Something’s gotta give.

Yesterday the weather was beautiful, but I was in a foul mood.

The child's demands are incessant. He just won't let me play on the computer all day.

And he doesn’t want to get dropped off at playcentre. So playcentre is annoying me too.

The husband has a terrible man cold*.

I'm dying for some ALONE TIME.

At some place other than the supermarket. Some place with a broadband connection.


*Thanks to the Bloggess for sharing this very funny link.

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Edited to add. My husband finally read my blog, and he pointed out that this post was a little misleading. He didn't lie on the couch with his man cold. He soldiered on. As we parents do. Yeah, remember the days before children, when we could camp out on the couch with a cold, and just watch telly? Oh, the memories. My point is that men are so very pathetic when they have a cold. Sorry, it's sad.

Remembering Memorial Day.

Holidays make me remember that I’m living in a remote, little country on the other side of the world.

Not so much Christmas and Easter. Although they’re different down under too. Come to think of it, they drive home the very same point--my family is ten thousand miles away.

I just don’t celebrate Halloween, Thanksgiving, or July Fourth any more.

Okay, I admit it. I’ve tried to encourage Halloween, but I feel a bit silly, cackling in my witch costume, when all the flowers are blooming, and we are like the only house handing out lollies.

Every year, I have fantasies about a Thanksgiving dinner, but everyone is at work. By the time the weekend rolls around, I realize I should be Christmas shopping.

We do have an American flag hanging up at our house. And it may surprise you to know, it was up during the Bush years.

No parades for us on Memorial Day. No picnics. And it’s definitely not the beginning of summer.

A Yank lives here.

If I were on Survivor, I would lose the fire-building challenge.

When we first moved into our house, there was an open fire. We replaced it with a wood burner that we found on TradeMe (NZ's eBay). It's not certified, but it's much more efficient. The smoke actually goes up the chimney. And it heats our open plan kitchen, lounge and office quite nicely.

I know, I know. The emissions. But wood fires are so very romantic.

Of course, there’s an art to building a good fire. Which I still haven’t quite mastered.

Chopping wood and splitting kindling? Isn't that what husbands are for?