Merry Christmas


So this is Christmas.

I hope you have pud.

This being my first Christmas, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. I mean there are just so many unknowns! When do I write to Santa? Who is cooking the turkey and how do I maintain a summer body in December… it’s near impossible! Then there’s the shopping, decorating and the endless Christmas catch ups, which – if we’re honest, are just an excuse to drink prosecco and eat mince pies. However, I am quite enjoying those horrific Netflix Christmas movies. You know, the one with the Prince and the snow… the sequel. Oh it’s so bad it’s good! And the Gavin and Stacey Christmas special – the BBC’s finest achievement in my opinion.

Yet all this fuss has got my thinking… who on earth is in charge of styling this event?

My human, of the female variety, is also determined to have me look like my heart is full of Christmas spirit. I hate to tell her it’s full of stubborness and naps. Who wants to wear a ridiculous Christmas themed bow tie?! Just you wait for Christmas day, because I know she’s got a reindeer costume that she can’t wait to strap to my chest and pull over my ears. The fit is horrid and simply does me no justice, yet little does she care. Her Instagram following increases and my popularity inflates her ego. Good for her!

The humans have also erected a tree and tried to decorate in a tasteful fashion, with little success might I add. It looks like the 1980’s have thrown up all over the front room. My room, to be precise! Red, gold and green baubles and shit everywhere. Honestly, have some class!

Wouldn’t it be better to skip all the nonsense and just by kind one another. Just kidding… hand me my presents!

Merry Christmas though…




Puppy School


If this is the first time we’ve met, I’m Hector I’m a Mini Dachshund who has recently immigrated from the western suburbs to the bayside area of Melbourne. I’m passionate about Mozart and chicken necks as well as documentary film and morning strolls.

So I must confess I’m here to have a humble brag about graduating from Puppy School this past weekend. Yes, I have completed a four week introduction to puppy socialisation and behaviour, food and nutrition, play engagement, markers and release cues – sit, drop, stand (that’s a lie), recall and a meet and greet with cafe work. I’m exhausted just listing these accomplishments! However, I do look forward to having my Sunday mornings back. Although, I do quite fancy taking up Croquet now that the weather is on the improve. I suspect my human of the male variety can facilitate that kind of activity for me though.

Apologies, I digress.

Here is my certificate #humblebrag

My humans were hopeful I’d be the star student at Puppy School, but for me it’s always about making the biggest impact. Be the loudest in the room! Accidentally wee on the floor just before we are about to leave. Pretend to be frightened of the tiny female Mini Dachshund as we lock eyes from across the room. You see to me it’s all just a big show. An opportunity to let my humour and charming personality capture all those who encounter me. Also, Puppy School should be renamed ‘The Poached Chook Buffet’. Every time you take a seat or pretend you’ve reacted to a cue you get hand fed a piece of chicken. It’s glorious I tell you!

‘Hec-tAAHH + Sit’ = Chicken. 

Basic mathematics paired with some functional movement and they hand feed me organic poached chicken! No complaints from me.

Despite my jovial tone I really did enjoy Puppy School and it made me realise there is still so much for me to learn. My ambition to take on some higher learning or a completely new topic makes me want to climb into the humans book shelf and educate myself. I’ve noticed a trilogy of novels that have sparked my interest and I suspect they belongs to my female human – 50 Shades of Grey. It sounds most intriguing.

As they say the world’s your poached chicken buffet and I’m secretly relieved that these roommate humans of mine, let me do whatever I like. As if they’d try and stop me!

Before I forget – what are your thoughts on my tie?

Until we meet again.




If you fancy finding out a bit more about me or humans you can do so. If not, stick it up your jacksie! 


Everything you need to know to survive the rest of ‘The Ashes’

One down, four to go.

Women all over Australia are experiencing the same awful truth. ‘The Ashes’ has returned for yet another year.


Despite being told it’s un-Australian, cricket season is the most dreaded summer activity for 95% of Australian women. Ok I made that up, but I’m prepared to add it to a Wikipedia page to increase credibility.  

Don’t take this the wrong way, but cricket is boring. And having it on the telly for the entire summer is worse than volunteering to host Xmas lunch with your in laws.

So with the completion of the first test, reluctantly, we are faced with 4 more test matches. Which means up to 20 more days of cricket. Yep, that many. So here’s everything you need to know to survive the rest of ‘The Ashes’.

There are 5 test matches per series and each is alternated between England and Australia. Always in the summer of the host country. This is purely so the telecast can be watched in the comfort of an air conditioned living room.

‘Shhh!’ Why do you have to be quiet when the cricket is on… it’s not like you’re going to miss anything!

When in Australia, the first test is held in Brisbane. The only good thing about this is the Gabba has introduced a Pool Deck inside the stadium. Where you can dip your toes, drink frothies and wait patiently for a marriage proposal.

Australia v England - First Test: Day 2
A potential marriage proposal is the only reason to go to the cricket.

Tickets to the 1st day of the Boxing Day test held in Melbourne are hotter than an all inclusive backstage pass to Beyonce. So if you happen across some, either gift them to your other half and regain the rights to your lounge room. Or sell them on eBay and use the cash to buy yourself a second telly.

The last day of ‘The Ashes’ series is held in Sydney on January 8th. Set a reminder in your phone now. Because after this date you’ll see cricketers in coloured kits instead of whites and that’s your cue to grab the remote and a bottle of wine. Your air conditioned telly rights have been returned and it’s time to binge watch Netflix

Bachie Recap 

If you’re anything like me you love any kind of guilty pleasure trashy TV. Especially the Bachie. You watch. You cringe. You laugh. You get all the feels.
I love it so much that I even watched the low budget British version with Spencer Matthews (Pippa Middelton’s new brother in law). That was until the episode where the girls were forced against their will (I imagine) to do their own make up and perform a self written rap song in the English countryside. While the Bachie sat on a fishing chair with a flask of port. Both talent and lighting were lacking significantly on this date and I could no longer watch as the trash turned to sewerage.
However, this could never deter me from the Aussie version. In fact, I’ve even applied to be a Bachie contestant myself. Even though it’s a tedious process, as it does take 8 hours to complete the online application and then there is a good 4 month processing period.  I was stoked to finally received a call back! Although I did neglect to attend the audition for fear I would be asked to do topless jelly wrestling at the group audition. I would have been cast for all the wrong reasons.
So you can imagine my delight when I was informed that the newest Bachie: Matty J would be attending my workplace (… I work in an office not a makeshift rap venue in the English countryside).

In the lead up to Matty J’s arrival I sent my colleagues a daily meme of him and his gorgeous head of hair.

I campaigned for custom t-shirts and suggested serving champagne on arrival. Alas, both of these ideas were rejected by the finance manager.

I was now forced to produce my own low budget Bachie.

Monday 5th June 2017: Matty J Day! 

I expected him to be late but 25 minutes was almost more than my nerves could take. I kept peering out over my desk to see if he had arrived. Every time I heard someone get out of the lift my heart would race and I’d get a hot flush. It’s the same feeling you get when you’re rocking up to a tinder date or standing on a packed tram. Then finally I see that lush brown hair floating through the doorway and into my office. I took a deep breathe and stood up from my desk. Calmly I shook his hand while casually saying:

‘You must be Matty J..?’ 

He nods.

I continue.

‘I’m Abbey welcome to Starcom. I am the most excited that you’re here.’ 

He still says nothing.

I continue.

‘I’ll let everyone else know you’re here.’ 

It’s at this point I recognise the the sentiment on his face. I’ve seen it before, many times before. It’s a mix of terror, discomfort and the feeling that you’ve just met a crazy.

Still, I continue.

I take 10 steps towards the office space and scream into the open plan area:

‘HE’S HERE!!!!’ 

What I’ve also failed to mention is that I’m dressed in a flamingo pink satin hand beaded ball gown that I purchased from the op shop for $25. I figured that he would feel more comfortable around a female in a ball gown, but I think it had the exact opposite effect.

I will absolutely be adding the $25 I spent on the dress to my work expense claim this week.

Defs dancing here
That’s the look. The look of terror, discomfort and when you know you’ve just met a crazy!

Zoe and the Drumstick

You might not know this about me. But, before I became a blogger and a floral arrangement enthusiast (that’s what my Linked In profile says anyway), I was a professional dancer.

After almost 20 years of being a competitor I joined a dance company, which was kind of like joining the circus, and I loved it. I lived on a cruise ship between New York, Miami and the Caribbean. I had a brilliant tan and a disposable income. (Sigh)

Each week I would recap of the events in a newsletter and send it back to my family. Eventually my readership grew and I ended up with 11 people on my mailing list. (Wow)

I found this old newsletter on my computer the other day and it’s honestly one of my favourite stories from my days as a professional dancer.

The story of: ‘Zoe and the Drumstick’ (Favourite!)

February 3, 2015

The Love Boat 3.0

I’ve always known this deep down in my heart, but it wasn’t until yesterday that it was confirmed to me. I will never make it as a hip hop dancer.

I have been asked to attend a private Pyjama Jam rehearsal (click HERE to check out a vid from a Pyjama Jam “performance”), and to my knowledge this is the first time this has ever happened. As I’m possibly the worst Pyjama Jammer there ever was. I’m not that upset about it and I could really benefit from another rehearsal as I have absolutely no bloody idea what I’m doing. Everyone else, however, finds it very amusing and I secretly think they are hoping they can use my lack of talent to get themselves out of having to do this event ever again.

How dare they.

Anyway, I do the rehearsal the night before and then I get up early the next morning, put my hair in pig tails, have a coffee and manage to wear the wrong shoes. The first step I have to do is a grape vine. I look over at Gary (my PJ Jam partner) to get the music cue: ‘…5678’.
Wrong foot.
I’m surely getting fired.

I spent a very cold NYC day, firstly, by hitting the Aussie cafe in the West Village with the Aussies and then having a visit with LK (my mate from Ballarat High School). This is the first time I’d seen her since her trip home for Xmas. We talked all things Ballarat, life planned (mainly LK’s life not mine), ate cheese, lost an iPhone, found an iPhone and then I spent the $200 I had found in the side pocket of my handbag earlier that day… not entirely on cheese. I do realise that the days of spending $50 on a Christian Dior mascara are limited, but I also think while they are here I might as well make the most of them. LK and I agree to meet up again in two days when I’m back in NYC to further life plan. When I arrive, 2 days later, it’s raining and LK is pretty hungover so we decide to just get mozzarella sticks, go watch a movie and see what cheap jewellery we can find in H&M that will greatly improve our social lives. Life planning can wait.

The steel walls of a cruise ship see many a ship-mance and there is never any judgement about whom you may choose to be your significant other during your time onboard. And there is many good things about having a “Boat Boyfriend/Girlfriend”. For example there is always someone to remind you to leave a tip at a restaurant (and do the 15% calculation for you). Borrow their couch, window and tv that is so far away that you need to wear your glasses to see. But I think I’ve discovered the best advantage of having a ship-mance is that you get a couples discount on haircuts. Brilliant.
My favourite thing that happened all week was in the show on the last day of the cruise. It had been rocky (bad weather) the night before so we had moved our show to the following day for a matinee. Which actually worked out really well because a lot of the other entertainment staff can never see our show as they are also usually working in the evenings (when we our show is scheduled), so they all came along and cheered us on. It’s always great to have some support and you naturally always go a little bit harder when your name is being screamed or someone is holding up a sign that reads: “I LOVE YOU ABBEY”  written in glitter glue. This is yet to happen to me… but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. The drummer (we have a live band on stage) was having a particularly good show as his Boat Girlfriend was in the audience and she’s bold, funny and sounds like a fog horn. Half way into the second number everyone is going to town and the drummer loses one of his drum sticks and it goes flying onto the stage. At one point it is between Robert’s (my dance partner) feet, but he is none the wiser and kicks it further down stage where it becomes an even bigger hazard. Luckily Zoe was able to pick it up. The best thing to do would have been to throw it into the wing, but Zoe was too far past the wing so she ‘gently’ threw it off the front of the stage. Well Zoe doesn’t know her own strength and I now believe her when she says “Red wine is good for you” because she threw it so hard it hit a lady sitting in the front row… in the head!

Zoe won the show.

Due to my age, tanning schedule and recent lack of athletic motivation I have become the “bag lady” on every group excursion. I enjoy the quiet time and have a little sleep before making judgements about all the other people on the beach. I wonder if I will grow up to be like the uber tanned wrinkly skinned old lady, knee deep in the ocean clutching her tea cup shittypoo dog. Or if I’ll be the parent that ignores their kids while they argue and throw sand at each other. I do think that if I don’t start going kayaking or on roller coasters I am probably going to end up being demoted from a “bag lady” to a “cat lady”. I really hope that it is none of these options, but I do have a feeling it will involve me wearing pearls, telling stories about that time I lived on a boat, and I will no doubt be clutching a flask of whiskey. Or maybe have a still have bottle of wine stashed in my backpack, like I do now…

Until next week… On the Love Boat 3.0.

because: FoxFooty

Something bad happened.

The boyfriend spontaneously signed up to Foxtel. Introductory offer. No sign up fee. All the channels for 30 days.


Last weekend I endured at least 93 hours of AFL game time. That includes attending a game and all the footage viewed either on the couch, at the pub or via the boyfriends phone. And now we have access to Foxtel and every football game, talk show and bloody replay for the entire season!

I think by the end of the winter, not only, will I have scabies and a vitamin D deficiency but a wealth of AFL knowledge.

For Christmas my brother and I bought Dad the entire 2016 Western Bulldogs Premiership season on DVD. Obviously Rossy had already seen all the games, the replays and the victorious Grand Final but we though he’d like to watch them again. Then a few weeks after Christmas my brother and I both recieve a text from Mum. This is all it read:
It seems the issue of having one TV and ready access to AFL is not only limited to those with a Foxtel subscription. Rossy was playing the games over and over, well into the night. All the while sitting on the edge of his seat and screaming at the telly. Neglecting to acknowledge he already knew the outcome of the game and the entire the season. Mum was less than impressed and unfortunately doesn’t have the option of watching anything else as there is only one TV in the house.
Back at the boyfriends on a rainy Sunday morning, I am granted full Foxtel access.
‘You can choose’.
The boyfriend says.
I smile relectantly thinking this is like when someone asks you if you would like a drink and when you reply with a ‘Yes’, they tell you to get it yourself. I feel like I’m about to be tricked, so I take the remote from his hand before he has time to reassess.
In my head I have already chosen. I already know the channel and the days programming. And although I’ve read 3 reviews online of this weeks ‘Real Housewives of Sydney’ episode, I know in my heart it’s all I want to watch. There is nothing quite like watching a middle aged woman wearing a gold sequin jacket and oversized gawdy earrings scream across a Persian caviar themed dinner: “you’re a pain sack”. What does that even mean?! I pretend to be shocked by the drama and claim I would never behave this way. I secretly love the questionable fashion choices and make a mental note to learn the 4 C’s of diamonds and why it would be beneficial to ‘shove it up your arse!’. I already regret doing this research on my own laptop though, as I know now I will not only be targeted by fertility marketing but also diamonds.

What a ‘pain sack’
By the afternoon I have slipped into my office (the bedroom) to “read” and “write a blog”. But, secretly I listen to the footy that is being played in the next room while I look up botox online and the meaning of “pain sack”. Google reports a large link to the word “scrotum” in both instances (Yes, it’s a thing. Injecting botox into testicles!)

Now and then I yell out for a score update and or a wine top up. The boyfriend always delivers both to me in my office. Perhaps fearful I will return to his… along with the housewives.

*I’ve also been able to impress the boyfriend with my already acquired random AFL knowledge. Here are a few gems from the vault:
‘Didn’t Fev play for the Casey Scorpion’s after he retired from AFL?’
‘Jack Watts. He was the no. 1 draft pick a few years ago.’
‘Eddie Maguire has links to the mafia… The bloke who services the coffee machine at work told me.’

because: Melbourne coffee snob

Have you ever seen that movie: “It Could Happen to You”?

It’s where a simple looking, yet beautiful waitress is working in a diner and a friendly cop can’t afford to leave a tip so he promises to either return the next day and double the tip or split his potential lotto winnings. Long story short they win the lotto and fall in love.

This has never happened to me, but it reminds me of the time I had what is best described as a flirty barista. BTW, I’ve only ever won 9th division in Tattslotto and it was when I went in a syndicate with my immediate family. I made the executive decision to NOT split the winnings as I was the one doing all the leg work. It worked out well for me, I was up $17.

Anyway, years ago I worked at an office in Mulgrave and there was only one place to get a coffee and an over priced salad so, naturally, I was a regular. Every Friday the flirty barista would ask me to select one number for his lotto ticket. In return for my numerical services he promised me a share in the winnings. I’m still waiting for my cheque in the mail, but it sure did make me go back week after week for the below-average coffee. For me, it was all about the coffee experience, the hope of winning a fortune and possibly getting a good coffee at the same time.

I’m not one of those people who drinks Nescafe Gold. I also am never going to buy one of those coffee filters from the supermarket and spend my weekly coffee money savings on mortgage repayments.
I love a good coffee experience and I openly admit that I’m a Melbourne coffee snob. I should really get myself a tea towel to explain my status… and also it might help me do the dishes.

melbourne coffee snob

Before you read any further I should tell you that I consider Maccas coffee better than Gloria Jeans and I recently spent a whole weekend complaining about “country coffee” because it was too milky. There I said it.

Best coffee in Melbourne: this is hard for me but I’ll go with my top three:

Uncommon:  60 Chapel St, Windsor VIC 3181

Maybe it’s the indoor plants or the cute permanent residency seeking waiters but this place is gorg. Also the food. And the waiters… did I mention them already?! I usually order a second coffee and then make myself leave before ordering a third. BTW, very cute waiters.

Slater Street Bench: 8/431 St Kilda Rd, Melbourne VIC 3004

Anywhere between 8.25am and 11.45am there is a line out the door and around the corner. Uber trendy intellects serve you the coffee and always remember your name. Gold star! I’ve never had any of the sandwiches though, as they look like display homes – they are just too perfect.
*The benches out the front are designed to be sat on in groups. If you sit on the end of one, by yourself, it will flip up and hit you in the back of the head. This legit happened to me… twice. Pay attention but enjoy the delish coffee.

Best soy coffee in Melbourne: (because: I still pretend I’m a flexitarian sometimes)
Kettle Black: 50 Albert Rd, South Melbourne VIC 3205

I’m happy to pay $15 for smashed avo on toast but I’m not crazy about having a deconstructed version where I actually have to smash the avo on my toast myself. However, I will order this as it’s the cheapest thing on the menu and they make the best soy flat white in town.

If I were a better human I would always make coffee at home with my newly-acquired coffee machine. I would also own a Keep Cup… But I’m not a better human, I’m a Melbourne coffee snob.

because: evolution of domestic goddess

After I moved into my inner Melbourne suburb flat last year, and promised my Dad this would be the last time he had to help me move, I was quick to feel the disappointment of these adult responsibilities: cooking, colour coordinated homewares and life admin.

life admin / ly-f-ad-min noun
1 Refers to one’s personal day-to-day chores that are of an administrative nature. This includes tasks such as personal banking, making appointments, paying your bills, responding to personal emails. Example: Sorry I can’t today, I have too much life admin to take care of.

I had lied about the amount of stairs in my building and I only pretended to help. And once I had finished unpacking all of my worldly possession in my freshly painted shoebox I discovered I needed so many life admin items. Plates, bowls, glasses, cutlery, mop, broom, dust pan, vacuum, duster (… I’m still yet to get one of those) and then all the cleaning products. Also you need to know what to do with said items and Google can only help you so much before it will start being judgemental and asking you in a condescending tone if you meant: recipe for potential kitchen disaster or recipe for scones..?

A few months ago I was appointed scones, as my “bring a plate” item to a Grand Final day barbie. I felt very nervous about having to serve something edible to humans, but I remember my Mum making scones with lemonade instead of butter and I thought to myself: how hard can it be?

I found a recipe online and saved it to my camera roll then I made my way down an unfamiliar aisle of the supermarket and started to load up my basket: Flour, cream lemonade, baking tray. A sieve? I didn’t even know how to spell sieve until I sent this text to my Mum:

‘Mum, do I need a siv (sic), to make scones?’
To which she replied.
‘*Sieve …Who dis?’

I purchased the sieve despite receiving no parental confirmation as well as all the ingredients and I carried them home in my eco-friendly calico bag (I use this item on the daily #adulting). I follow the recipe carefully and mix the flour, cream and lemonade together. But when I get to the bit where you have to put the dough on the baking tray I realise I don’t have a bloody scone cutter. Luckily it’s only the dress rehearsal! So I just roll the dough up into balls and whack them in the oven and hope for the best. I take them out of the oven after 12 minutes and to be honest they look shithouse but, they are perfectly golden. And I’d probably have been more excited if I hadn’t missed Home and Away and didn’t have to still do the dishes.

I take the dress rehearsal scones into work the next day for some constructive feedback. After the initial shock of hearing that I had been baking in my spare time my colleagues were happy to let me know the scones were a little dry but the more cream and jam you added the better they tasted. And once my Mum finally understood it was actually me who had sent her the text about the sieve, and it wasn’t some kind of practical joke, she also informed me that instead of a scone cutter you can just use a glass dipped in water. On the day of the barbie I wake up at 7am to re-stock my ingredients and start baking. I apply the feedback and new information re: scone cutter alternative and everything goes to plan.

Unfortunately all the attendees of the barbie get so boozeled that my scones are forgotten about. The full tray is returned to me the following day, none of the scones have been eaten. Except for one… which someone has taken a bite out of and then put it back.

Since then I have embarked on a wide range of domestic activities including the following:


My Grandad used to get recipes from the Royal Auto magazine. They were sometimes terrific and sometimes terrible but he really enjoyed getting an automotive magazine in the post every month if only to try something new for dinner. Now, I do not own a cookbook and I’m not the kind of person to follow a recipe but I recently discovered I like to watch Better Homes and Gardens when I get home from work on a Friday. Once I even wrote down (I mean, I typed it into the notes section of my phone) one of the recipes as I watched and then went straight to the supermarket in my thongs and a denim shirt to get all the ingredients. I’ve even attached the recipe here:

Recipe: Grilled Zucchini and Pomegranate Salad
Zucchini – thinly sliced and grilled
Green olives
Lemon juice
Guess how much of everything you need.
Chop all ingredients.
Remove Pomegranate seeds in bowl of water as the seeds will sink and the pith will float (great tip… I know)
Chuck in a bowl and stir.


Well, I did a button repair for a guy at work who had to rush out for an important meeting. And I used the sowing kit I keep in my desk drawer for such button emergencies. I also soaked my white linen dress in NapiSan overnight… Does that count?

Indoor plants

In the last 12 months I have successfully killed a tomato plant, a herb garden and an orchid. I’m not sure if it’s because I have zero air flow in my apartment and it can reach up to 150 degrees (Celsius) in the summer. Or if it’s because I drown them..? Maybe a combination of both. Just this week I received a rosemary plant in a Secret Santa gift and I’m told it’s very hard to kill rosemary. So I turned to the World Wide Web for advice:

Caring for Rosemary Plant:
1. After the plant flowers, remember to trim the plant.
2. For fresh rosemary in the winter, grow the plant indoors in a pot. …
3. Prune regularly so that the plant won’t get lanky.
4. Water the plants evenly throughout the growing season.
5. Be sure to get cuttings or divide the plant for next season.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

My evolution to domestic goddess has been very evident in the last few months and some people have even suggested to me, that the improvements I have made are due to my hidden inner desire to become a home maker. I don’t know if that is accurate but I’m happy to indulge the idea even just so I have something other than tinned tuna and dust for lunch for the rest of my life.

But if anyone is thinking of getting me a personalised scone tin for Christmas… Don’t.


1. Life Admin – Urban dictionary definition 2. Zucchini and Pomegranate Salad c/o Better Homes and Gardens… and Pomegranate tip from Mr Finley Brentwood 3. Caring for Rosemary plant –

because: yoga

I really don’t actually enjoy going to the gym. Like, I am not even going to pretend that I walk out of that place filled with endorphins and a new found life motivation. I kind of wish I was one of those people that said: ‘Once you go, you just feel so much better!’
… I believe they are lying not only to you, but also to themselves.

Anyway, I pay my membership and I plan to go to the gym every day but the reality is that I might go twice a week… Or maybe once a week. Ok, I go once a week. Once.

Of late, I have been enjoying far too many Uber Eats and $3 pies from the 7/11 so the boyfriend and I entertained the idea of doing boot camp together. But neither of us were thrilled with a 6am start or the idea of being verbally harassed into our dream summer bikini bodies. It is one thing to start your day peddling a stationary bike while reading a romance novel and quite another to be yelled at by a tattooed middle aged man who Googles, daily, the words: French Foreign Legion and Michelle Bridges. The next option I was presented with was CrossFit and I wasn’t overly enthusiastic about that, but I was sold the idea by use of my favourite nine-word sentence:
‘You could get a blog post out of it.’

*I fear I may have also agreed to go camping, for the first time ever, because these words were also used in a bid to convince me three days without a shower isn’t so bad!*
Fortunately the CrossFit bloke never got back to us about scheduling an intro session so by we decided to just go to yoga instead. I was a little nervous about participating in a hot yoga class considering my normal low blood pressure and the heightened chance of me fainting in a warmed space. I have the same feeling when I get on the tram and it’s over 23 degrees. There is always the chance I will faint, have a seizure and shit myself all at the same time. So the 10 minutes before the start of the class when you just lay there and adjust to the room temperature is really for everyone’s benefit. And they are not kidding about it being hot yoga. It is V hot!

I do cheat on half of the breathing exercises and it’s going to be a long time before I can successfully stand on my head. But, so far, I’ve made it through without incident and have since cancelled my gym membership and am planning my life around yoga classes. It kind of matches my wine allergy and maybe by the New Year I’ll have become a vegan? It’s for sure better than psyching yourself up for the gym and then never going.

(insert video Boasty tagged me in)

Even though I’m no closer to rocking all my belly tops this summer I don’t even really care, to be honest. I just like that I’m sweating while lying on my back with my eyes closed.

The best thing about this whole yoga experience is after the class we go for dinner. And we walk straight past the place with overpriced Vietnamese noodle salad and the organic chicken restaurant with gluten free/dairy free/no fun Snickers bar (I’ve never had one but the internet told me so) and go and get burgers.

Big fat dirty delicious burgers.

I didn’t feel guilty at all, not even when I order a beer or dipped the whole burger in mayo. And all I can think about is going back this week to try the southern fried chicken burger.
This probably indicates I won’t become a vegan anytime soon… or a full time yogi.


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