Yes I am still here, and yes I really do want to get back to blogging.  Just  tidying up a few minor impediments first:

Periodic episodes of numbness and pain in my hands that has the medicos perplexed.  House decluttering, wallpaper stripping and new floor laying.
Mr hissychick’s new business venture.
Writer’s block.
Juggling school and preschool runs and fitting in what I can around Immyjim’s naps.

And the most piss poor excuse of all, spending time with my kidlets.  They are all healthy happy and well and all exercising various ways to crush my spirit of course.

I won’t lie, for some reason trying to catch up on blogging and photos and all of that palaver makes me anxious, and so I procrastinate.  However most of those of you who still check in from time to time are probably well aware that I tend to microblog on Fa(r)cebook, so if you want to keep in touch shoot me an email hissychick(at)gmail(dot)com.

To finish up, here are some not that recent pictures of my girl progeny, just to remind you of how cute they really are. Naturally they take after their mother.

Until next time, smooches. With tongue if you get the next round…

I am writing this as I endure a long train journey back to my little family (yay for Optus 3G wireless, boo to Shitty Cityrail for the slow commute).

Anyway I have survived my first day of paid break work, even if we got off to a wobbly start.

Was it because the kids were upset? No
Was it because I slept in? No.

My shoes decided to disintegrate en route to daycare. I’m talking heels shattering like a flake chocolate, as I discovered much to my horror when we pulled up out the front. I know it’s been a while since I have worn anything other than the usual mumsy gear but what the fark is up with that?

Luckily mr hissychick was with me for support this morning, so in the end he dropped the girls off while I raced home for other shoes.  No tear from the girls (typical!) and only a few from me.

It was rather quiet at work today, which was OK because it gave me time to catch up with old colleagues, meet new ones and swear at IT when my computer crashed.

I also managed a couple of undisturbed tea breaks and going to the toilet by myself and with the door closed. Such luxury.

Happily it’s all over for today, and after a barefoot dash through the city to the train (stupid choice of replacement shoes) I manged to make an early train. One which isn’t early enough for me to arrive  the thick of the dinnertime and bath  routines, but early enough to enjoy plenty of cuddles and stories with my beloved girls. 

Oh yeah, and to relieve my bursting bosoms, no thanks to E refusing her morning feed in addition to having to skip her naptime one.

Thanks to all of you who have sent and left kind messages of support.  Tomorrow I go it alone in the morning, with mr hissychick doing the pickup et al. Keep your fingers crossed that I manage to make it to work before I have to head home.

Change is scary. Here’s hoping that it’s also good.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas, or so the song goes. All around me are festive souls busily wrapping thoughtfully selected gifts, sending out touching messages and gorgeous pictures of their impeccably dressed children to numerous friends and relatives, whipping up tasty treats by the dozen in the kitchen.

And then there's me.

My shopping thus far has consisted mostly of a few frantic clicks of the mouse and an hour's speed shopping in a mere two stores after I serendipitously fluked a parents with pram parking spot this morning at our nearest major shopping centre while A is at daycare and E was happy to amuse herself with a free balloon (BAALOOON!!! BAALOON!!) and a large supply of arrowroot bikkies.

All gifts will be popped into $2 bags with the exception of a few poorly wrapped bits and pieces for the kids who care more about the sound of ripping paper than aesthetic appeal.

On Christmas Eve I will get the guilts and send a group email with a photo of the kids in which at least one child will have hair hanging in their eyes/ eyes shut/a scowl or tears/ mismatched clothing.

My festive food preparation has thus far consisted of a hastily thrown together fruit platter for yesterday's mother's group party, and silly me didn't even include any vodka laced watermelon for those who were alternating between mad sprints to prevent certain toddlers from jumping off decks/plunging down stairs/ripping down Christmas decorations and rocking in a foetal position in the corner trying to block out the wall of noise emanating from a large group of sugar hyped almost four year olds (i.e. me).

Don't get me wrong. I love Christmas when it comes to the kids, their buzz of excitement and anticipation is rather infectious and all the silly yet clever questions about Santa that I am inundated with four thousand times a day are rather amusing.

It's the underlying pressure that gets to me, that little voice of guilt reminding me that I should be doing everything with a greater degree and skill and enthusiasm than I can muster.

Oh fuck it. Martha Stewart I am not, nor was I one of those little girls obsessed with making the title pages of their school books all pretty and sparkly.  The term social butterfly most certainly does not apply to me (is there a term for the girl at the party engaged in some witty repartee with a small group of like minded souls, a wicked glint in her eye and a drink in
her hand?)

Time to hit the cooking sherry.

You guessed it folks, I have nothing profound to say. So I won’t.

I’m off to google “My almost nine month old is turning breastfeeding into a bitefest and then crawl off affair, leaving her bewildered mother wondering what the hell is going on”.

Goodnight.

My first published piece earned me $5, a princely sum when you are eleven years old. I earned this cash via the children’s section of one of Sydney’s Sunday newspapers, for a poem entitled “The Hunt”. The exact words escape me now, but my carefully rhymed piece was about a domestic cat going in for the kill, with the last line revealing that the prey was in fact a hamburger. Brilliant, I know. This was, somewhat unsurprisingly, composed during my Garfield phase*.

It was another thirteen years before I would again unleash my writing talents on an unsuspecting public. This time I was the lead author on a journal paper based on my honours research project, the abstract of which can be found here**. Bet you had no idea that I am a environmental scientist by profession….and even less idea what the deuce I am talking about in my paper. Hell I don’t even remember. Let’s just say I have moved on a long way since I ditched my PhD studies in favour of entering the big, bad world outside of the sheltered haven of academia. Maybe.

I have saved the best until last. If you have stayed with me this far, your boredom is now to be rewarded as I reveal the jewel in the crown, the pinnacle of achievement in my illustrious writing career to date:

My share a secret story was published in Woman’s Day, Australia’s highest selling trashy mag. And I was paid hold hard cash for what was indeed a completely fabricated story (WHAT! Those true confessions aren’t real? Pass me the smelling salts for I shall swoon with the enormity of this revelation).

Pick your collective jaws off the floor, and I shall elaborate.

Back in May 2004, I was joking around with a work colleague about how to earn some money while on maternity leave. My friend was heavy with child and I was heavy of heart, biding my time before I could do a frozen embryo transfer (FET) after my first and failed IVF attempt. My open love of trashy mags and tabloid gossip was a great source of amusement in my work place and somehow my colleague and I decided that we would cash in on my bad habits. All of the confessional pieces in the women’s magazines that I devoured appeared to be fairly formulaic in style and substance and we figured we could make an easy $200.

As work was going through a quiet period we sat down and got to it. I came up with the topic of “My husband doesn’t know that my boobs are fake” and we were off and racing from there. The basic premise of our story is this: Girl hates boobs, has boob job. Girl meets Boy and falls madly in love. Boy rants about how he hates fake boobs. Girl doesn’t tell Boy that he has been enjoying all things silicone. Boy and Girl get married and have a kid. Not long after kid is born girl finds out there is a problem with her boobs and gives up breastfeeding, saying that her milk had dried up. Girl now needs implants removed as they are ‘a ticking time bomb’ but has no idea how to tell her husband the truth.

In other words: a complete crock of shite.

We refined our story, even sent it to our media people for their comments. Happy with the final outcome, we sent it into the magazine and waited.

And waited.

Fast forward to the second half of 2005, when I am on maternity leave with A. I open my latest copy of Woman’s Day and there is our story***. I get in contact with my colleague, who finds our $200 cheque in her mail and promptly sends me my half. Everyone we tell thinks it is absolutely hilarious.

So there you have it. Where to next, I don’t know. Maybe a bodice ripper romance novel, or a series of technical papers on superstring theory. Either way, I don’t think I should give up my day job. Whatever the hell that is. But that is a topic for another blog post and shall be told another day.

The end.

* Which is hilarious, because that bloodnut cat is not in the least bit funny. Although this is somewhat amusing.

**Yeah, yeah, I just revealed my maiden surname. Yay me.

*** After some digging around on the Woman’s Day website I discovered our story. Somewhat bizarrely, it has been rewritten and isn’t half as entertaining as the original. I blame it on the work experience kid (who was probably) involved.