2 traits I find incredibly sexy

As I have spent the last few days in extreme pain due to my highly inconsiderate pelvis, I have decided to write a short (hopefully giggle-worthy) post to distract myself.

1)  A fierce intellect. 

I am most definitely a sapiosexual. If you have never heard this word before, I have gone to the trouble of copy and pasting the definition for you - ain't I sweet?

Definition of sapiosexual :. 

(sā-pē-ō-sĕk-shü-ăl) 

(n.) A behaviour of becoming attracted to or aroused by intelligence and its use. 

Origins: From the Latin root sapien, wise or intelligent, and Latin sexualis, relating to the sexes. 

Basically, smart people turn me on. It doesn't even matter what their field of expertise is, or even if the information is particularly useful - the act of someone really using their mind just does things to me.
This can happen in different ways... I can be having a conversation with someone, and start asking questions about certain words, times, places, historical references, ect, and just the act of them knowing the answers to everything, and delivering those answers in such a nonchalant manner makes me all doe-eyed.
They can 'show off' their intelligence in whatever way they wish, being fiercely arrogant and ruthless with their facts like Dr. House (House), or Dr. Cox (Scrubs) - both fictional characters who have permanent spots in my spank bank.
Or, you can just be a genuinely funny, caring, sweet genius with shiny eyes and a big smile.
A perfect example, is the incredible Professor Brian Cox.
And he's not a fictional character! He's real, real!                   


                      

*throws panties* You gorgeous, gorgeous man! I want make love to your mind!!!

Basically, I just lose all control when someone really flexes their intellect.
Truth be told, it's one of the reasons I love Luke so much - his vast knowledge about physics, space, time and the universe, and his incredibly patient and thorough ways of explaining them to me, is nothing short of mental foreplay.


2) A little extra cuddle.

This is my not so flattering way of saying I am quite fond of a 'doughy physique'.
Not an obese beer gut large enough to have it's own gravitational pull or anything like that, just a little extra cushion...
I love a solid build, with broad shoulders and a proud tum. Think Seth Rogan or Jason Segel - just enough tummy for cuddles :)

                                        

                               

I've been told many times that my attraction to these men is odd or weird, but i don't care - they're delicious to me!

Needless to say, most of my partners put on a few kilos while dating me.
I love to cook, and I feed them up like a fairy tale witch; turning disciplined gym-honed abs into pasta-filled tum tums - perfect for snuggle-on-the-couch style noms!

..Ps, sorry Luke, you're never getting your abs back - I love your belly too much <3

Hansel and Gretel - Script Hunters.

Tonight, I sat down with my new housemates and Luke.
We had elected to watch 'Hansel & Gretel - Witch Hunters'. We knew it was going to be painfully average, but were hoping for that guilty pleasure / secretly enjoyable type of average.

The final verdict of how we felt about the movie is a definite "We have no freakin' clue."

This film boasted a painfully obvious story line, plot holes with such gape they made porn stars jealous, hooker-cheap CGI, and the kind of 'stunts' that made all of us reminisce about the Saturday nights of our youth, spent religiously watching Xena and Hercules.

We were also left with some pressing questions, and some giggle-worthy comparisons...

Question:
Even if we ignore the fact that every character in this film seems to have a different accent, we are forced to ask: Was Gemma Arterton forced to do an American accent only because Jeremy Renner couldn't pull off a English one? A great number of the cast used English accents, and Gemma is English. So, why not allow her to just use her normal voice? Ah...Mysteries.

Theory:
Jeremy Renner is the poor man's Nathan Fillion -

                       

Fillion is on the right. He is also incredibly yummy. Nom nom nom!

Observation:

Edward, the troll who serves Witches, has a striking character resemblance to Ludo, the friendly beast from The Labyrinth.
I'm not sure if its the over sized costume, the simple child-like vocabulary spoken in a pleasing baritone, or just the fact that whenever Edward came on screen I had the over whelming urge to growl; 'Ludo, down! Ludo! Doooown!"

                       

Slow, sweet, and simple. Huge heart. Strong yet clumsy. Fits both Edward and Ludo.

Edward also bares a striking character resemblance to Hodor, the simple soul who carries around little Lord Bran Stark in Game of Thrones. Seriously, if I didn't have a Ludo inspired quote in my head, I most certainly had "Hodor! Hodor!" on repeat.

                     

''Hodor!"

Final thoughts:
All these picture comparisons aside, the overwhelming question is; 'Who was this movie for?'

The simple fact is, due to quite a few drops of the F-Bomb, quite excessive violence (no matter how poorly portrayed), and some other bits and pieces, this film really is not suitable for young kids. 

But, due to its lack of a decent plot, crummy CGI, and bad-ninja-film / Xena-meets-Hercules style stunts, it's not exactly captivating for adults.

We were left deciding that despite its M15+ rating, the audience of the film should really be young teens.

The creators of this film had two very cool, very doable options to make it far more accessible and awesome to different markets, but for whatever reason they did not take them.
They had all the makings of a 'scary' family-type film, with bright colours, properly scary characters, and the strong message that good always overcomes evil. I'm thinking something along the lines of the Tim Burton remakes of Willy Wonka and Alice in Wonderland...
They also could have taken this film to a far darker level and made it an R rated dark twisted fairy tale.
The could have put dark filters over the footage (think about how grungy Fight Club looked), hired incredible SFX artists for all the gore instead of using shitty CGI (splatter packs will always beat 'blood' graphics), added some depth and morbid twists to the story (God knows there was room), and they just may have had a decent adult fairy tale. Maybe.

Anyway, final verdict?

It's pretty terrible. Definitely not one of the worst films I've seen, but certainly not one I'd rush to watch again. It's good enough for a mindless candy watch - you really don't have to concentrate at all.
Even good for a few laughs (at it's expense of course, not because jokes were intended).
So, if you see it on TV and you need something to occupy yourself with for 15 minutes before the show you actually want to watch comes on the other channel, this may just be the film for you.

Maybe.
 

If Borat read my blog...

Just having a looksie at the locations of this weeks readers...

3 bad habits that probably will (but hopefully won't) get me killed.

1). Sleeping in the bath.

 This has always been a favourite of mine.
Picture it; lovely hot, deep, inviting bath, relaxing music, a nice glass of wine or herbal tea, some wonderfully scented, skin enriching bath salts and oils ("Where can I find such wondrous things?" you ask? Why, at my business page of course! www.facebook.com/AlluraAustralia).
You feel your body completely relax, and soak all your troubles away. Then, you allow your eyes to close, and you fall into a restful nap, awaking with a fresh feeling, and totally rejuvenated body and mind.
....or you don't wake up, because you have become so relaxed, you've unintentionally inhaled a lung full of bath water, leaving yourself to be found deceased and bloated, bobbing around in Epsom salt and Apricot Oil. That's the fear anyway.
Clearly, if you are one for 'bath napping', you must be careful not to let this 'drowning business' happen.
In fact, just so we're clear, I should probably stress that I don't necessarily think Bath Napping is a good idea at all (especially if you re under the influence), so this habit really is one you take at your own risk.
But, I love it! Especially if I've had a bad sleep filled with night terrors, or whilst dealing with this horrible SPD, nothing much beats a relaxing Bath Nap in my book.
Truth be told, I was awake at 3am this morning, with horrible joint and muscle pain. My Man woke up (probably hearing my Igor-meets-Quasimodo grunts and shuffles as I limped about), helped me upstairs, bought up the laptop and then went back to the couch to sleep. I put on some meditation music, relaxed into the hot, soothing water, and was quickly warm, in less pain, and off to snooze-ville.
I napped for 4 hours - I woke up feeling great.
In conclusion this habit is really awesome, and is one that I love...Providing I don't drown, cause that would suck.    

2.) Being neurotic.

I know I'm not alone in this one. Come to think of it, all my female besties are also neurotic headcases (maybe that's why we are so close? We know how to deal with eachother's crazy?).
I stress and freak out over ridiculous things. I am aware they are stupid, but it just happens. I'm honestly afraid that one day my unnecessary worrying will cause an ulcer. Then stress over the ulcer will cause it to burst, the rupture occurring suddenly, leaving me with a severe case of the Deadsies (probably when I'm Bath Napping...)
Here is a short list of just some of my triggers that induce a ride into Crazy Town;
- Food left out in the kitchen overnight.
I cant stand that! Put leftovers in the fridge and throw out what you don't want. Do not leave it there gathering bacteria. A pan that has been left with food in it overnight scares me. I have to wash it a million times just to feel like I've removed all the sneaky germs, and even then I will eye the thing off as it sits in the cupboard, just wondering if I missed some of said germs, and becoming concerned that they might be planning a counter attack.
- Washing left in the machine.
When the washing is finished hang it out. Even though I know that laundry left in the machine for a couple of hours wont actually start to grow mould, or get smelly, every time I hear the finishing 'beep!', I'm swift to unload the contents of the wash, and begin air drying it all, spaced out neatly on the airier.
Currently I'm not allowed to do this, and Luke has been taking care of the laundry. Even if he only waits an hour before hanging the clothes up, I start smelling the phantom scent of mould in the air, and wonder if he actually is hanging up the laundry 'properly'. As I said, I'm insane.
- Talking on the phone to people I don't know.
Ordering a pizza, booking an appointment, enquiring about an issue - all of these trigger a mild panic attack; What if they don't like me? What if I say something stupid? What if I don't understand what they're saying? What if I get so nervous I forget basic English? What if they think I'm just utterly ridiculous and hang up?
I honest to God cant find a reason for this, as talking face to face with people, I'm fine.
But there you have it, that's Crazy Town.  

3). Google Doctoring.

I've left this one till the end, as it's probably one of my most prominent bad habits.
Thanks to the Internet, we can all parade about like we have Medical degrees.
We have access to all kinds of information, from scientific/aimed-at-university-student type articles, to chat rooms and blog threads with every day people talking about every issue under the sun. We have symptom checker websites, that suggest probable causes (each set of results usually ranging from 'common cold' to 'very painful death'), and allow us to do a bit of research of our own, before seeing a doctor.
I've personally found a few 'reputable' sites that I use regularly, even if its just to learn more about something I've already been diagnosed with.
I'm a shameless student, I love to learn, and the more knowledge I have, the calmer I feel.
So, for example, before I saw my GP regarding all the pelvic pain I was in, I had already diagnosed myself with SPD. I was proud as punch when he diagnosed me with the same ailment I had predicted, and even pleased when he showed me some reliable websites to get information from, and they turned out to be the sites that I already use. I was excited, until I remembered everything I had read, and realized what a  crappy diagnosis it was.
I Google search any and all medical ailments, and whilst I currently still seek out my GP for a professional opinion, I am worried about the future, about the time when I finally decide that I can find out anything trained doctors can just with a few clicks of a button. I really hope that doesn't happen too soon though. Cause it will turn me into a stressed neurotic mess, and then I will be tired and stressed after all my medical research, I'll need a relaxing bath, then close my eyes for just a minute, and then BOOM! - Deadsies Apricot Floater, at your service.

Hospital pictures *making light of a crappy situation*

(I have edited all the following images for no other reason other than to present them in a cleaner, more aesthetically pleasing way)

One of my lovely friends sent this to me on day 2 of my Hospital Stay. 

I know I laughed at first, I'm just not sure if I cried after....

                           
Whilst in hospital, I was understandably upset being away from Luke, Master 4 and Miss 3.
I knew the end result would be the kids going back to their Dad's before I could spend any time with them, and this made me incredibly mopey and pouty.
So, in an effort to cheer me up, and let me know they were all thinking of me, my wonderful Man sent me this picture -

                  


Their still-pajama-clad little frames and silly faces really did brighten my day - they are my home.
I responded to their image with a silly face of my own -

                              

This image is bought to you by every duck-face-try-to-look-cute-and-sexy teenage girl ever.

The second night in Hospital was probably the worst for me.
Although meltdown-free, unlike the first, there was what seemed like an endless stream of things sent, just to annoy me. (I am well aware that in saying this, I sound like a self obsessed tool with a God complex, assuming the Universe revolves around my somewhat spherical self...But I did mention in my previous post that mass pain = mass bitch in the book of Tara, and if you cant complain when you're pained and in hospital, when can you?)

I had actually been fooled into being hopeful about the ward's menu. One dinner option was titled 'Vegetable Medley', and I had legitimately become excited. A little sad, I know, but I love vegetables, and 'medley' suggested multiple veggies. There was no information on how this dish was to be prepared, so I had no knowledge of whether my dinner would be steamed/blanched/fried or sliced/diced/julienned - a surprise it would be!
A surprise indeed! I present to you, my dinner;

                                       

That, ladies and gents, looks like a tiny polystyrene bowl filled with the type of 'vegetables' you get in a sachet alongside the seasoning in a cup of 2 Minute Noodles. They were served almost cold, still slopping in a few Cm's of water, and overcooked...yet I still ate them. But then again, I'm pregnant, I eat everything. Plus, I eat when I'm angry. I'm the person that goes, "Argh! You seriously piss me off! Fuck this, I'm getting a burger!"  
 

Not long after dinner, it was lights off, therefore 'sleep time' suggested.
I was fine with this, I was laying in bed playing Solitaire on my phone, whilst trying to think of a movie to quietly play on my laptop. I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep till my next dose of Endone, which was  in a few hours, so I was planning ways to amuse myself until then.

All of a sudden, the woman in the bed across from me was alerted by her volume-turned-up-to-point-of-ear-bleed mobile ringtone. You're meant to have your phones on silent after lights out, and normally I wouldn't care, but this thing was super loud, and I knew from experience that her phone calls last forever.
For roughly an hour, the noise would alternate between her loudly screeching into the mouthpiece about life in hospital, then bickering in general, then a string of "Hello? Hello?! Can you hear me? You've gone all quiet! Hello?!", then she would hang up, the ringtone would blast out again, and the whole mess would resume.

I am not an artist, but this moved me to draw, and then send the following sketch to my Man -

                

That's me. I am using my weirdly long arms to punch her in the throat. 

But you've read the previous post, you know I end up going home the next day.  Thank God.




Once at home, I was helped to the bath, and had the laptop, my book, a water bottle, and some snacks set up on the small table beside me.
Peering between the gap between the bath and the table, I was reminded of someone else who I had greatly missed while in hospital -

                 

My kitty. My purring ball of love - Squish <3 

I'm so happy to be home, and since like any hospital visit, mine was greatly unpleasant, I really hope I've bought a few chuckles and smiles to you all :)

My rant-worthy hospital visit.

I have not updated my blog in quite a few days. The reason for this, my most avid readers is because I have been in hospital, for “treatment” for my SPD.

I have elected to split this subject into two posts.
The first is an account of what happened (my rant), and the second is a more humorous look at the situation.

After much uncertainty at how to best treat me (because whilst bubs and I are healthy, the pain is getting much worse, which is putting pressure on both of us, and my antidepressants are struggling to cope with my feelings of uselessness), it was deemed best to transfer me to another hospital.
And so, I went to the new hospital at the appointed time, and was told that they were not really comfortable with me on the painkillers I was already taking.
They wanted me to stop the Panadine Forte (which I will definitely admit is better than nothing, but still doesn’t really enable me to move much at all), and to stick to Panadol and ‘try to rest’.
To say I had a breakdown there and then, sitting in my wheelchair in this doctor’s office, is an understatement. I had an ugly, body shuddering, snot flowing, sheep/fog-horn sounding meltdown. Somewhere between my gulps and wails, the doctor seemed to grasp that what I was attempting to communicate, was that I wasn’t going to cope at home ‘just with Panadol and rest’, and that I really had been holding on for dear life to this meeting. I had been assured that doctors at this hospital would be able to better help bubs and I. That they would be able to offer far more acute and regular monitoring for bubs, and that they would be able to prescribe me stronger, more effective pain relief.
It had been explained to me on multiple occasions that these stronger drugs carried a risk of withdrawal for both myself and baby, and so a longer stay in hospital after the birth was warranted, just to make sure we both got through the withdrawals as safely, and with as much comfort as possible.
I had understood all of this, and so to hear that once again no one seemed to know how to treat me, and didn’t seem comfortable giving me any pain relief, was nothing short of devastating.
The nurse seemed legitimately shocked at my reaction, and so went to seek out other doctors and nurses to reassess my situation.
After a wait, it was suggested that they admit me. In doing this, I was apparently going to have access to the Pain Team very quickly (instead of waiting the out-patient time of 5 weeks), could be given some immediate pain relief whilst waiting, and be assessed by physios and other specialists who were specifically trained in dealing with cases where the mother was taking strong analgesia.

And so off I’m wheeled, to a ward with other pregnant ladies.
At first everything seemed to be going as planned, a nurse took my vitals, and then asked if I wanted pain relief. I of course accepted, and off she went to collect some. But then she returns;
“I’m afraid I can only offer you Panadol and Voltaren.”
”But, I can’t have Voltaren.”
”Why not?”
”Um.. It’s an anti inflammatory, and you’re not supposed to have those when pregnant.”
”Oh yes. Quite right.”
Didn’t this just set the tone for the next three days?
I was given regular Panadol, which did about as much good as tits on a bull.
Seriously, that’s your specialist medical care? A drug I can obtain myself from any supermarket, servo or chemist?
Every time I was offered this drug, I wanted to strap these people to a table, separate their pelvises, and then offer them some Panadol. Then make them thank me. Fuckers.

(I should point out at this point, that I turn into quite the piece of work when I’m in severe pain.
Not to the nurses or doctors, if anything I’m increasingly quiet around them, but in my head, or whilst ranting to friends, I’m a bitch.) 

On the first night I had another meltdown. I had left my Panadine Forte at home (as I never expected to be admitted in the first place), and combined with the pathetic strength of the Panadol, and the shitty von shithousen bed, I was in agony.
I cried and cried, until a nice nurse actually came over, sat on my bed and hugged me. She was really lovely, and somehow managed to get me some Endone so I could sleep.
From that point on I could have Endone every 6 hours (helps a little), and the magic Panadol every 4 (indescribably fucking useless).

Today marks day 3, my last day here.
After much dicking about I finally saw the Pain Team.
You must understand that I had been waiting weeks to see someone with the experience and authority to help me. To see someone who could prescribe me something adequate for my pain. The anticipation to see this team had only been heightened once being admitted, as the idea of my pain relief actually being downgraded by being in hospital was the most ridiculous thing I could imagine – I needed the experts to give me the strongest/safest drug possible ASAP!
And so I just met with the Team… Who have decided not to give me anything stronger. After I have been promised for fucking weeks that they would be able to help, I have been prescribed Panadol and given a script for Endone.
Now, please do not get me wrong, I appreciate the Endone, it definitely is better than nothing, but it is nothing like what was mentioned to me by all the nurses, and certainly not what was suggested by the doctors.
Ketamine, Methadone & Tramadol were the three drugs that had been suggested as the most likely. I had been given the impression that the only reason the doctors hadn’t already started me on one of those drugs, was that they wanted the opinion of the Pain Team first.

But here I am, with Endone and fucking Panadol. I really didn’t need to be here for the last three days.
My GP could’ve given me a script for Endone.
And I’m quite certain it would not have taken six hours for the script to be written out and filled as it has here. Seriously. Six hours. For a piece of paper.

 I have taken up a bed that someone else could’ve used.
I needed a script. Baby and I weren’t sick, or at risk. I wasn’t like the other ladies in my ward; one who was dilating at 27 weeks, one who’s malfunctioning liver was forcing her to be induced at 35 weeks, or the other who couldn’t take her migraine medicine whilst pregnant, but who’s migraines were racking her body so much so it was putting her baby in distress.
I wasn’t sick. Bub wasn’t sick. I needed a script. And instead I have taken up a bed for three days.

I am seriously considering completing 47 years of University, so I can become a doctor and prevent other people in my position being in so much pain, and being dicked about for so long for no real reason. 
Either that, or get a degree so I can come back as a highly trained efficiency expert, and put more functional and practical systems in place. Because the ones we have in current use are heavily, unequivocally flawed.

End rant.

They put WHAT in the pantry?!

Due to my crippling SPD, I am at war with the staircase in our house.
I have tried to make it spontaneously combust using the power of my mind - but I am yet to be successful.
Seeing as I cannot get up the stairs without help and/or immense pain, (coupled with a very vocal array of pained squeals and moans) I have made myself a bedroom/fort/office in our lounge room.
Both couches are pushed together and are covered in pillows and blankets. The coffee table has been moved into a bedhead-like position, so I can have my laptop (best loan ever, thanks to 2 of my besties S&S), medicines, water bottle, never ending pregnancy snacks, books ect, all in easy reach.
Luke has given up sleeping upstairs in our very, very comfy bed, and has chosen to sleep on the couch next to me. The smaller, 2-seater couch. He's pretty incredible.

The children have therefore decided that they don't want their beds any more either, and have laid claim to our bed upstairs. They seem incredibly stoked at the idea of sleeping in Mummy and Luke's bed every night (I don't blame them, this bed is amazing), and so they have reign of the upstairs at night, and every morning they creep downstairs and cuddle up with us on the couch-fort.
Now, seeing as until they come downstairs in the morning (normally as soon as they wake up) they are unsupervised, they have discovered they have ample opportunity to go through things in the master bedroom.

So, this morning, the little darlings come downstairs, and are laughing and playing.
At some point they ask for a snack, and, as we always do when they ask nicely, we give them permission to go to the pantry and get something out of the 'snack box'.
It must have been at this point that they put something in the pantry, that they had smuggled downstairs.
It was around midday that I asked Luke for something to eat from the pantry, and was met with,
"Uh, Baby? Why is this in here?"

                             

Now, I have tried to fancy-up this image, but lets not lose sight of what it really is - That is a pink dildo. Between noodles and packet soup. In the pantry. A sex toy next to food. That is my facilitator of adult entertainment, placed casually next to late night snacks. There is a dildo in my pantry!

After recovering our composure, we were forced to have a conversation with the Master and Miss.
"Did someone bring something down from Mummy and Luke's room?", I ask.
"Yes. I found a pink rocket under your bed!", exclaims Master 4.
"It's not a rocket, it's something that is only for grown-ups. You don't touch it again, OK?"
"OK. I wont. Only for grown-ups...But Mum...What does it do?"
Oh God. What do I say? I didn't want to say it was a toy, as I felt this would make it forbidden fruit.
I was drawing a complete blank.
All the while Luke was holding the 'pink rocket' out in front of him, clearly trying to aid in my explanation, while I was floating somewhere between wanting to burst out laughing, and trying to remain serious.
In the end I resorted to the age-old parenting favourite,
"Just don't touch it again, because I said so! All right?!"
Master 4 agreed, as did Miss 3. Luke took the now-out-of-bounds-mystery-grown-up-thing up stairs, and I started to giggle on the couch as I edited the photo.

So, we can add situations like this to the list of  -
Things You're Never Warned About When Becoming A Parent.

Children will discover your adult-only possessions.
They will want to know what they are.
You are going to have to have that awkward conversation.
And you have to be prepared, because they will hide them in strange places.
.....They may even put them in your pantry.
 

3 things I'm rubbish at

1.) My phone


I am constantly losing my phone, around the house/hidden in bags/buried in a doona, and like most people with this issue, I do so when it's on silent and about to run out of battery.
And that's another point, I hardly ever charge the damn thing, so it's basically always about to go flat.
I don't really mind this strangely enough, as sometimes it's quite liberating to be out and be uncontactable. Like the days of my youth... (Saying this at only 25 actually sickens me. Don't worry, I'll punch myself later).
Remember those days? Where you'd go out to the shops with your mates, and pretend you were cool whilst loitering in the food court, and you would only know that you were in trouble once you got home and received a smack over the head? No one could interrupt your fun.
The bigger gripe from my peers however, is that if my phone is actually charged, there is no guarantee I will answer it. If I hear it ringing in another room and I'm doing something important, like helping the kids, cooking, cleaning, or laying down (naps are vital at my age *slap*), I will not rush to answer it.
I will let it ring out. I operate on the belief system that if it is important, they will either leave a message, or call straight back. This irritates Luke on such a profound level, it actually makes him anxious.
If he sees me blatantly ignoring my ringing phone, for example when I'm on the couch watching a movie with the kids, he gets frustrated and starts the, "Why aren't you answering your phone?" line of questioning. Evidently the answer of, "I'm busy" doesn't cut it with him, because then he will launch into the "But, you don't do that to me, do you?" section of the conversation, and undoubtedly look disappointed when I say, "No. Well, unless I'm busy."
Cuddling with my kids classifies as being busy to me. I understand it doesn't to others, but as they say on every American sitcom - that's not my problem.

2) Remembering  Birthdays

Honestly, I have such a terrible memory for numbers, that if it wasn't for FaceBook birthday reminders, I don't think I would ever know anybodies day of birth, age, or party arrangements.
I have been hung out to dry on multiple occasions for forgetting my parents' birthdays, and they have only just accepted the fact that if you do not remind me, I will forget. If you're not going to have your birthday on Facebook, then make sure someone else reminds me a few days before hand, otherwise you will not be receiving a phone call.
But don't think this is just a spoilt child syndrome affecting my ability to remember. Don't think for a second that my sub conscience just isn't trying hard enough because it's my parents.
Cause here's a dirty little secret; I have forgotten my daughters birthday. Twice. My daughters date of birth (as well as my sons) is tattooed on my arm. My lower arm. Where I look everyday. DOB right there. Even the time of birth.
And yet for two years in a row, I was making rushed trips to the shops around lunch time to by cupcakes and dolls, after being embarrassingly reminded by either my Mum, or Ex-Husband that I was meant to be celebrating my darling daughter getting a year older.
Pretty pathetic, but also true. Numbers just will not stick in my head.

3)  Organisation

From arranging a time for someone to meet for a coffee at my place, to planning a huge night out with multiple people, destinations, and modes of transport - I suck.
I come from the it will all just fall together school of thought, and the awesome thing is, it normally does.
However, it has been somewhat strongly (via exasperated grumbles) suggested to me that the reason these things 'just happen' is because every body else involved make them happen.
I never know what time an event is happening, who is attending, or what I am meant to bring.
I will, however, know if I have enough money left to buy a cask of wine for said occasion - classy!
I maintain that if you don't make plans, they cant get ruined....which is fine when all others involved operate the same way, but less acceptable when some of your besties are fierce planners.
My answers to the generic 'when, where, with whom, how much, how to get there' usually go something like 'after dinner, in the city, with some people, not expensive, don't know yet.'
Annoying your mates is one thing, but Luke is a brutal planner. A brutal procrastinator yes, but planner none the less. If we are going out, he can't stand not having a planned time to leave. This, needless to say, clashes greatly with my 'we will leave when we're ready' mode of operation.

I did try to get organised once - I purchased a diary. You know the kind, one of those handbag sized yearly planners? It was pink, and I always kept it in my bag.
Throughout that year I only used the thing twice; once to write in a doctors appointment (which, hilariously, I missed as I hadn't thought to check the damn thing, and since upon writing the appointment down, I had immediately put it out of my mind, thinking I didn't need to actively remember it, because it was in my diary), and then one final time, to write down the details of the other person when I was involved in a car accident.
Evidently, this exercise was a colossal fail on my part.

I am very lucky though. Between my Mum, Luke, and the more neurotically organised of my peers, I am always set on the right track.
And maybe having someone who is so carefree in their peer circles is a good thing?
Maybe I am a breath of fresh air from all the strict and vigilant planning?

And if not....well, that's what I intend to keep telling myself anyway.