Well, the ever hilarious Mrs. Woog wants her readers to de-lurk so she knows who is reading her words of wisdom, and I figured, since DisQus hates the balls off of me, I'll post about who I am, so she knows I'm not a massive ball of creep, like the weirdo that poor Eden has had to deal with.
So here I go,
Dear Mrs. Woog,
Just for the record, unless you're a hairy balding man, or a lady in your mid hundreds, I am NOT your neighbour. Nor, do I know your neighbour. Nor do I know your cousin's sister's uncle's pet cat's neighbour.
It can be established, that I have not Google mapped your address, nor do I make any immediate plans to do so. I have no desire to stalk you in any other way than reading your blog and tweets religiously.
I am 24 years old.
I know lots of people who are 24.
They represent what being 24 is all about.
When you think of being 24, you think of being young, sexy, traveling, wasting money on designer shoes.
I am none of these things.
The only shoes I've bought of late were for my child, who within two days of having such gorgeous shoes, scuffed them in the dirt and now I don't know what colour they were prior to this event. They weren't designer, but felt like it to my purse!
The only place I travel is to the toilet.
This is fun if my kid's aren't watching or, if I'm lucky enough to close the door quickly without taking their fingers off, standing outside the door asking if 'Mummy going pee-pee?'
Sometimes I hide in there just to gather my thoughts. If I don't emerge after five minutes, my kid's run through the house screaming 'Mummy doing poo poo!'
This is not good.
I'm sure the family who live behind us, with the mother who could very well be me when she's bellowing at her kid's that it's bedtime, think it's great comedy.
Or the mother, who could very well be me, is sending lots of sympathy to this poor woman she doesn't know because she could imagine her kid's doing the exact same thing when she's in the loo for too long.
I am currently pregnant with my third child, so being sexy and young is so not happening here, and I am pretty sure I've got grey hair. I'm yet to find it on my head and considering my sheer size, I can't see much from the waist down, so if the greys are lurking in my lady garden, I couldn't tell you. This is probably a good thing and doing nothing to convince you that I am not a creep.
I have a casual job, outside of motherhood at McDonald's.
I'm sure my bosses are all younger than me, and I am sure the reason I sell more salads than fries is because the customers I serve fear the reason I'm so fat and have pimples is McDonald's related, and has nothing to do with the fact that I am pregnant.
I have turned down sex three times while trying to post this. I believe he even used the words 'look, the bed is all freshly made for lurve!'
No, the bed is freshly made because I have a fuckload of housework to do and this is one of the things that needed doing and I swear if you mess it up by laying on it trying to do a sexy pose, I just may punch you in the face.!
I should be doing housework, instead of blogging. But blogging is a lot less messy than cleaning urine from around the toilet bowl.
I hate sharing a toilet with two males.
I used to wonder why my grandparents would go to bed at the bumcrack of dusk. This makes more sense to me after having two children in the space of two years and then find out I'm to have a third.
I may or may not have gone to sleep during Neighbours last night, and woken up in a pile of my own drool this morning.
I believe that lying to your children is perfectly acceptable when it means you'll get some more sleep. It's not morning, kid's, I know it's daylight, but if you wait for about sixteen hours, it'll be dark, it's called 'daylight savings!' Trust me, it's night-time!
I wear thongs (the shoes, not the sexy underwear) all year round. You name the occasion or the weather, and I have thongs on. Except work. Only because it's not allowed, not because I don't want to be wearing thongs.
Whenever I snag a chance, I like reading. I am quite a fast reader and can get through three novels in a day if the kid's both have a nap, and Hubby is out of my hair.
I hate cooking, so I don't do it unless necessary. I make Hubby do it and come up with a range of reasons as to why I cannot. At the moment, I have a cold coming on, this gets me out of cooking duty. Although, it will lead to the 'Man-Flu/End of the World' when he has it, I'm quite enjoying the benefits while he's well.
Did I mention I was boycotting housework to post this? Well, apparently, I can't boycott lunch, so I best be off.
Love and lurking always,