You are so busted!

What are you doing here? You know this is no longer the URL of my blog.

My stats have been telling me about you and your inability to stop coming here.

From now on go here instead: http://lisalinternblog.blogspot.com/

This blog will self-destruct in 5, 4, 3, 2...

REMEMBER!

Hey guys - I've just posted over at my new URL: http://lisalinternblog.blogspot.com/

Don't forget, I'll be closing this old blog site down soon, so update your bookmarks or resubscribe...and move on with the times!

Moved house!

My blog has moved to a brand spanking new URL. 

From now on you can find all my future and previous posts here: http://lisalinternblog.blogspot.com/

If you were a follower or subscribed by email to this blog, I'm afraid you didn't automatically come over to my new site. You'll need to 'refollow' or 'resubscribe' at my new address. 

Yeah, yeah, I know. It's a pain...but that's technology for you!

Hope to see you over there soon!

A very fiery Christmas

It was Christmas 2009 and my parents (aka Grandma and Granddad) were staying with us. Busy-And-Important-Husband usually cooks on such occasions, but I declared this would be my year.

Grandma nervously reached for her wine as I cooked (especially when I dry-retched as I stuffed the turkey), but somehow I served up a pretty decent spread. We sat down, clunked our champagne glasses and tucked in – failing to notice a forgotten pot boiling over.

Two mouthfuls in I heard the clicking noise. I left my meal and found the hob with the forgotten pot sparking. I turned it off but the sparking continued. One-by-one my family left their meals until we were all standing over the stove scratching our heads.

Always one for playing things by the book, Busy-And-Important-Husband flicked through the stove’s instructions and diagnosed a flooded starter-motor, declaring the best remedy was a hairdryer to dry it out.

“A hairdryer? You can’t be serious?”  I nervously questioned.

Before I knew it, Granddad and Busy-And-Important-Husband were taking it in turns to blow my Toni and Guy full strength into the sparking hob.

“This doesn’t seem right. Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?” I implored with visions of a singed Granddad flying through the air, hairdryer still in hand. 

Being Christmas Day there was no one we could call for help - well, apart from 000 of course.

“NO! You are NOT calling 000,” said Busy-And-Important-Husband at my suggestion.

“But I’m just going to ask for advice – the hair dryer thing seems a bit dodgy,” I argued.

“We’re doing exactly what the instructions said to do. DO NOT CALL 000.”

The hob kept sparking. The hair dryer kept blowing. Grandma kept drinking. My miraculous Christmas roast was now cold finger paint for my kids.

“That’s it,” I muttered to myself as I took my phone and champagne down the hallway.  When I was safely out of earshot, I dialed 000.

“Emergency – police, fire or ambulance?” answered the officious voice.

“Oh, um. Well, I don’t actually need any of those. I was just wondering if I could get some advice,” I whispered into the phone.

“Police, fire or ambulance madam,” repeated the voice.

“Well, none...at the moment. You see, my stove is sparking and my father is blowing it with a hairdryer and I just wanted to get some…”

“Hold please,” said the voice.

I took a sip of my champagne.

“Fire services,” said a warmer sounding voice.

“Oh! (gulp) I’m ringing for some advice. My pot boiled over and the hob is sparking, and my father is using a hair dryer, because that’s what the instructions said, but I’m not so sure. Could I get some advice?”

“We’ll send someone around now.”

“Really? Even though it’s Christmas Day?” I said relieved. I gave the nice man my address and trotted back down the hall, champagne held victoriously in the air.

“It’s OK everyone. Someone is coming around now to have a look.”

“Who?” said Busy-And-Important-Husband, whipping around from the stove, pointing the hairdryer at me. “You called 000 didn’t’ you?” he accused.

“Well, yes I did. But the nice man said they would send someone over just to take a look, even on Christmas Day. Isn’t that good of them? He must live locally because he said he’ll only be a few minutes.”

That’s when I heard the siren. The blood drained from my face as the wail got louder. Busy-And-Important-Husband pushed past me. “That better not be what I think it is.”

The red lights flashing through the front window confirmed his fears. “Oh my god. You can deal with this,” he said storming off.

I greeted them on the driveway – all five of them – as they grabbed their hats, and jumped off the truck.

“What’s the situation?” one of them asked.

“Oh dear. I wasn’t expecting this,” I apologized with my hand over my mouth.

All of a sudden there was flash. “Smile!” said Grandma, camera in hand. “Well, it’s not every Christmas you get a visit from the fire brigade,” she enthused.

“NE NAW NE NAW NE NAW,” screamed the kids as they ran up to the truck.

“How about you take us inside, while your mum and Larry show the kids the truck,” said the firewoman (yes, it was a woman, and she clearly felt my pain).

As the fire crew stomped in to the kitchen, Busy-And-Important-Husband tried to spontaneously combust me with his eyes. The ever-dedicated Granddad, however, was still blowing away at that hob.

“You can probably stop that now sir,” said the firewoman. Granddad reluctantly put the hairdryer down – he was clearly having the most fun he’d had for ages.

The firemen looked up, down and behind the stove, twiddled a few knobs, and then like magic, the sparking slowed down…and then stopped.

“What was it?” I asked them.

“Not sure really. But it seems to have stopped now. Could have been the hairdryer,” one of them shrugged. Granddad smiled to himself.

“Say cheese!” said Grandma with her camera. “The kids are having a lovely time out on the truck,” she giggled.

“I’m so sorry to waste your time, especially on Christmas Day,” I said, nearly crying with embarrassment. I offered them some beers, which they dutifully turned down. Grandma took one more photo for prosperity and I pried my kids off their truck.  The story is now family history.

Grandma is proud of her pictorial account of the day, Granddad’s eyebrows stayed in tact, Busy-And-Important-Husband eventually spoke to me again, and now every Christmas the kids ask when the fire engine will arrive, because that’s what happens on Christmas Day – well, at our house anyway.

"Can I just have some advice on this hob here please?"

"Bye! Thanks for coming! See you next year!"

Krumping mum

Nicky is an old friend I re-discovered through Facebook. We did ballet together (yes, ballet, delicate little flower that I was) about 20 years ago.

There are two reasons why I want you to meet Nicky. First, she is funny. Always has been. What’s not funny about a girl in a tutu cracking jokes that make a grown man blush? Her status updates suggest that hasn’t changed.

But what has changed is Nicky’s foray into motherhood. My jaw hit the ground when I saw seven children listed on her Facebook profile. After trading a few messages, I got the feeling that Nicky had a story worth sharing.

Nicky’s response to my request: “Are you insane?”

I’ll let you decide…

The uber-bloggers and me

It’s been three months since I started this blog. I’ve shared tales about: projectile vomits; a ‘hole’ that got me into a spot of bother with my son; corporate bitches (namely me); and women who hide their motherhood at work. I’m proud of my little repertoire that has no common theme, apart from its randomness.

In the past three months I’ve also immersed myself in other blogs. The funny, the sad, the mummy, the bad (as in ‘cool’, sorry, it needed to rhyme) – the blogosphere is brimming with talent. Talent I wish I could emulate.

So, when I was offered the chance to meet some talented bloggers at an evening promising ‘fine wine, cheese and a spot of pampering’, I lunged at the chance like a desperate single at an airborne wedding bouquet.

Sex and negative equity

We are facing financial ruin thanks to having sex. A moment of passion about five years ago triggered a chain of events that ended with our membership of the exclusive negative equity club.

Confessions of a 'BC' bitch

Recently, I blogged about women hiding their motherhood at work. With the likes of me, is it really any wonder? I was a corporate bitch clambering my way to the top. If anyone got in my way I would stab them with my heel, chew them up and spit them out - especially any of those soft-assed working-mum types.

Beware the 8 o'clock fairies

Yep...got bed-time totally under control.

The 8 o’clock fairies are my friends. I call on them at bedtime when my kids run rings around me with nappies on their heads (kid you not - see photographic evidence to right) and I’m gasping at the thought of a glass of wine.

The fake expat

I am a fake expat. That means I get to live as an expat in my own country. If you ask me, I’m probably the luckiest expat on this planet.

“Huh? “I hear you say. “What’s that melodramatic woman going on about now?”

Ok (deep breath). Here’s the deal…here’s my story.

Little Fairy's cash

This story was inspired by my daughter’s obsession with the things I stash in my top drawer. While mostly true, I must confess to a little ‘creative license’ with one character. At the time of writing, my husband was on a 10-day business trip, so the fictional character will be obvious (can you blame a girl for fantasizing?).

The Pilot Mum talks

Remember my blog about the Pilot Mum and my flying neurosis? Well, I did stalk her in the end and here is the promised interview. The Pilot Mum has been flying for more than 21 years for a major airline (I’ll leave you to guess which one). She also has two beautiful boys aged four and six. Here’s an insight into how she juggles the demands of her chosen career with motherhood.

Undercover mums

I recently blogged about a difficult decision to knock back a pretty amazing job at a pretty amazing company. While there were generous offers of flexibility, I just couldn’t reconcile in my mind how I would handle a call from the CEO during an awkward domestic situation:

Phone rings

Me:  “Hello.”
Amazing CEO: “Hello. This is amazing CEO of amazing company here. I need you to do something that just can’t wait.”
Me: “Oh, sorry amazing CEO. I can’t help just now because my daughter has puked and my underweight son won’t eat his burnt fish fingers.”
Amazing CEO: “Well, can’t you get someone else to clean up the puke and force-feed your son?”
Me: “Um, sorry amazing CEO, but you did promise me flexibility because I don’t want to outsource my one chance at being a mum.”
Amazing CEO: “Oh. Ok. Well, if you can’t help me, I’ll ask single hot chick who is dying for your job to help me instead. Bye.”
Me: “Bye…” sobbing

A tale from the trenches

Clean surfaces. Empty washing baskets. Tidy playrooms. Sleeping children. Time to think. My mission in life is to have these things in order by the time night falls on my daily battle against domestic chaos.

I employ a variety of pre-emptive strikes in my dogged determination to win. Routines, lists, and the hand-held vacuum are my weapons of choice. Victory often comes at the expense of haircuts, shopping trips, a toned midriff and sanity.

Despite these gallant sacrifices, I don’t always win. Take last Thursday night, now recorded in history as the Battle of the Projectile. It was guerrilla warfare – an ambush and sabotage of what should have been a peaceful night.

The hole

When it comes to explaining the birds and the bees, I’ve always believed that honesty is the best policy (well, as close to the truth as possible without scarring your children’s minds with images of mummy and daddy doing the fandango).

However, on a recent trip to the beach, a conversation about holes with four-year-old Boy-Who-Asks-Questions soon had me scrambling to get out of my own honest, but deep, hole.

Pilot Mum

The other day at kindy I met a mum who, through the course of our usual morning “drop-off” chitchat, revealed she was a pilot. And not just any old pilot – we’re talking 767s.

I nearly threw myself at her feet.

Not just because she is juggling an amazing career with motherhood (that in itself is probably a more worthy post than this one, so I will get to that soon). But because when it comes to flying, my name is Nervous Nelly.

The decision

I’ve never been great at making decisions. And this one is proving particularly difficult.

I’ve worked as a freelance consultant for the past two years. It gives me flexibility to be a mum to Little Fairy and Boy-Who-Asks-Questions, and wife to Busy-And-Important-Husband. It’s been surprisingly easy, and I’ve enjoyed it.

It hasn’t been a struggle to find clients. Granted, most are previous employees, and one in particular (you know who you are) has been incredibly supportive. I’ve dabbled in different industries, I’ve learnt different things, and I’ve been quite proud to say the words: “I have my own business.”

However, at the start of the year I woke up with an itch. Perhaps it was just my ego, or a genuine curiosity to see if I still “had it”…so I threw my CV in for a job with a major global firm.

And, well, I got it.

RIP Flopsy the bunny

My little family grew up this month. Two-year-old Little Fairy and four-year-old Boy-Who-Asks-Questions were introduced to the concept of mortality.

But before we got to that life milestone, I had to do a little “juggling many balls under much emotional stress”. Yes, it was a dead rabbit, and yes, I have led a sheltered life…but it’s a good story so indulge me my melodramatics.