a fake tan, new shoes and ear rings to die for. The boy hired a dinner suit through the school, borrowed his mate's shoes and had a fifteen dollar hair cut the week before. The cheapest option. The girls drank Veuve Clicquot and Moet. The boy drank beer. The cheapest option. We should have had three boys.......

All three went to the dreaded 'afters' and partied through into the wee small hours. Some ended up at home for an hour's kip before breakfast at some beach venue; some ended up with ball gown and shoes stuffed in a rucksack, but clad in 'afters' garb, hoarse from wild singing and dancing, at home at 5am; and some ended up in a sand bunker on hole number four of the local golf Course at 6am. Mercifully none of them disgraced themselves ( to my knowledge) and lived to tell the tale of their first All Nighter. Remember those? I'm talking Party All Nighters here, folks, not Screaming Baby All Nighters....

Great expectations, great excitement and great fun for the kids. Great stress, great expense and great pride for the parents. They all looked so grown up!

Just the ATAR score to go now, boy.......You've had your fun, so head down and go for it.