Domestically disabled... right?

While wandering through Avoca on Suffolk Street looking for C*******s gifts a couple of years ago, I found a mug emblazoned with the above image. It was just so me. In the time-honoured tradition of "a present for you... a present for me...", I decided to treat myself.

I can't cook or bake [I overdo everything because I'm terrified of giving people food poisoning with my offerings] or do laundry [things literally fall apart after I've washed them]. This ineptitude has never really bothered me.

Until now.

Maybe it's just that my 26^th birthday is looming and I'm feeling that I ought to feel too old for non-stop Futurama or That 70s Show, but in the last couple of months I've found myself drawn more and more to all things cooking-y. I find myself watching UKTV Food [damn you, Sky!]; I like the look of Nigella Lawson's offerings. I can even watch and - wait for it - enjoy programmes from Jamie Oliver and Rachel Allen. Thanks to another Rachel, one of my virtual friends from Beaut.ie, I have been introduced to the world of foodie websites via her own shiny new foodie blog, Fairy Cake Heaven. She has me wanting a red heart-shaped Le Creuset pot to make stew and dumplings and brown bread ice cream.

What the hell is happening to me?!

It's beginning to look a lot like You-Know-What

I said in that there last post about how we got on in Monart that I had adapted an "ah, there's no rush on it" attitude to house things on foot of our Monart trip. [Did I mention that I was in Monart? Hah? Sorry, I'll stop going on about it soon, promise.]

Well.

The realisation that there are just 6 weekends standing between me and C*******s has lit a bit of a fire under me, I can tell you. Now, usually I get very cross about how the build up to C*******s starts earlier and earlier every year and how it's all far too commercial etc etc etc. Penneys had festive stock in store sometime back in May or thereabouts and Boots had the baubles and the garlands up and the gift sets out in the middle of October. That's just Sick And Wrong.

But since we're into November and it is actually winter now, I've decided to just try and get into the spirit of things and enjoy the extended run up for a change. Himself was on about making C*******s puddings and things the other day and I didn't bat an eyelid, so it's going pretty well. As you may have noticed, I can't quite bring myself to actually use the 'C' word, but I'm sure it'll come to me.

Apart from starting to draw up pressie lists earlier than usual and have a distinctly less furrowed brow than normal for this time of year, I am determined to have the gaff all done [or at least, well on its way there] by the time the day itself rolls around. My To Do list is as long as... well, much longer than my arm. As long as Leonid Stadnyk's arm, maybe. It features some ambitious plans and will definitely involve a trip to IKEA in Belfast [only 27 days to go!] I'm all gung-ho about housey things again now, having read the print off December's Living Etc, visited Zee's great Homebug blog and had a nose on her "absolute favourite interior design blog", Desire To Inspire.

So if anyone's planning a visit to us this side of the New Year, they best pack their nicest paintin' clothes!

The Monart Experience & Other Stories

Well, Monart was a-maaaazing. I'd go back in a heartbeat. I was so chilled out after our sojourn that I didn't do any of the house-y things I'd planned to get sorted - and didn't stress about not getting them done [unheard of]. That zen-like calmness last until, oh, about 9.10am on the Monday I came back to work but I was lovely and floaty until then.

There's actually a little review-type post about our experience here on Beaut.ie... just don't let on to Himself how you know he likes facials ;)

And if you click here, you'll see that there is now have a very valid excuse reason for the sporadic posting on this Lickle Pink Blog - I'm also blogging for le Big Pink Blog that is my favourite website of all time, Beaut.ie!

*Blushes furiously at the shameless blowing-own-trumpet-ness of it all*