Parental Parody: May 2013

Friday, May 31, 2013

FFS!? Friday : Unhappy with the Happy Snappers

Image Credit

Not to be dramatic or anything....but cameras are evil, soul stealing things

Let me preface this post by saying I am not a happy snapper.

The Feral Threesome will likely grow up assuming they were adopted out at 6 months (when I stopped taking regular baby snaps of their every drooling, crawling moment), and then reintroduced to the family randomly throughout the year (for annual birthday cake candle blowing, Christmas and birthday present opening and family holiday happy snaps). FFS!?

It is a massive FFS!? for me, to say that it's school photo time. FFS!?

The Twin Tornado are in Kindy, and so their school photo's are done by a different company to Miss7.

I have no clue why.

Perhaps they specialise in younger kids...like those irritating, perky young happy snappers that try and make eye contact in shopping centres when you've got a leaning, wonky trolley full of food and melting ice cream, and a whining toddler or two...but they spring out in front of your path, assuming you'll love being stopped in your tracks to discuss having a photo of your tantrumming toddler right this very second. FFS!?

Since it's a different company that do the Kindy shots, they don't do family shots with siblings in other classes. FFS!?

And of course the company that does the rest of the school doesn't do Kindy kids. FFS!?

So no chance of cheapskating my way to one single shot of The Feral Threesome together. FFS!?

The Kindy happy snappers were asking $30+ per child for a standard size photo and a couple of smaller head shots. FFS!?

The happy snappers doing the rest of the school are much cheaper...at $18 for a single photo. FFS!?

I don't hang photos. I don't frame photos. Particularly not passport photo sized head shots. FFS!?

I save photo's electronically and put the flash drive in our safe. Lest the house burn down and destroy all proof that they weren't actually adopted or hidden and wheeled out only on special occasions.

I'm not paying $80+ to have a single photo of each of my children. FFS!?

And who can buy just one single photo - then you have to negotiate United Nations style over which set of Grandparents get that one single photo. FFS!?

So we would, in fact, be looking at over $100 for 3 sets - one for us and one each for both sets of Grandparents. FFS!?

I'm not confident my kids have triple-digit smiles. FFS!?

Why are school photos so expensive?

Clearly they're playing on the parental guilt factor. That no one parent wants to be the single tight arse in the class who refuses to pay for a photo of their beloved angel in their school finery. FFS!?

I am well happy with being that tight arse who says no to exorbitant pricing for one single photo.

Image Credit

Instead, I am going to put them in their school uniforms on a sunny weekend, drive to school and bribe them with McDonalds if they will stand in close personal range of one another and faux smile as if they're loving it, so that Mummy can take her own school photo to email out to the relatives. No FFS!?

And then with the $100+ that I've saved, I will congratulate myself with wine and cheese while the kids eat their Happy Meals and we all smile for real. No FFS!?

EDIT at the butt crack of dawn : So it turns out the company that does the rest of the school are actually happy to do sibling photos. Of course I found this out after photo day. FFS!?

Posted by Parental Parody at 5:00 AM

Reactions:

9 comments: Links to this post

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

Canteen crowing

Image Credit

Not on my f&*ing watch, Gordon

Today I'm enjoying the afterglow of being one of those helpful school parents.

Yesterday I did canteen duty.

Again.

That's right...it's a repeat performance.

I am a giver.

I also enjoy spying on Miss7 to ensure she is not spending her recess and lunch breaks sitting on her own.

On my first canteen duty I was tasked with tomato slicing, with strict instructions to aim for 5 slices from every half of tomato.

I stopped counting at 12 wafer thin slices per half. NAILED IT.

Then I was promoted to making muffin mini pizzas.

I had leftover tomato base. Look at me saving the canteen money (which I suggested could purchase a coffee machine).

Following such massive success I was deemed worthy of the special of the day - twice.

Until I burnt the bottom of the pizza subs and was relegated back to chopping lettuce and making muffin mini pizzas.

Yesterday was my big comeback.

Muffin mini pizzas AND tomatoes and lettuce.

NAILED IT ALL.

I'm expecting a scholarship from Le Cordon Bleu (proving my supreme knowledge on all things culinary, I had originally typed Juliard...).

And invitations to join the kitchens of Heston Blumenthal, Jamie Oliver and Gordon f*&king Ramsay.

Image Credit

Or, you know, entrusted with the end of term sausage sizzle.

Posted by Parental Parody at 5:00 AM

Reactions:

8 comments: Links to this post

Monday, May 27, 2013

Attention world : I EXERCISED

Image Credit

Not me. I am not smart enough to think of this.

It wasn't enough for me to proclaim my one act of physical fitness on 'The Book'.

Obviously it warrants an entire blog post.

In the interest of bragging.

And just in case it doesn't happen again.

Friday morning I happened to spot my running shoes while looking for a pair of shopping shoes.

Sadly, they fit and are in good working order, thus leaving me no excuse to forego exercise.

So I went for what I like to refer to as a 45 minute 'run'.

It's usually more of a half arsed jog interspersed with frequent periods of power walking while gasping for air and holding my side.

Once, back when I first took up 'running', an old lady from my street stopped on her mobility scooter to ask if I was okay. For real. It was the catalyst for taking up running up and down the inside of my house until I had built up a degree of fitness that wouldn't scare senior citizens on the footpath.

Friday was my first 'run' since my tummy tuck 3 months ago, so I had been worried that I'd need to be scraped off the side of the road and stitched back together while being resuscitated.

Thankfully, it went relatively well. The ratio of 'running' to 'power walking' was slightly more in favour of 'running'. Surprisingly, no gasping for air and clutching my side.

Instead of basking in my semi-success, I immediately questioned how to ensure maximum people were aware of my athletic pursuits?

So of course I took to Facebook - both personal and blog accounts - and wrote those status updates everyone hates, that are clearly intended to let everyone know you're going somewhere / doing something / drinking / cashed up / on holiday / have just done something which puts you on a superior level to those sitting at the computer.

Mine was the last one - because I had done actual bona fide exercise.

Thankfully, some of my athletically inclined friends saw my status update in amongst their regular Newsfeed posts about vitamin supplements and fun runs.

I was praised, I was encouraged to continue.

There was much glory in which to bask.

In fact, I was so smug that I participated in my first National Walk To School Day in 4 years. I walked to school to pick the kids up, and walked home with them.

A couple of concerned parents asked if my car had broken down. But I reassured them that I was walking by choice. They were confused, so I explained that I was walking off the Triple Cream Brie and wine that was soon to be consumed, which made more sense to them than me choosing to walk for no apparent reason.

By the time we turned the corner into our street, I was half dragging The Twin Tornado, determined to get to that creamy cheesy goodness mere metres away.

Which is like power walking with weights.

I was like Super Woman. Fitness Barbie. Zena Warrior Princess. Shera. Wonder Woman. All of them rolled into one. No exaggeration.

Saturday I awoke slightly stiff. Which I expected. Nothing I couldn't handle since I'm so fit and healthy.

Saturday afternoon I could not bend over. Which, I'm not going to lie, was inconvenient. Still, no pain no gain.

Sunday morning I wasn't sure I'd be able to get out of bed, and was considering DIY catheters.

I spent the day emitting a soft whimper pretty much constantly, while trying to breath in a gentle manner so as not to further irritate my poorly stomach muscles.

Essentially, the most active I got all weekend was going to the bathroom (no luck on the DIY catheter front).

I'm not entirely sure one 45 minute 'run' covered the cheese and wine plus an entire weekend with as little physical movement as was humanly possible.

Unfortunately, I had prematurely bragged to the school Mum's on Friday arvo when picking the kids up. Before deathly pain had set in and my body had seized up tighter than #1Hubby's wallet when he catches me online shopping.

I'm convinced they now consider me fit and healthy and one of those regular exercising type people, no doubt impressed by the way I talked it all up pre-pain.

So now I'm thinking my best option is doing school pick up / drop off in a Nike tracksuit and runners, hair up, sweat bands on, make up free.

Don't do it. Just fake it if you can't possibly bear the pain of making it.

My own personal Nike slogan*

*Which I am totally patenting if I can work out how. Call me, Nike, and I'll put on a fake voice and pretend to be my Agent, and we can talk advertising campaigns and brand representation. It will be huge in the anti-exercising underworld. Have your people call my faux people and we'll discuss percentages and appearances and other such endorsement buzz words.

Posted by Parental Parody at 5:00 AM

Reactions:

5 comments: Links to this post

Friday, May 24, 2013

FFS!? Friday : Tradesmen in da house

Image Credit

Let me be clear - I'm not whining about Tradesmen as such.

It's all about what I have to do because they're there.

It means I have to clean. FFS!?

Lest they take the time out of their work to even give a shit to notice the state of my kitchen from their position on top of a ladder outside my kitchen window. God forbid a dish is draining, a piece of carrot skin is hanging out of the bin, ~~a wine cask is visible~~.

It means I have to straighten my hair. Daily. FFS!?

Lest they give a shit to even notice me and take in my afro-esque frizzy 'do, should I neglect to straighten it in the morning. Because clearly they'd care and it would have a massive impact on the level of work they'd do in erecting my patio, working out a ratio of my personal presentation being equal to the presentation of the finished product.

Likewise for putting on my face, and a different set of clothes, clean clothes, daily.

It means I have to cook for them. FFS!?

Because one of them knows #1Pop and therefore it is totally like having family doing the work, and so I must continually offer up refreshments and Nigella Lawson style snacks, even though they aren't really interested, they just want to get in, get the job done, and get out and on to the next job without having to politely decline or accept baked goods.

It means I have to parent. FFS!?

Lest they (the predominantly young and child-free tradesmen) peer inside my window while perched up high with a nail gun, and note that I am on my laptop while The Twin Tornado are watching TV, and therefore deem me a neglectful parent. Or worse, I'm the one watching TV (busted watching Beverley Hills Nannies while muttering hateful and jealous 'shed words'), while The Twin Tornado are swearing and doing a nudie run.

All of this has been running through my mind, as I struggle to keep my house clean every day, fend off the hungry masses (#1Hubby) and protect the muffins and sausage rolls etc. while ignoring whines about why I don't make that stuff for my family, and lose my shit over which darling little child forgot to flush the toilet while thanking the Vodka Gods a tradesman didn't walk in there next. FFS.

It's been a stressful 2 weeks.

And the tradesman haven't even shown up yet.

I am "on call".

Meaning they could be here any day, at any time.

So I've been going through this on a daily basis for 2 weeks and they haven't even started the week-long job of putting up the patio yet.

FFS!?

Posted by Parental Parody at 5:00 AM

Reactions:

20 comments: Links to this post

Wednesday, May 22, 2013

Grow up and put some clothes on

Image Credit

It's official.

It's getting harder and harder for me to cling to my claims that I'm still 28 years old.

I went on a girls' night out Saturday night.

The first indicator that I was definitely not 28 anymore is that as I type this, I realise it was actually 27 that I still claimed to be on an annual basis, not 28.

The other first indicator was that I was slightly horrified that they were booking dinner for 7:30pm.

I was all like:

But I'll be starving by then! Who eats that late?

I'll likely be completely shit-faced drunk because I can't handle more than 1-2 wines without food (shut up whoever is game to comment about moderation and water).

By the time we sit down, order a drink first, chat, check the menu...OMG, IT WILL BE AT LEAST 8:30 BEFORE I GET DINNER! I'M NORMALLY IN BED WATCHING THE REAL HOUSEWIVES OF ALL THE WORLD AT THAT HOUR!

What bloody time will we finish and get home to the comfort of bed and elastic waistbands (in place of the sadistic lycra I'll have to wear out in public)???!??!

Clearly not the thoughts of a 27/28 year old.

More someone who belongs at the 5pm sitting, flashing their Senior's or Pensioner card for a discount on the all you can eat buffet, right?

But I decided to take one for the team and man up and all that shit and so I Martha Stewart-ised my face into something that I hoped resembled a 27/28 year old, put on the boa constrictor style lycra, and off I went.

It didn't help my old woman woes when my friend was asked for ID at the door. She is a mere 3 years younger than me. THREE YEARS, PEOPLE.

They didn't even look at me. In fact, had they looked, they would've been more likely to ask if I wanted the Senior's discount on parking. Bastards.

As soon as we sat down my brain very quickly worked out that my youthful looking friend sitting next to me (who has had 3 bloody kids on top of looking like a perky 17 year old), while only 3 years younger, apparently looked half my actual age of 34 (see, I'm getting so old I'm forgetting to maintain that ridiculous facade that I'm totes 27/28).

It gets better....

People have babies at 17 years of age, so therefore it was conceivable to the bastards on security that I could be the mother of my friend who looks 17 but is really only 3 years younger than me.

Bastards. Total and utter bastards.

Feeling completely old and shabby, I sucked it up and proceeded with the night's festivities.

Again, my inner senior citizen kept trying to ruin it for me:

Where are their clothes? In reference to all the girls who would be showing their Britney bits if they were to trip or stumble or even cough.

Aren't they cold? Where are their cardigans? And their pants, they can't possibly be wearing a complete outfit, don't tell me that is a dress. It is not. It is a top.

How can anyone hear with all this noise?

Does the band really need to be screaming-loud? Can't they be gentle-roar-loud?

My feet are killing me in these boots, and I have no idea why because I bought them from a pharmacy that specialises in old lady orthotics so they should be comfortable.

My cocktail slushie is making my hands cold. Do I smell coffee? Oh I'd love a hot coffee.

What time is it? Oh. My. God. It's past midnight. At any minute my lycra will burst at the seams, my industrial make up with peel away, and I'm going to turn into a fat old pensioner.

I am slightly jealous of the pensioners who are sitting comfortably at 1c poker machines and not crammed into this bar area with the screaming-loud band.

I am such a party animal.

This is why I drink at home - elastic waistbands, early start totally permissible, shoes / fluffy socks optional.

Posted by Parental Parody at 5:00 AM

Reactions:

10 comments: Links to this post

Monday, May 20, 2013

Attention all Dads : you need to read this

Seriously, you do.

It's comedic genius.

The best parenting book I've read (sorry Kaz Cooke, but this is even funnier).

Paul Merrill's Muddle Your Way Through Fatherhood is a book about being a Dad, by a Dad. A Dad who happens to have a wicked sense of humour and a way with words.

It's bloody hilarious, and there's pretty much nothing off limits.

There's information on how to deal with underachieving kids, overachieving kids, parenting a nerd or a nightmare pubescent, and how to handle child bullies (yours and others).

It even covers the tough questions - sex, drugs, poor life choices.

If you're not one for reading, fear not - there are a number of helpful flow charts and diagrams.

It is a very clever take on the realities of what to expect when your partner (or, as Paul puts it, "wife/girlfriend/lesbian egg donor") is expecting.

From the reality of holidaying with kids, tackling Mothers Day, covertly naming your first born after your sporting hero, to when and how to lie to your offspring responsibly - it's all covered.

Each chapter follows the growth of kids, what to expect at each stage, and the do's and don't's for Dad's navigating the whole fatherhood gig.

While The Feral Threesome are all still in the school age range, I'm definitely keeping this book on hand as they grow. Real advice on how to really handle situation (without group hugs and over-emoting) with humour is exactly my style.

Muddle Your Way Through Fatherhood covers how real people handle parenting's tricky situations. Not how Super Nanny and Dr Phil would handle them were they to mate and produce a golden child.

And if you're still unsure how to stumble through fatherhood, then don't worry - there's a section on the best and worst celebrity Dad's so you can model yourself on their examples. Or not.

Honestly, I really loved this book. This is the one I'm going to buy for Dad's to be in future.

It's pants-pissingly funny (a rating that should be available on Amazon and The Book Depository), but it's also true. Facts are offered up with maximum wit and sarcasm, which is just how I like them.

Muddle Your Way Through Fatherhood will be available on Amazon from June 1st.

Seriously, bypass the yawnsville factual books and get this one.

And if the Dad in your life isn't quite cutting it, get him a copy too so that he may brush up on his fathering (and husbanding) skills.

The giveaway

I have a copy of Muddle Your Way Through Fatherhood to give away.

For your chance to win, comment below with the best piece of fatherly advice you were either given, or you would give.

And I'm after real advice, nothing airy fairy like "cherish every moment".

Something along the lines of "train them to follow your football team as soon as possible, so your wife is less likely to protest about having to watch matches, when presented with the pleading eyes of her beloved offspring".

Entries close midnight (WST) Monday 27th May.

The fine print

Entry is open to Australian and New Zealand residents only
Maximum of one (1) entry per person
Please, please, for the love of vodka, remember to register your comment with an email address - if you enter as 'anonymous' or choose not to provide an email address on the comment form, how am I supposed to contact you if you win?
Entries close midnight (WST) Monday 27th May
Winner drawn and published on the blog Tuesday 28th May
Winner has seven (7) days to respond before I get a bit ranty about the extra time and effort I've put into trying to contact them, before conducting a re-draw.

Posted by Parental Parody at 5:00 AM

Reactions:

13 comments: Links to this post

Friday, May 17, 2013

We're home....for now

Image Credit

And so to conclude the post-Singapore posts.

I love Singapore. It was a fantastic break from our usual tiring routine.

#1Hubby and I got along fabulously. Largely thanks to the rolling happy hours, the shopping, the unlimited sleep and rest opportunities.

It was crazy easy to slip into a child-free state of mind. No dragging unwilling kids around, no finding kiddy-friendly restaurants, no nap times to work around, or eating early to be back at the hotel for bed time.

We missed The Feral Threesome hard. Distance not only makes the heart grow fonder, it also makes the mind grow foggier. Suddenly I couldn't quite recall exactly how irritating it was when, the day before we left, I found them all drag queening themselves up with my make up. Instead, I remembered how freaking cute they looked as mini drag queens.

Time, even a few days, makes every little thing they do seem completely adorable again. Including a 5:15am wake up via blood nose splatter. Ugh...

So, in our summation, we would be the most devoted and loving parents in the world, cherishing our every second with The Feral Threesome, adoring them above all else...if we parented them less frequently.

I am currently attempting to convince him to work the extra 12-14hrs a day he doesn't already, so that we may put The Feral Threesome in boarding school and move to Singapore.

Boarding school in Perth for them (I was a boarding school teen, so I even have a waitlist-jumping right to a killer girls school and its brother school, bonus!)....and an international jetsetting lifestyle for us.

I admit, they may be some fairly extreme measures to go to in order to spend more time in Singapore and be a better parent while around my kids.

I will probably think on it some more before requesting enrollment packs and jumping on Seek to look for Singapore based employment for #1Hubby, in a location close to the shops and bars for me, his lady of leisure expat wife.

Failing a permanent set up, I could quite get used to the odd adults only mini-vacation.

Unfortunately, I may need to find a new babysitter first. Poor #1Nana, she was limping and looking a lot like a startled deer in headlights when we arrived home. She may well be suffering from PTSD. I certainly don't expect her to bravely and naively put her hand up for overnight babysitting duties again any time soon.

For now, I will console myself by flicking through glossy boarding school brochures and signing up for cheap flight email alerts.

Posted by Parental Parody at 5:00 AM

Reactions:

4 comments: Links to this post

Thursday, May 16, 2013

Singapore Fine Dining - The White Rabbit

The post where we go all high class.

No, really.

It's fitting that The White Rabbit is housed in a restored former British Army church, because the meal was a religious experience of sorts for #1Hubby and I.

This was the big one - his actual 40th birthday dinner.

I'd asked the Singapore Tourism Board to recommend somewhere nice, a little bit special.

They far exceeded my request, and I can't thank them enough for this special night out.

We were treated to The White Rabbit's 4 course Prix Fixe, with the restaurant providing an accompanying bottle of Mumm French Champagne for our special night.

I don't even know where to start.

#1Hubby is a fairly traditional 'blokey bloke' - he's shunned sushi because he fears being presented with raw meat or fish, despite my protests that there are other options.

And yet, I witnessed my 'blokey bloke' demolish sashimi grade tuna in what I can only assume was a delicious Salad Nicoise, on account of him not sharing one single morsel. He then followed it up with Wagyu Carpaccio. He still does not believe me when I tell him the beef was raw, such is the nature of a carpaccio.

He's such a heathen, right?

Whereas I, ever the sophisticate, may have covertly used my bread to ensure I had scraped up every single remnant of the Foie Gras Duet done two ways. The seared lobe - worth a trip just to taste that again.

We argued over who would get the Beef Cheek Bourguignon. Of course he played the "it's my 40th birthday dinner" card. So juvenile....

When the waitress poured him a glass of red wine matched to accompany his beef, I was positively seething on the inside.

Of course that's not to say I missed out - I was actually loving the Grilled Atlantic Cod, but of course I didn't let him know that. It would've totally ruined my martyr routine. So, instead, I stoically sipped my Mumm (lest he get more of it than me).

Come dessert I snapped up the Chocolate Moelleux before he could even open his mouth. So much oozing chocolately goodness.

#1Hubby had the Crepes Suzette, which were made at the table, including an explanation of the cooking process.

I particularly loved the part that, without the Grand Marnier, it was really just pancakes in orange juice. Totally brought it down to our level of understanding!

Dining at The White Rabbit is truly an experience. It's not just a restaurant, far from it.

The staff were attentive and incredibly friendly. They know their stuff. From the history of the restaurant and the Dempsey Hill area, to the story behind each dish and its ingredients. They knew which wines would best suit each dish, and I watched a number of staff prepare the signature Crepes Suzette with a flourish.

The service is phenomenal and friendly - the friendliness can sometimes be missing in fine dining establishments. Not here. Not once did I have to look for service. And, most importantly, as someone whose usual definition of 'dining out' is a rushed meal at Sizzler with the kids - never did I ever feel uncomfortable or awkward in such a fine dining establishment.

For one night, we were those people - the ones who dine at a first class restaurant. Who enjoy French champagne. I could totally get used to it.

Honestly, it was the highlight of our trip. This kind of fare, this restaurant experience, it is something we've rarely had the opportunity to enjoy. It was our one special occasion, and it's something we'll never forget.

For my part, I can now tick another luxury champagne off my bucket list!

I can't thank both The White Rabbit and the Singapore Tourism Board enough for making #1Hubby's birthday dinner a very special night.

If you find yourself in Singapore and you want a special and unique dining experience, treat yourself and try The White Rabbit's Four Course Prix Fixe.

Posted by Parental Parody at 5:00 AM

Reactions:

4 comments: Links to this post

Tuesday, May 14, 2013

Singapore in 24 child-free hours

For this week's posts I bring you a quick wrap up of our Singapore fling, complete with Singapore Sling's....

I promise that will be the last of my poorly attempts at witty word play.

First up, the getting there and back.

The trip over was amazing - complete with lounge access at Perth Airport, which left us yearning for the pointy end of the plane just that little more than usual. One day I will convince #1Hubby and the kids to stay at home and 'take one for the team' so that I may use all of our holiday funds to fly at the pointy end. Until such time, I will practice sticking my pinkie finger out at the appropriate angle for French champagne pre-flight drinks in Business Class, dahhhlings.

Can I just say - Singapore Airlines' lounge is possibly more impressive than my house. It's impeccably clean, has a far better stocked fridge, more food options, and of the three children in the room, not one was swearing or wiping grubby fingers on anything. It was positively calm, peaceful and delightful.

I was desperate for someone I knew to spot me walking in and out of the lounge. Sadly, it didn't happen, and after two fabricated excuses to go in and out, I gave up. If I do ever make it to the pointy end of the plane for real, I will send out a mass Facebook party invitation for everyone to come watch me enter the lounge in a sophisticated manner, followed by waving me off as I board the plane first. I may wave from my seat at the front, but only if it doesn't come off as classless and unbecoming. Perish the thought.

Total Singapore Airlines awesomeness - making us both feel special, heh.

About half way into our flight, #1Hubby was presented with a massive chocolate cake, complete with bubbly and cards. Multiple cards. One said "Happy Anniversary!". Another said "Happy Birthday!", and a third simply went with "Love Forever!". So this means that it was also my celebration. And that I will not be expected to produce any further celebratory events for our anniversary in October.

And suddenly, in our loved up anniversary and birthday sharing state, our 5 hour flight had whizzed past (possibly on account of not having any kids in tow to cause us to white-knuckle the entire journey).

How to do Singapore in 24 child-free hours?

Thankfully, we had a driver for our entire trip. Eric knows everything there is to know about Singapore. He was full of suggested sights and destinations for our limited time. And he's an excellent driver. Not once did I have to use the invisible break that I've become so accustomed to in many Asian countries with heavy traffic and almost impossible to follow road rules.

Thanks to Eric, we did not 'Get Lost in Singapore'. He made the cross-island trips quick and effortless. In fact, the only single time we did get lost was inside the enormous Marina Bay Sands complex after visiting the Sands Sky Park, when we thought we'd make like posh people and stroll through the jaw droppingly fancy shopping plaza.

Rather than underwhelm you with my poorly attempt at photographing the amazing views from the Sands Sky Park, I give you proof of #1Hubby's girly-man fear of heights. This is him, crouching in fear because he's too scared to go right to the edge to take a photo - the edge that is covered in shatter-proof glass, steel and safety wires.

Gucci darling, Cartier, Givenchy - all the big guns. You just know it's going to be fancy when they call it The Shoppes. The one time #1Hubby and I argued over the whole trip was here. It was a serious issue - how to correctly pronounce 'The Shoppes'. When we reached a stalemate and finally asked someone, they looked at us rather bemused and said SHOPS, it is pronounced SHOPS.

We were way off with our SHOPES versus SHOP-PES argument.

Showing our Classe in The Shoppes by posing with some of the designer window models. Images not taken by us, rather by some Japanese tourists who found it totally hilarious and egged us on. I am expecting our own Anime cartooon and miniature doll line any minute now. It will be huge.

We spent our first night at the Novotel in Clarke Quay. Perfect location, right at the end of the Clarke Quay strip of harbour-side restaurants and bars.

We had planned to stroll all the alleyways of Clarke Quay, but we got as far as the very first bar and saw the "Happy Hour : 2 for 1 including Sangria" sign and we were all like "Ole! We're in!" and suddenly three hours had passed.

We finally dragged ourselves away and crossed over to nearby shops, before coming back to watch a group of Japanese tourists take turns on a massive slingshot. Classic visual comedy at its finest. Particularly exciting watching a heaving, wretching guy stumble off and into the nearest bush to deposit his lunch.

While that was certainly enjoyable, we happened to look up and notice that our hotel was attached to a 5 storey shopping complex, and so we were off to Hello Kitty it up in there.

I nearly wept when I saw a $2 shop and a giant supermarket in the complex. Starbucks caffeine fuel in hand (because I could afford to be reckless and consume caffeine in the evening, being that I didn't have to get to sleep at a reasonable hour to get up early to the kids), I made both my bitch. My bitchez, if you will (because that makes it sound so classy).

There's nothing I love more than a massive supermarket. Really. I am that person who gets super psyched to do the grocery shopping, and I love checking out the different products in supermarkets in foreign countries. Maybe it's the whole "justifiable shopping" vibe of spending money in a supermarket; maybe it's just my severe addiction to shopping. Who knows. Who cares.

Finally, shopped out to the max, we dumped our bounty in the room and headed back out to Clarke Quay for a late dinner, and possibly some more happiness courtesy of the rolling Happy Hours.

So in conclusion - what to do in Singapore with 24 child-free hours?

All the S words....

Shopping, sightseeing and Sangria