Donna Reed can go fuck herself. In the arse.

I've been trying to channel both Donna Reed and Nigella Lawson respectively to no avail. I've decided that without a production crew to starch my apron or to pull in my whalebone stays, I'm better off just being The Girl Formerly Known As Haversham.


So preparation for Christmas has seen me break all of the good house keeping rules. Mind you, like a lot of other people, I love the antiquated good house keeping guides of yore. The linky up above is a particularly good one.

I spent a lot of time doing weekend party planning to save enough money for the family Christmas presents. Which is itself is a feat of endurance. Then I managed to get all sorts of shitty at the Beast for spending said money. Shopping with me is never fun - I hate to part with a well earned dollar. I also hate to pay full retail. I'd rather shop around. Anyway, the shopping was horrific and then I decided that I would make presents as well...

Let me just say I am not a domestic goddess. After a weekend of entertaining, cleaning, entertaining and cleaning again, I am decidedly pissy. Then spending all day cooking and making dodgy gifts that quite closely resemble a third grader's art project (a severely artistically challenge third grader read that as: I am a spaz) I am feeling less than enthusiastic about Christmas.

Top off doing the washing and folding for two and I am one bitchy little hausfrau.

Let's just say that on days like this, the Beast earns his keep. The poor bastard.

Harrumph and good day, sirs!

The Smuggening

Well, I have a lot to say. Most of it inappropriate and cloying. Along the lines of 'last night we were watching tv, just holding hands and he said the cutest thing...'

But I am well aware that's the most annoying line of conversation in the world.

Adjusting to being a Smug from a Haversham has been remarkably easy. We went through the Stages of Early Coupling:

Meeting.--> Not sure.--> Great conversation.--> Getting sure.--> First date.--> Getting surer.--> Second date.--> Pretty damn sure.--> Third date.--> Sure.--> Lose count of dates, gain greater certainty.--> Staying the weekends.--> Not seeing anyone else barr each other for about 2 months during which time other firsts happen, first vomit/fart/nose pick etc in front of each other. Actually, the nose pick thing still hasn't happened. But you'll be pleased and disgusted to know I broke the seal on the other two things.--> Introductions to friends.--> Introductions to family.--> Uncertainty about whether everyone likes you.--> Having Serious Talks.--> Asking me to move in.--> Moving in.--> More Serious Talks.--> Making future plans.--> Squealing with Mother about future plans.--> Leaving brochures from jewellers around the house.--> Thus End the Early Coupling Phase.--> Stay tuned for 'Late Early Coupling Phase'.

Currently I am just about to enter the 'leaving brochures' phase. I like to be subtle. And Klassy. That's right, you saw the capital K. That's me.

I don't know, when I think realistically about it, there's nothing I would rather *not* do more. That sort of thing means I have to get serious about getting thin again. And then I have to be ok with forking out obscene amounts of money to people and places I'd really rather not employ or go to. Photographers? Hair? Makeup which quite frankly, I look at and think 'I'd have been happier doing it myself'? I hate that crap.

But what is it about the thought of having that Big Day that still sets most girls' stupidity factors soaring? I never really had to think about it before, it's always been very abstract. I know I'll end up being a 'zilla demanding bigger and better things. But is it what's important?

Hmm. I don't have the answer for that. But I can say, these are pleasant problems to be consumed with. I'm not complaining by any stretch, but some days I look around the townhouse we share, and all my things here and all the couples stuff we do now and wonder - 'how did this happen to me?'.

I was all set to be a nosey old Haversham, stealing stem cells from placenta to keep my evil powers growing and complaining about neighbours and their pets.

I'm freaking lucky, that's for sure.

Sorry for the girl post. So that's where I'm at right now. Being a girl who is worried about being fat. The more things change - the more they stay the same, right?

Oh hai!

So, I have decided to come snivelling back to the blog land of happy people. I've missed you all, I really have.

Things have settled down sufficiently for me to feel like I can maintain one of these again (a blog). However, I haven't visited you all for the longest of times, so I expect there will have been some changes. Will things still be sort of the same? I hope so.

So, where to begin? Domestic bliss is hilarious most of the time. The Beastmaster (his nickname before he met me - actually one of his many nicknames) is a sweetheart. Just like so many fallen Havershams before me, I didn't think I would meet someone like him. And all this time, he was within a ten minute walk from me. We speculate about crossing paths every down at the local shops, but I honestly don't think we did. I'm pretty sure I would have remembered him.

He's adopted Peecat and accepts the fact that she will wash herself with disgust after he picks her up. Everytime. He also accepts the fact that she will always mark his side of the bed after he gets up of a morning. She wallows all over anywhere he's been. But she's a damaged kitteh, as you may recall, so for her to be so comfortable with A Beast says very good things about him.

What else? It's all very suburban and trivial and I love it (life, that is). We're painting my unit (tee hee) so we can sell it. We're going to buy a house together next year. We need somewhere that:

a) Doesn't require us to pay money to a lazy body corporate
and
b) Doesn't have a nosy, evil neighbour

Yes, we have an actual Haversham next door. I sort of waved/death stared at her this afternoon. She only talks to us to complain about noises in the pipes. Then she ignores us as she sends in written complaints about Pee. Ok, ok, so we're not supposed to have any of the below:

a cat
a dog
a fish
a rat
any insects (yes, it's part of the list, so I'd say the bogans across the way are pretty French Connectioned UK'd because of my suspicions that they have a roach problem)
or
a bird.

Basically, according to Beastmaster, no organisms that breed except for humans. Now, here's the catch. Pee is inside the whole time. Like, for the last three months she's not felt the grass between her teeny toes. Mainly because I was initially afraid Cruella (evil neighbour) might bait her, but now I am just imagining her running around with my cat's pelt over her face after she's skinned my Furbaby alive.

She's apt to do it too, one night after I close a window she went all Elin Nordegren on us. Yes. I just closed a window - not throw a party or have wild sex with ten different hookers, pretty much just shut a window, she went apeshit with what sounded like a golf club (or I could just have Tiger Woods on the brain right now - but it did sound metallic) against our shared wall.

I love how this post is already sounding dated and stupid with topical events. Ahh.

Ok, time for Iron Chef and Dexter. Gotsta go. I'll publish this soon and do my linky thing...

Smell you later!