Catapalusa

Jones. On the internet.

Jones. On the internet.


Hi Frog-Lovers. Yes, again, this is a post-that-is-not-a-post. Things are crazy here at the Lily Pad, between work and studying my coaching qualification, writing has taken a back seat, from where it’s constantly asking “Are we there yet?”, kicking the back of my seat and throwing things at my head. Writing is a bit of a bastard, really.

In lieu of a real post, then, here are some cats. Lots and lots of cats. Oh and David Tennant. Enjoy!

I believe I cat fly…
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UssVI-tYIrg

A cat. Holding a human’s hand. Yes.

Why the hell would you NOT want to watch cat videos? Oh and David Tennant.

Send me the links to your favourite cat videos. Please!

I’m linking up again with Laugh Link. Join in, add your link, or just have a browse and a laugh.
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The Laugh Link crew are:


Emily

Have a Laugh on Me
Facebook
Instagram
Twitter

Rachel

Redcliffe Style
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Twitter

Kimberley

Melbourne Mum
Facebook
Twitter

Alison

Talking Frankly
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Twitter

Vanessa

26 Years and Counting
Facebook
Twitter

Has Game of Thrones jumped, raped and murdered the shark?

ERMAHGERD! Season 4 sucks arse! {image}

ERMAHGERD! Season 4 sucks arse! {image}

SPOILERS, SWEETIE.

If you haven’t watched Season 4 Episode 4 of Game of Thrones, ABORT ABORT ABORT. Read no farther. Go water your garden, or have a nice cup of tea. Have a bit of a pillage and burn (but remember to pillage BEFORE you burn, yo). Or better still, go watch Season 4 Episode 4 and then come back and read this.

I love Game of Thrones with the irrational passion of a typical historical fantasy fan. If you know any of those rarefied creatures, then you know that’s a LOT of passion. I watch it diligently. I defend it publicly. I am a big, big fan.

The first three seasons of Game of Thrones (let’s call it GoT from now on, because I’m a lazy wench), was filled to the brim with a tasty ale of smart storytelling, (mostly) excellent acting, and a fair serving of delicious, provocative shocks, especially for someone like me, who hadn’t read the books*.

Now we come to the fourth season and this previously cold, frosty and enjoyable tankard of pillage, violence and death is starting to give me indigestion. I’m starting to greet each episode with equal measures of passion and unease.

Let’s put aside the differences between the books and the television series. It would be completely unreasonable to expect the producers to be able to take 96 bazillion pages of book, with 7,641 major characters, and 12 major locations, and convert all that to meaningful narrative for television, without cutting some pretty massive corners. (Let’s also put aside, for now, that the fourth season has cut so many corners that the show is in danger of becoming round.)

This season, I expected the usual serving of incest, violence, murder, sex, dragons and, of course, boobs. I haven’t been disappointed in that. There have been provocations aplenty, not to mention a lot of violence involving fowl. Between being sliced open in pies and eaten to violent extreme by The Hound, birds aren’t doing so well this season. Oh and Joffrey was murdered too.

AT LAST. What a turd.

I’m am disappointed, though. Where previous seasons have stalked slowly through the plot, sprinkling humour amongst the casually-examined graphic sex and violence, this season seems fractured and rushed. I’ve read the books and I’m still going WHO? WHAT? WHO WAS THAT? WHAT’S GOING ON?

Then there’s the laziness of the writing. Perhaps I wouldn’t be as disappointed, had the earlier writing been less clever. Scenes apropos of nothing that proceed with “Oh where could Bran be? Could he be at Craster’s Keep?”, then cut to Bran, 50 metres from Craster’s Keep, then cut to the head of the Night’s Watch conveniently telling them they could now have their trip to – you guessed it – Craster’s Keep, leave me rolling my eyes and wondering whether the work experience kid was the only person in the Writer’s Room that day.

As for the scenes inside Craster’s Keep, the less said the better. I couldn’t decide whether I needed to scrub my brain afterwards, or laugh my head off. Did the writers have a competition that week to see who could get the most c@nts into the script (and onto the screen)?

That scene was truly horrible, and brazenly calculated to titillate – revolting, even by GoT standards. The set-up is clear – we’re meant to hate these people with every fibre of our televisual beings, so we’ll cheer when Jon and his Black Brothers march in and eviscerate, behead and generally maul them all to death with monotonous predictability (and very sharp swords). Yawn.

It was lazy, lazy writing that left me feeling manipulated.

Bloody work experience kid**.

Where has the humour gone this season? In earlier seasons, the clever opportunities for a smile to balance out the horror were regular and plentiful. Littlefinger’s calm menace, always just one languidly arched eyebrow this side of a coma, has always been worth a giggle, but even the outrageous under-acting of the evil stud muffin could do nothing to save this episode.

So here I am, waiting for Episode 5. The books are far more graphic than the series, but until now I’ve been able to trust the show to be smart and provocative without being manipulative or crass. After Episode 4, I don’t trust it anymore. I don’t trust them to slow down and move through the storylines in the necessary depth to do them justice. I don’t trust them not to present another episode like Oathkeeper (or as I’ve come to call it, Audience-Breaker).

I love this show. I don’t want it to turn to shit, but if it continues like this, I won’t be wondering which Stark will be the next to get it in the neck, or whether Arya will end up on the throne of Westeros.

I’ll be wishing winter would hurry the fuck up.

* I have now

** Who is clearly a 14 year old boy.

Do you think Game of Thrones Season 4 has gone to the dogs?

I’m linking up with Laugh Link again this week. If you fancy a giggle, check out these other funny posts, and link up if you like – new or old posts, as long as they’re funny, weird or kooky!

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Be glad you’re not a male mantis

Puppy-dog eyes  Image

Puppy-dog eyes and alien-everything-else
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Hi Frog-Lovers – I hope you enjoyed/survived Easter, school holidays and other assorted horrors. We’re on the mend over here at the Lily Pad, after a neat circular exchange of bugs of various kinds (not the insect kind although perhaps a plague of locusts would be in-theme).

Now that I’ve said that, of course, we’ll be reporting the Black Death over here and bringing out our dead. Anyone got a wheelbarrow?

Awesome way to tempt the universe, Frog.

You may by now suspect that this post is another of those “this is a post that’s not a post” posts, and you’re probably not wrong.

In that spirit, I want to share another “The Truth About” video. This one features one of my favourite insects – the mantis. You may remember that I took one to McDonalds a while back. That one didn’t have a laser beam and as far as I know, it didn’t like live tennis porn.

I think the message from this video is “be glad you’re not a male mantis”. Trust me.

What’s your favourite insect?

I’m linking up with Laugh Link again this week. Go on. Click on it. I dare you!

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My subconscious has gone AWOL

Brain

An arsehole. Image

Brain:    Good morning!

Me:        Ugh.

Brain:    What?

Me:        Why did you have to give me those dreams last night?

Brain:    Which ones? The one about the wedding, or the one about the unicorn?

Me:        You gave me dreams about weddings and unicorns?!

Brain:    Errrrm… No?

Me:        *side eye*

Brain:    That’s physically impossible.

Me:        I know; that’s why I’m telling you I’m doing it. Because I can’t actually look at you.

Brain:    Right.

Me:        You gave me this stupid dream where I was trying to convince a man to get back in contact with his young daughter. Every time I almost got them back together, something happened to ruin it.

Brain:    Yup.

Me:        So what was your point?

Brain:    I don’t understand dreams, I just give them to you.

Me:        Isn’t a dream supposed to be my subconscious trying to tell me things?

Brain:    Sure. But the subconscious isn’t here right now to answer your questions.

Me:        Where is it?

Brain:    I don’t know. I’m not your subconscious’ keeper, you know.

Me:        …

Brain:    …

Me:        Actually you quite literally are.

Brain:    …

Me:        Can you please take a message then?

Brain:    Sure, why not!?

Me:        Gee thanks.

Brain:    You’re welcome!

Me:        So there I was dreaming a confusing dream about a dude and his daughter, when you gave me a nightmare.

Brain:    I would never do that!

Me:        Liar. You did give me a nightmare. You made me dream about SHOPPING FOR CLOTHES. You bastard.

Brain:    That doesn’t sound like me. That was definitely your subconscious.

Me:        You made me dream about shopping for clothes AND IT WAS HORRIBLE.

Brain:    I wondered why you woke up sweating.

Me:        Why do you hate me?

Brain:    I don’t hate you. Maybe your subconscious hates you.

Me:        Well then please pass that message on to my subconscious when it comes back from wherever the hell it’s gone.

Brain:    You’re asking me to tell your subconscious that you hate it? That doesn’t sound healthy to me.

Me:        You started it.

Brain:    Your subconscious started it.

Me:        Bastard.

Brain:    That’s not very nice.

Me:        Arsehole.

Brain:    You seem to be a bit confused about anatomy.

Me:        Ugh.

Does your brain hate you too?

I’m linking up with Laugh Link again this week. Click on the button below to read some hilarious bits of bloggery. I dare you.

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True facts about the frog

First I want to thank you all for the amazing response to Laugh Link we had last week. You all jumped on board with enthusiasm and I hope you had a good chuckle.

Second I want to say THANK FROG last week is done and dusted. The Lily Pad had a 9 year old’s birthday, a sleepover, a bad virus, and a very sick pussy all in one horrible week that tested this frog’s patience and ability to not KILL ALL THE THINGS.

Now, of course, my companion on the Lily Pad is sick.

I don’t have a funny story this week thanks to the aforementioned but I do want to share this video about me. I hope you find it helpful, and not at all disturbing. No, not at all.

P.S. Don’t forget to check out Laugh Link. We can always do with some extra chuckles. Click on the button! Go on! I dare you!

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We’re going to need a bigger bird – welcome to Laugh Link!

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I love nature. I have a thing for nature. No, not in the Cory Bernardi way. In a “wide eyed wonderment at the beauty and majesty of the natural world” way.

Which is a pity, because nature is a mental arsehole.

Take birds, for example.

Even the bird-lovers amongst us have probably been shat on by a bird at some point. Yeah, that’s pretty bad, but, fascinating as their toilet habits are, I want to talk about the propensity of our feathered friends to be utterly mental.

Let me tell you a story. A while back I was walking through the Melbourne central business district, minding my own business, as you do in a central business district, when I felt two little feet suddenly stand on my head. No clawing. No pecking. Just… standing. The creature attached to the claws just stood on my head for a few seconds, and then, as suddenly as it had arrived, it was gone. I looked around and there, standing on the footpath looking back at me, was a magpie lark.

Now, a magpie lark is not an aggressive bird. Mental, stupid and confused by life, but not aggressive.

Unlike real magpies, which are definitely all of the above. Here’s a magpie lark for your eyeball pleasure:

This was one of those miniature magpies they have on the emblem of South Australia. Imagine a normal, aggro, mental bastard magpie, and then wash it at the wrong temperature. You’d think throwing a bird in the wash with your undies wouldn’t improve its temperament, but apparently it does, because instead of making a magpie lark angry, shrinking them into magpie mini-me’s just makes them more mental.

A magpie lark, an otherwise typically functioning member of the Grallina genus, decided to stand on my head while I was walking down the street. Was it tired? Was it confused? Or was it just fucking with me? Did it land on my head with the intention of carrying me off to its nest for leisurely consumption later?

We’re going to need a bigger bird, Frank.

Let’s assume it was tired and see if this hypothesis (cough) flies. You’re a bird, flapping along above Spring Street.

You think “Wow, I’m really quite tired. Now, where can I perch for a moment to catch my breath? Looks like my options are the roof of that building (good, solid, safe, and stationary), or this tree (good, solid, safe, my natural habitat, stationary). Oh wait! There’s a small, dark brown, furry round thing, bobbing along at a brisk five kilometres an hour, weaving from side to side now and then to avoid other furry (and some non-furry) round things. Perfect!”

Is that what went through that mental bird’s mind before it landed on my head? If I fits, I sits?

We’ll never know.

What I do know is that after it flew off, I looked around at my fellow pedestrians for some support.

Did that really happen? Did a bird just fly down, perch on my head, and then, presumably after taking a quick breather and checking the time, fly off again?

I’ve never seen a group of people so intent on looking ahead and not meeting my eye, doing their best Sergeant Schultz impersonations.

Nope, we saw NOTHING. You’re on your own, mental-bird-attracting freak.

I can’t help thinking I heard that bastard mental bird laughing as I walked away.

Has nature ever been mental to you?

Welcome to the first Laugh Link post! Laugh Link is a linkup created by a group of bloggers to provide an outlet for humour writing. The Laugh Link Crew are:

Emily

Have a Laugh on Me
Facebook
Instagram
Twitter

Rachel

Redcliffe Style
Facebook
Twitter

Kimberley

Melbourne Mum
Facebook
Twitter

Alison

Talking Frankly
Facebook
Twitter

Gaynor

Gaynor Alder
Facebook
Twitter

Vanessa

26 Years and Counting
Facebook
Twitter

You’ll see this linkup move around the Laugh Link Crew’s blogs so please feel free to go visit them and explore these seriously funny gals. 
Now it’s your turn! Do you have a funny blog post you’d like to share? There’s no theme this week, so let your imagination go wild. The only requirement to link up? MAKE US CHUCKLE. 
That’s it.
Link away, and don’t forget to have a read of what other people link to – there’s going to be some damn funny stuff!

The best coloured wee I have ever seen

This could be the best wee you've ever seen

This could be the best wee you’ve ever seen

Hi Frog-Lovers. In case this is your first visit to the Lily Pad, between now and Christmas I’m hosting some wonderful and funny writers while I get some amphibious rest. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I do. Who knew so many of you were so hilarious!?

Today’s guest is my bloggy mate Alison, who blogs over at Talking Frankly. Here she shares a story about urine samples – a subject so perfect for the Lily Pad that I already had a category for it.

When I got the opportunity to be a contributor to Five Frogs Blog, I was pretty excited, and then hugely intimidated. See, people seem to read this blog which means that meeting Ms M’s brief of ‘funny’ all of a sudden became a lesson in procrastination that is largely unparalleled in all of history.

So I’ve abandoned funny and want to talk to you all about the dangers of doubtful self esteem when defining achievements post redundancy.

When the outplacement consultant asked me to focus on what achievement in the last five years made me feel most proud – mine wasn’t my marriage, two beautiful daughters or the myriad of business achievements.  The first thing that came to mind was a compliment on the colour of my wee.

Wee.  Yes.

When I was uppus duffus with my first daughter, I had been (wrongly as it turned out) diagnosed with placenta previa and had to spend all sorts of time visiting the hospital and getting “monitored”.

On one occasion, I was dispatched to pee in a jar (being uppus duffus is the most gloriously dignified state – no really). I obediently waddled off, peed and returned with my little jar which I handed over, feeling quite pleased by how full it was – aim is not so easy for a female and especially a heavily pregnant one.

The nurse held the jar up to the light and said “That is the best coloured wee I have ever seen”.

Oh my.

I had the best coloured wee she had EVER seen.  Not, one of the best. Not, a very good shade to read a newspaper through. No.  The BEST wee she’d ever seen.

And I’m not joking.  Quite inexplicably – I beamed.  Shiny eyes, puffed up chest and a completely disproportionate sense of pride in the colour of my wee.  “Oh” I said, “I drink a lot of water”.

“Good”.

“More people should you know”

And now my pride knew no bounds.  I was a role model for people wanting to produce the right coloured wee!  She’d probably talk about me in the staff room. Hold me up as a shining example to other clients.  I would be known as the woman with the most awesome wee.

And I was in a public hospital.  They were not getting paid to blow smoke up my backside.  This was GENUINE praise.

I told anybody that would listen the story of my glorious moment.  Obviously quite self-deprecatingly, with a wry smile and a ‘get that’ eye roll.  But time has caught me out.  When asked what was my greatest achievement in the last five years – I thought about that jar of wee.

So it’s a small but cautionary tale for all of you.  Do not let your instincts guide your responses to questions about achievements.  Go with tradition on this one and find something more traditional to espouse on your resume.  Money is not paid to people of exceptional talent, but rather to people of saleable talent.

It’s a cruel, cruel world.

What’s your most saleable talent?

_talkingfrankly

Alison is an admirer of wordsmiths, quirky thinking, equality, chutzpah and kindness. Actively opposed to apathy. Blogs about anything from housework to human rights. Professional profaner. Mama to two perfect daughters and is married to the world’s best husband. You can read her blog here and connect on Facebook here. She’s also on Instagram as _talkingfrankly and Twitter.

Suddenly, there are deer in my bra

Oh deer

Oh deer

Hi Frog-Lovers. In case this is your first visit to the Lily Pad, between now and Christmas I’m hosting some wonderful and funny writers while I get some amphibious rest. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I do. Who knew so many of you were so hilarious!?

Today’s guest is my memoir mentor and writerly friend, the inimitable Helen Patrice. Here she shares a story of exotic locations, wild animals, and underwear.

So, FiveFrogs starts asking around her writing bloggy cronies for those of us who are known as Humour Writers. I’m apparently one of them. I gaily say that, sure, I can submit a blog post for promotion on her ‘Check out this funny writer person’ blog thing. I’m a funny person. I make people laugh. (Let’s not go into my dismal capital F fail in Hawaii to do stand-up. The non-appreciation from the back of the van could be heard for miles, echoing off Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa as we travelled the Saddle Road between them. Both Poliahu and Pele thought I sucked.)

I spend the afternoon lying in the sunshine, reading ‘Perfume’ by Patrick Suskind. Not exactly a rip-roaring laughter book. More a grim but witty novel set amongst the scents and odours of France. Pee-hew! I’m up to page 90 and there’s already been one scent-related murder, with more to come, I can tell.

My laptop has lazed at my side. Twice during the afternoon, PizzaBoy has hunkered down behind it, and in a mousy voice, said: “Use me for blogging”.

To which my response has been: “Fuck off, Canada! Don’t pressure me! I’m a delicate writer.”

I lay there, and wondered what to be funny about. I could riff on my trip to Japan and China. I could, but…. Ho hum, I am such the weary traveller that it’s all very ho-hum, and what can I say that someone like Bill Bryson hasn’t said better. Not that he’s ever had the problem of too many deer in his bra at Nara.

I suppose I should explain. The shrine at Nara has a park with many charming deer roaming about. The deer mob visitors to the shrine. Many of the pathside vendors sell deer biscuits. No, not biscuits made of deer. Wafery type biscuits that are good for the deer to eat.

I wanted a not-your-usual tourist pic. Never mind me feeding the deer. I wanted the deer to mob me and eat off my body.

I lay down on a path where deer were seated nearby in the shade. I covered my clothed(must emphasise this, CLOTHED) body with pieces of deer bickie. Nothing. The deer looked away. Fool woman lying on the cold ground, desecrating the Nara shrine with her foul white ways.

Two Asian tourists took my photo and sniggered. Walked away.

I had to gather up my deer biscuits as best I could, which wasn’t very, because they fall to bits as soon as touched, and skulk away. Meanwhile, the Asian tourists are being flocked upon by deer, and they don’t even have any biscuits.

Bollocks.

A bit later, I try again. I sit down on a bench. I coax deer over with biscuits in hand. Then biscuits in lap. Then I lie down and put biscuits upon my person. The deer back away. Fine then, no prone deer mobbing. I sit up, and inspired, shove biscuits into my cleavage. Crumbs make a break for it, due south. They bypass my bra and somehow my singlet and top and end up in the knees of my leggings, where they itch like mo-fo’s. (I am up with hipster language like mo-fo, LOL, and er…other things)

Deer approach. One reaches into my cleavage, turns its head a bit sideways, and delicately selects a wafer of biscuit, leaving behind wet, sticky deer drool and a warm nose-imprint. Suddenly, there are deer in my bra. Many of them, and they all want the same biscuit. Easy guys, easy! There’s enough cleavage for all! Truly. I’m a 14DD, wearing a totally unsupportive Aah-Bra.
I get my photos. The Asian tourists get photos. Possibly the deer do, too.

I am content. I have my photo. Enough now, deer. But the deer are relentless. They can smell the crumbs festooning me. One tries to get up under my skirt to get at the crumbs around my knees. I am the Tippi Hedren of deer.

“Nature! It’s all over me! Get it off!” I say to PizzaBoy, quoting ‘Madagascar’.

I stand up. The deer butt me gently under the boobs. I have to retire to a toilet cubicle to de-smear, de-deer, and de-crumb myself. I never do get those leggings completely biscuit-free. They get washed twice more during the trip. I am sure I can still feel crumbs in them.

I sit back and look at this blog entry. Is it funny? I can’t tell. I feel morose. There is nothing amusing any more. Nothing. The pup loathes me – he is sleeping with his back to me. Looking at that sunshine. Nothing funny about that. I think about yoga this morning. I know we laughed at something. It’s gone now.

I think this is the blight of every comedian – the strain of finding the funny means that often, nothing seems to be when examined closely.

Then I start fretting that this is part of me coming off my full dosage of anti-depressant and seeing how I fare at 10mg. Am I tipping headlong into The Bad Place? It doesn’t feel like it.

Oh, I drive myself mad with this kind of thinking. If only I could think it was funny.

Tell me, readers. How many deer are too many to have in your bra?

Helen smaller

Helen Patrice is a Melbourne poet, memoirist, and blogger. She lives with her husband, son, and a small crowd of animals. You can find her blog here, her Facebook page here, and her book of Poetry, “A Woman of Mars” from here or from the author herself.

 

Working from home – the ugly truth

dreamstime_s_23253906 body

Appearance of actual person working from home may vary*

Hi Frog-Lovers. In case this is your first visit to the Lily Pad, between now and Christmas I’m hosting some wonderful and funny writers while I get some amphibious rest. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I do. Who knew so many of you were so hilarious!?

Today’s guest is the gorgeous Lana Hirschowitz from Sharpest Pencil. Lana and I share a lot in common, not least of which is the questionable joy and doubtful privilege of working from home. Here she shares the ugly truth about the experience.

There is a conspiracy, I am sure of it.  Thousands of people all around the world are working from home, in fact the 2013 Regus Global Economic Indicator reveals that 64% of Australian business leaders manage someone who works remotely for at least some of the time. And that’s not counting the people who are working for themselves. Yet nobody is telling the truth.

There are manuals and blog posts, webinars and courses outlining what you need to know about working from home.   I’ve read so many of them and I’ve discovered that none of them tell the truth. Not until now.

You see I have recently given up an office job to go back to working from home but, unlike the blumph I have read, I am willing to share the real truth about what happens when you work where you live:

  1. Some people think working from home is code for “not working that hard”. You will soon start to see red when you hear this, you may also feel the need to inflict bodily pain. But you can’t because you won’t even have a free moment for pain infliction.
  2. You will be inundated with calls from charities. There is a distinct possibility that you end up donating more than you actually earn.
  3. You run a very good chance of forgetting that people don’t actually wear slippers out of the house.
  4. Further to point 3 above, even though you won’t always feel like it you should get dressed and brush your teeth as soon as you wake up. It’s easier to forget later in the day and picking up the kids in pajamas with a cappuccino moustache will only serve to worry the other parents.
  5. You will eat everything in your fridge. Once the fridge is empty you will move on to the entire contents of the cupboard. The only way to avoid this is to only stock food that you are allergic to.
  6. When you go to the shop the person behind the counter will inevitably ask if you are having a day off. You will immediately feel bad that you stepped out of the house with no regard to the fact that if you were in an office and you left to go to the shop, you would feel nothing about it at all.
  7. You will be tempted to do all the house-work instead of working. Don’t worry about that – this will pass very quickly.
  8. Daytime TV. You have been warned.
  9. There are days that you will feel like you have achieved nothing at all. Just remember that you started out in your bed and you are no longer there so that’s something. Unless of course you work from bed.
  10. There is a tendency to think that you will be lonely without other people in an office. Remember that these concerns first saw the light of day in in the time before Twitter. In fact you will never be lonely if you have an internet connection, you will also never get any work done.
  11. If you do want to see other people try the Medicare queue, that way you will get to form meaningful bonds with people in a work environment. That’s how long you will spend in the queue.
  12. During school holidays your friends will confuse you for an occasional day care centre. If you can work with ten kids screaming at your desk you will be fine with this.
  13. If you plan carefully you can sneak in naps. Just be prepared to work all night to make up for it (which kind of defeats the purpose).
  14. The sound of the washing machine will become such a constant companion that sometimes you will find it hard to work if it is not on. The plus side of this is if you are indeed running a laundry service from home.

Anything else you’ve learned from working at home?

Any questions you want to ask before you make the move?

lana head shotLana Hirschowitz is a writer, blogger and social media consultant. She was the launch editor of iVillage in Australia and Managing Editor of Mamamia (Australia’s largest independent female website) for over three years. She’s also a lover of toast, her family and Candy Crush, but not necessarily in that order. You can find her blog at Sharpest Pencil or follow her on Twitter @lanahirschowitz and on Facebook at SharpestPencilOnline. Go say hi – tell her the Frog sent you.

* Is it just me, or does this woman who works from home look a little too pleased that her screen isn’t turned on? Either that or she’s about to fart. Personally with that desk arrangement I’d be likely to try to drink my plant and water my coffee. That plant looks spikey. Working from home is dangerous, people.

The Cupcake Whisperer and freaks of nature

Triplets, anyone?

Triplets, anyone?

Hi Frog-Lovers. I hope you’ve all been fantastic since I last chatted here with you. I’ve been a very busy frog wearing my non-writing hat and I know I’ve been neglecting you. So between now and Christmas I’m hosting some wonderful and funny writers here on the Lily Pad, while I get some amphibious rest. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I do. 

The first of these guests is my BFF* Bec Pobjie. I call Bec The Cupcake Whisperer because she haz the mad baking skillz. She also likes to defame birds and would really like people to stop talking to her, as you’ll see in the piece below where she gives a score to the experience of finding out that her family was about to get a little bit bigger than she’d anticipated.

When Michaela asked me to write a guest blog post I was honoured, surprised and suspicious that maybe she knew something I didn’t, like I was dying, but mostly I was honoured. I asked if there were any requirements and all I got was “funny” which you know, NO PRESSURE. So then I had to put my thinking cap on as to what topic I would take. I thought about writing about RSVPing to events because people who don’t RSVP really fucking get on my wick, and then I thought maybe I would write about birds because birds, what the fuck are they good for? (Besides eating of course).

*Shakes fist angrily at birds*

You’ve all seen The Birds right? They are so going to take over one day, you mark my words. But then I thought I’d write about the funniest thing that has ever happened to me, which was of course having twins, because that was totally hilarious. I’m sure most people that know me know that I have four year old twin girls. For those that don’t, I have four year old twin girls. They were naturally conceived and total freaks of nature, there are no twins anywhere in our families, which is what makes it so hilarious.

I’ll never forget the day we found out we were having twins. It was my 12 week ultrasound. We decided to take our son with us and make it an all-round family experience. All was going well, the sonographer was doing her thing and then she uttered a phrase that no one wants to hear about anything:

“Well this is going to be interesting”.

No, no, you don’t describe good things as “interesting”, so of course I panic. She goes quiet for what seems like an hour but I’m sure it was just a minute or so, and then she says “I’m seeing double”. Hahahahaha what? I was hoping she was just having a funny turn or something, because the other alternative I was not prepared for, but of course it was the alternative and it was lucky I was lying down. Cut to the end of the ultrasound (which was a very quiet experience as you can imagine because we were both quite shocked) and to me totally freaking out. We had no room really for two babies, our car wasn’t big enough for 2 babies, AND FUCKING HELL TWO BABIES, TWO!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Aaaaanyway, lah de dah, we had two babies, at the same time, as one does when they have twins. And having twins brings out all the hilarity and stupid questions and having strangers talk to you even though you hate talking to people so much and of course every second person you come across has twins, or is a twin, or their second cousin twice removed only related to you by marriage has twins. Whenever we go out there is never a time where someone doesn’t say something about the twins, either to us or out loud to whoever they are with, for example:

“Awwww twins”

“Look! Two twins”

“Are they twins?”

“What lovely twins”

“Two girls?” (when babies whilst dressed in pink and purple).

“A boy and a girl?” (when babies whilst dressed in pink and purple).

I really should have attached labels, colours can be so confusing. And clearly should have set up my own freak show and started charging money. And thankfully we don’t get the last two questions anymore.

And of course so many people say “awwwww twins, I’d have loved to have had twins” or “aaaawwww twins I’d love to have twins”. No, no you don’t. No one that has had twins would ever want to have twins. Of course you’d never change the fact that you had them once they’re here but in planning, nooooooooooooooooooooooooo.  And people that have children close together that say “oh mine are so close it’s almost like twins” ah no, no it’s not and you need to stop saying that. STOP SAYING THAT.

So in closing, having twins is hilarious in so many ways, horrible in others and great in the leftover ways. A+ but would not do again.

WHAT’S THE FUNNIEST THING THAT’S EVER HAPPENED TO YOU?

The Cupcake Whisperer

The Cupcake Whisperer

Bec Pobjie describes herself as:
“33 years old married to Ben Pobjie. Mumma to three great kids, twin girls and a boy. Love baking but have no idea WTF to be when I grow up. Swears a lot, idiot.”

I can attest, your Honour, that all these things are true, except the idiot bit (although maybe Bec is calling US all idiots so that could also be true). Bec is the Cupcake Whisperer and makes amazing things to put in your face-hole.

You can read her ranty blog of rants here, connect with her on Twitter here, and view her amazing baking skills here. I recommend her baking services for all your face-hole needs.**

* Bloody Fabulous Female
** Makes a note to re-phrase that.