'been there, done that...'

Sahara has been waking me up super early lately, and yesterday was no exception, so i decided to put it to good use, and I lost my muffin virginity. Yes, that is correct - I date a chef, enjoy anything packed full of sugar, yet had never made a muffin in my life. For some reason, the chocolate ones made triple the amount of batter the orange and poppyseed muffins made (so I had to make sure they were alright, and do a little taste test of the batter. The dogs couldn't have licked that bowl cleaner). Other than being a little gooey and the fact they were cupcake size due to lack of muffin tin (I'm not a 'planning ahead' type of person when it comes to baking) they were pretty darn... not bad.

In the afternoon I headed down to Mt Eliza and took the dogs for a puppy play date, and was on my way to the drive in when Phoenix started vomiting profusely.
Today has been spent in a flurry of rearranging, I have such itchy feet to move soon I decided to move all the furniture in my lounge room and pretend I live somewhere new and exciting. I'm preparing to spend another afternoon at the beach with the dogs, and continue crunching my stomach in alarming ways and doing such absurd things as 'reverse crunches' which involve me on my stomach on a table, and 'ladies push ups' which are just damn difficult.

My core strength apparently matches my self control when it comes to buying inappropriate dresses on eBay - little to none.

Onto something completely different - I am totally in love with the new Nickleback song, as featured on Karyn's website.
It reminds me of singing along to Animals very loudly in the car last Summer, which in turns makes me wonder what this year will have in store. Last Summer was all about puppies, blue contact lenses, discovering Johnnie Walker and making a food of myself in public, and wearing my first bikini in public. Nothing can compare to the year before, and falling in love with Chef, flying off to England on my own for 5 weeks and leaving home for a share house in the city when I returned, and learning to become independent. And of course discovering Brunetti's and Lygon St in general, and spending lazy days at St Kilda.

Slave Driver

Chef has turned into some kind of sadistic Personal Trainer, and is making me take part in all manner of absurd stomach crunching movements involving tables, bottles of water and 10kg weights. After two days of this barbaric treatment, I have been left an aching mess and begging for reprieve - he's now gone as far as subjecting me to some form of evil torture, known to man kind as 'jogging'. By the time I've rearranged all my internal organs after pounding the pavement in a thoroughly un-elegant way, and put my hips back in their correct socket, I'm practically gagging for a cigarette, and a stiff scotch on the rocks. Unfortunately, I made the grave error of banning myself from these substances several days ago, and find myself searching the backyard for half smoked butts and looking enviously at the girls from Americas' Next Top Model, whom seem to maintain their stick-thinnedness on a diet of nicotene and alcohol.

Still, I continue to watch the pretty tops and summer dresses on eBay and think of how nice my rippling six pack will look in the new bikini I am having shipping from the UK, and using it as inspiration to not smack Chef over the head with a random 5kg weight and running from the house in glee. Well, maybe not running, after all. More my usual slob-ish walk with a few energetic dance steps throw in, as my 'workout music' plays resolutely in the background.




In all seriousness, it's great having someone motivate me to exercise. I'm just a little concerned I'm going to end up looking like than the above, rather than the below...