goodbye twenty-fifteen

I wish I could put a stop on time and postpone twenty-sixteen for another year or so. I was a tad smug when I never became emotional at the thought of B. growing up. I was always excited by her birthdays and never shed sad tears by her non-baby status. I don't know if she grew up too quickly. She walked before she was one, stopped naps before she was two and easily toilet trained a month later. Moving on to solids and milk and, then, no bottles at all was a breeze. Part of me feels like she was never really a baby and I kind of loved it because as B. grew so did our friendship {yes I am lame}.

But, now, ugh, twenty-sixteen marks the end of B. being my baby. B. starts "big school" and, yes, I know kindergarten isn't massively stressful and B. was already at pre-school at an actual primary school all of this past year but, well, it just feels different. I can feel it in my bones. Change is a-coming. Usually I'm great with change. I'm easily adaptable. I took all of the baby changes in my stride. Teething -- easy. Breast-feeding -- easy, in the fact that it didn't work and B. hated it so we just bottle fed. All of it -- easy. This, big school, not so easy.

It just occurred to me that B. will be using the toilets on her own. She'll have a school uniform and Wednesday won't be a half day and I can't lure B. into skipping a day for shopping {not that the hobo fell for my tactics anyway}. I know I'm being terribly immature and I own that but that's only a small part of it. A much larger part is worried and scared and terrified and *insert thesaurus here*. I'm not ready. B. is. She already hates school holidays and can't wait to be at school. She loves it. She's emotionally ready. She knows how to write and count and take her damn jacket off. She can use the toilet and open a lunchbox and all the other things we were told she needed to know before school. But...boo.

At home, I'm the only one worried. Husband is cool, calm, collected. His theory that B. has to start some time and while she doesn't need to {legally speaking} start this year she wants to. That kid needs it in her bones just like I need to stunt her growth and have her home with me forever and always.


So, nope, I'm not looking forward to the end of twenty-fifteen and the beginning of this stupid year. Though, I doubt anybody is still reading {no doubt turned off by my foot stamping, whining and, quite frankly, boring ass life} I do have some resolutions that don't involve poisoning my kids mind about school {which I would never actually do. I just dream about it. A lot}:

one. this year I am going to channel my anxiety/depression/ptsd into my novel. A side-effect of being happy is that I can't write dark/depressing stuff and since that is my favourite kind of writing, well, happiness has kind of put a damper on things. Every time I have one of my dark bed-for-days moments I'm pulling out my novel and smashing away at it until I feel better.

two. this is the year I'm finishing my novel so - ha! - I'm awesome. I will not feel guilty about writing when I could be sleeping/cleaning/relaxing/being with my family. But I will not hole away and become hermit-esque because it's happened before and it ain't pretty.

three. I will accept the things I can not change and this especially includes my mind. I will channel all my darkness into writing and will finish this year, perhaps, not "cured" but more accepting of who I am.


happy new year everyone x


that married life//fight like robots

I'm not one for giving out marriage advice because, heck, I've only been married for 5 years and I'm only 28 and, well, a whole bunch of other crap. What do I even know? Really? Regardless, I'm gonna give some anyway --

Something Husband and I incorporated into our relationship quite a while ago is to not fight. Or, rather, to not scream at each other. Before we had B. we fought quite loudly and while it made for great makeup...relations... it didn't make a wonderful marriage. Sure, fighting is "normal" but there was something about the take-no-prisoners approach that had me feeling like crap. 

While I was pregnant with B. Husband and I discussed what we wanted our home life to be like, what we expected from each other as parents and what our dreams of us plus B. were. Like everything else in our relationship we clicked on it all and it was at that point where I mentioned to him that I didn't want B. to be raised in a home where her parents screamed and yelled at each other. I've been woken by screaming parents in the middle of the night and it's terrifying. I wanted a better life for B. Husband did too.

It took some practice but we now fight like robots. It's kind of eye-rollingly nauseating but it works. I coined the term "fight like robots" {because I'm a sarcastic idiot} and here's how it works:

Husband it upsets me when you leave your socks on the floor. I am not your slave.

I'm sorry wife. I will keep an eye on my sock placement -- and then actually does just that.

Wife you can't expect me to know everything you're feeling. Please let me know when you need something. I can't always guess.

Okay Husband, I will communicate more.

Husband can you please stop grabbing my boobs in your sleep?

Do I do that? I am sorry. That is rude. I will stop it at once.

Yes, I kind of do actually hate myself right now but, look, it works. We communicate well, we don't scream and we don't call each other names. Our robot fights have also made sure we don't snipe at each over random things like not washing dishes properly and our marriage is infinitely better.

We still have that sarcastic relationship that not many people seem to get. We're still unflinchingly honest and we still have passion. And this robot thing makes me love that balding weirdo that much more.


christmas love

from the stiffed-smiled B, a slouchy Santa & me! -- merry christmas xxx


watch//british baking

Currently, so stupidly obsessed with this show. I stumbled upon it on Netflix when my throat was sore and my feet ached and depression ate away my insides and it, along with red icy poles and Husband snuggles, soothed it all.

Is it the accents? The deliciously edible and disgustingly inedible treats? Mary Berry? The clothes? Bingate? The teeth?

I don't know.

But whatever it is I'm delighted I stumbled upon this gem because sometimes you just need something easy to watch that blends terrible jokes, adorable people {miss you Norman!} and decadent treats.


being mum//perfection is overrated

I have a confession. I hate bedtime. It's boring. Reading stories. Waiting until the kid is asleep until you can go do fun stuff like cleaning {ugh}. Mostly I hate the goodbye, the idea that I won't see B. until morning, that I have to leave her alone, that there's no time for snuggles.

I hate bedtime with a passion. I avoid it as much as I can and slip out before the story begins. I'm a fun parent! Bedtime is just hideously boring. There's no chance for Disney movies and popcorn. There's just that intolerable wait until morning until I can snuggle up with B. again.

Of course, my anxiety plays a part here -- something bad could happen while she sleeps and I am not there, so, like any normal functioning person I avoid it as much as possible. I tuck in and kiss goodnight. I also unintentionally hype up the child as much as I can without my Husband getting annoyed with me. I am a terrible parent. I know. Handcuff me and take me away {spank me if need be}.

If it makes you feel any better I also suck at my own bedtime.

Are there any parenting jobs you just hate?


mental health & faking it...

Mentally ill people should kill themselves.

The mentally ill should be sterilised.

They don't deserve love.

They're making it up.


These things, along with the idea that someone with depression can just be happy are ludicrous, heart breaking and confusing. Most of all, for me, they are damaging to my healing. I don't need to hear these things. But I do. I'm sure we all do.

You might know somebody who is mentally ill. You might know me. Perhaps you think we're faking it. Trust me, we're not. If I could choose a life free of ptsd flashes when it rains, anxiety attacks at work, the blindness of a panic attack or the crippling sadness of depression I would. If I could click my fingers I would.

When we say we can't help it we mean it. We are trying hard enough.

"Hard enough" for me means taking my medication even if it is incredibly disheartening to be told I need to up my dosage. It means therapy. It means not slitting my wrists when my brain tells me to.

I spend hours trying to fall asleep. I try to quieten my brain. I want it to stop. If I could make it I would.

Caring about someone with mental illness is hard. I know that. We don't need you to know and be everything. We just need you to try. We don't need to be coddled. Tell us the truth. We still deserve to be treated like everyone else. But, yes, we have an illness. So, just like you wouldn't expect someone who can't walk to just move their legs, sometimes you need to understand that we can't just get out of bed. We can't just not come crumbling down when it rains. We can't be okay in social situations.

We try but we can't always win. We can't control our brain and what it tells us. On good days we can overpower it or choose to ignore it. Most times that voice is still there, gnawing away at our brain, screaming you are unworthy, die. On bad days we need to retire to our safe place and just be. We need to surround ourselves with those we really trust. These people have seen us smacking our heads and screaming in frustration. These people really know us. We trust them.

You may not get that. That's fine. Sometimes we need to disappear for a while and maybe we seem selfish or like we don't care. We do. We probably care too much. We're staying away because we don't want you to see us like this. My Husband is the only one who has seen me at my lowest. He signed on for this, he promised this. Others did not.

When life gets tough we may seem like hermits for months at a time. It has nothing to do with you. Sure, it can't be nice to feel tossed to the side. I get that. We wouldn't toss if we didn't have to. We can't be surrounded by people. We need one, if any. Sometimes we need complete silence and darkness. Sometimes it hurts to even be with ourselves.

This is not something we chose. We're sick just like anyone else. We need support just like anyone else. We are not crazy. Being mentally ill does not automatically mean we are going to hurt someone else {in fact, I could think of nothing worse}. Being talked badly about makes us want to shrink further into our shells. We've built up a wall, hundreds of walls, and instead of taking the time to knock them down you give up at the first sign of perceived rudeness. You say things about us that ultimately return to our ears and it stings. It makes us less likely to trust you when you realise you've been faking concern/worry/love this whole time.

We need people who are nice and understanding just like we are of you. We need you to be aware that sometimes we don't look at our phones for days on end and sometimes our body aches so badly that we shuffle through life in a smokey haze.

We are just like you except we have mental illness. Don't make us feel bad about it. We already do. We are trying to get better. We are trying to beat this. But sometimes, for some people, it stays and it just becomes something you have to live with and we have to adjust. If you want us in your life you need to adjust too. If you can't handle it that's your prerogative.

We don't need to be lied about, bitched about, snickered at. We don't need your pity. We don't need your gossip that's thinly veiled as concern. We just want to be treated normally because we are normal. But we also need you to keep this in mind, all of it. Just like you'd not shove a cat in front of someone who was allergic. Just like you'd not force an alcoholic to drink. Just like you'd not get mad at someone with chronic illness for being somewhat absent.

We're just like you. We're also sick.

& if you can't support us properly, with care and with love, then stop pretending. Tell us. Leave us. It will hurt and it will suck but in the long run it's far better than finding out someone you confided in, someone you thought cared, has been insulting you and your mental health behind your back.


Mental health support obviously needs a huge overhaul in more ways than one.

But, hey, wouldn't it be wonderful if everyone thought it was real, that we weren't making it up, that this was a serious thing?

the marriage of anxiety & depression

Together, anxiety and depression are toxic. They feel like a horribly mismatched married couple who jumped into marriage without much thought. Anxiety really wanted a ring and the wedding rather than the marriage. Depression didn't want to be tied down for the rest of its life but society made it seem like it should happen and the sex is good. 

For as long as I can remember {childhood & on} I have been depressed. I have dreamed of suicide. I told my dad and he laughed. I told my mum who suggested therapy and then... nothing. Nobody helped me so I waited... and then, finally, I hit the rockiest of rock bottoms when anxiety came to visit {the little hoe bag} and never left. 

And now, my anxiety and depression are married and, here's the thing, it really bloody sucks.

Anxiety makes me feel like the walls are closing in and makes me want to get out.

Depression comes and slams me into the bed and drowns me in covers.

Anxiety makes me feel forever unloved.

Depression makes it much worse.

Anxiety makes me feel like I can't breathe.

Depression makes me cry so much that I gasp for breathe.

Anxiety makes me feel like I am going to die every second of every day.

Depression keeps the melancholia around.

Anxiety sees death/heartache/heartbreak around every corner.

Depression never wants to see anything again.

Anxiety is insulted and offended always.

Depression tells you to die whenever you are.


It's so many different things wrapped up together in a hideously constrictive and messy bow.
Man, just break up already.


christmas cheer

I know I could, technically, watch Christmas movies any day of the year but there's something about a strict December 1-25 limit that makes them that more enjoyable. This year I only managed to crack open the Christmas movie vault on the 13th and already my heart feels lighter and the house feels more joyful. I know I'm lame and soppy but, gosh, even the worst Christmas movie is wonderful. Here are some favourites --

some of these are obvious, cliched even, others are simply ridiculous corn and I love it
& out of all of them, love actually, is one of my least favourite {I think being so popular turns me off} now, the holiday and the family stone, these are absolute favourites and so well loved

what's your favourite holiday movie?


friday five//the emergency gift guide

Did you know it's the last Friday before Christmas? Did ya? Don't worry, I'm not here to freak you out and tease you with my organised self. I'm here to help! I promise. And, also, there's no "organised self" here. See, I was working and when I wasn't working I was writing and when I wasn't writing I was with my family or cleaning or struggling to get out of bed so, no, my Christmas shopping is not done {nowhere near it actually} and no, I have not planned every food to be consumed on Christmas day. Nor do I have plans to make a special Christmas punch.

I'm in the same unorganised boat as the rest of you. It's not bad actually. And, well, truthfully, I've had all the shopping done for everyone not in my house for two months now but for the rest of them suckers {Husband, B, dogs}, well, life hasn't been as meticulously planned. Anywho, I kind of need this last minute gift guide as much as the rest of you busy/lazy fools. Here goes nothing --

right, this gift guide is more for me than anything isn't it? what use am I?


Also, did I mention that work is done for the year and I'm on holidays? I get to join B. and Husband who have already been luxuriating in the deliciousness of holidays for a week now. There's something wonderfully decadent about Christmas holidays isn't there?


j reads//summers with juliette review

No matter where,

No matter when,

No matter what.

It's a rare occurrence for me to read a book all about females and female friendship. My natural instincts are to shy away from books like these because females, ugh! but when Harlequin sent me a brief description of Summers with Juliette by Emily Madden I couldn't help but give it a go. 

Juliette is a wonderful holiday read that dips, effortlessly, between light and heavy. Happiness and sadness. Love and death.

Juliette is terminally ill and calling in on a pinky promise she and her friends Anna and Sera had made almost twenty years ago. The two friends return to the beautiful coastal town that holds memories of a haunted past to help Juliette.

Summers with Juliette isn't a standard Australian read. It flows between beautiful sentences and stereotypical Aussie words like "barbie" {for barbeqcue} that usually make me shudder. In Juliette they fit seamlessly as does the cast of characters Madden introduces us to. We're invited into the coastal town of Ellesmere. We can smell the beachy air, feel the heavy down pour of rain and sweat in the heat.  

Madden is effortless in telling Juliette, Anna and Sera's stories. Of hospitals, failed families, terrible tragedy and confusing curses.

In Juliette I did not expect to cry and, yet, I found myself shedding tears and swallowing back despair as the story neared its end. Motherhood has made me more emotional, yes, but I wasn't sure this story could take me to the depths of sadness that bring about burning tears. For some time, I was forced to place the book down, remove my glasses and swallow the lump in my throat. I let the silent tears fall, cleaned myself up, slipped my glasses back on and continued.

Summers with Juliette is a quick read but don't mistake this as a negative. It's not fluffy and light. It has meaning and truly makes you pause for breath multiple times throughout. It makes you think and ponder and, ultimately, gives wonderful life advice in a wonderful story of female friendship.


Summers with Juliette by Emily Madden is published by Harlequin Books and is due for release in January.


*I was, kindly, sent Summers with Juliette by Harlequin for review. I was not paid for this review and was not obligated to give a positive review.


williams-sonoma and the devastated self esteem

Remember when I raved about pumpkin pecan bread from Williams-Sonoma? Remember? Every year for the past 2 years I have waited not-so-patiently for the mix to be released around November/December each year. Each damn year! I wait and I wait and, sure, every time I visit a store I may drop some hints and ask some questions like: when is the pumpkin pecan bread being released? And, sure, each time the store people give a little giggle and say "around Thanksgiving" and then walk away from me like I'm nuts. But, hey!

Every time I have been reassured that I only need wait until November. 

But this year, what do I see? No pumpkin pecan bread that's what! I can't believe it. I'm shocked and saddened. Devastated. My self esteem shan't ever recover. 

I just can't even.

There's chocolate peppermint mix. Gingerbread mix. Bloody key lime mix.

Where's the damn pumpkin pecan?

& people wonder why I hate Australia!


Throw in the fact that Allens have changed the red jubes and Starbust has been discounted at Woolworths and I don't know how I'll survive the Summer.


going commando...

I hate underwear {or pants in general, really}. Hate them. I mean, sure, wearing adorable Olaf or pug pairs is fun but, also, wearing underwear is so darn boring because, ugh, just let me be. I have gone commando a few times in my life. Once at my formal, perhaps some other times I can't quite recall and, more recently, the other day at work.

Now, I work in an office and it's a laid-back sort of environment but, really, what office is so laid back that you can forgo underwear? A brothel perhaps? I don't know. I did not intentionally forgo underwear I promise. I actually wore underwear to work {a cute silky pair} but the day was busy and my underwear kept riding up my butt and I was stressing out and eventually I was like ah!. I'd had enough dammit! and rushed to the bathroom and took my undies off. Relief.

It wasn't until relief flooded my entire body, particularly my crotch region obviously, that I realised that I had no way to get the underwear back into my bag which was at my desk. Eventually I just shoved the pair in a paper towel, hid it under my arm and hurried, legs shoved together, to my desk. Luckily, my desk is covered nicely so nobody could see downstairs but, still, the nerves, man.

I worried that somebody would see my undies in my bag. I stressed that I would accidentally flash someone. Would my boss call me into his office and I'd forget to close my legs? What the...? My main worry, of course, was that I'd stand up and something weird would sploosh out because, hey, things happen and vaginas are weird. 

Luckily, none of these things happened. I'm also thankful that I had groomed recently. But also, groomed or un-groomed who the hell wants to see an unwelcome vagina*?

Verdict is -- I'm never going commando again. I just can't handle it.

*and, yes, I am aware "vagina" is not the correct term but, look, deal with the facts...
**also, can I get fired for this? Is this too much information???


j style//a look into the hair-chives

Ack! My eyebrows! Let's move on...

Way back when my hair was either shoved up or straightened. I used cheap apple-scented shampoo and conditioner. My hair {as always} was fine and flat and I had no idea. Sometimes I miss those days.

Fringe! This style came and went and then came and went for me. I ended up growing it out for the wedding and never brought it back. I crave it sometimes but, now, looking back I realise how poorly it was styled. I thought it looked good natural. Ha! Fringes are high maintenance. Never again. I also look like a potato here and just can't even handle it.

The fringe grows out. The hair is long {and looks super shiny}. I wore hoops. 

Pregnant with B. & I'm bra-less! Long hair and my fringe was all grown out.

This half up style is still one of my favourites but I prefer some volume now.

Then I did this side-swept fringe thing. Too fussy...

Then I went really short...

& now I'm somewhere in the middle -- growing my hair out with stupid split-ends that I can never find time to get cut. Ugh. I have my good hair days and my bad hair days. I have grey hairs that seem to multiple daily. I have frizz and a weird cow lick type thing. I hate and like my hair in the same measure and I dream of finding my "ultimate" style so I can stop looking.

{also I want to go pink}


um, i'm married to a thirty year old!

Can we discuss this development? My Husband is 30!

I knew this guy when he was nineteen with a full head of hair. It seems like just yesterday when our eyes met across a crowded restaurant and we fell head over heels in love. Except, we didn't because the first time I saw him I barely noticed his existence. 6 months later I still didn't. Oops...

But as soon as I realised he was somebdy he was my best friend. Still is.

He thinks he's the Luke to my Lorelai.

Except I can't eat all that and keep a perk butt.


Hey, Husband, you darn thirty year old. If I was B. I'd call you a frickin' old man but I'm not that awesome so I can't really get away with it. Anyway... thanks for loving me at my most annoying, for having sex with me to pass the time while I wear a sheet mask and still being able to get it up and for sticking with me even though I'm really wary of sharing things with others except, it seems, in writing.


friday five

Last day of pre-school for boo. Last day of work for a Husband {I still have a week to go at my job job and doubt I'll take a break here}. A B. has graduated -- cap & gown style and we've celebrated with fancy outfits and her pick of dinner. Also, froyo. And gifts. Can't forget those. I can't quite believe that this year is coming to an end. Christmas is almost upon us and then the next thing you know the dogs will be getting scared from fireworks and Husband and I will be ringing in the New Year with mockbusters and sleep.

Then, it's back to work and B's first day of big school and uniforms and ironing and having to actually take some responsibility in life. I'm not sure I'm adult enough for this. Also, this Friday and next and then it's Christmas and the shopping and planning and budgeting has yet to really begin and, ugh, potato.

 thomas sabo love bridge bracelet -- get it engraved

& look, so fine, this doesn't fit with the want. need. read. wear. play theme but, ugh, I got bored okay? I'm fickle!


some things you should know...

Houston is NOT a person!

I feel betrayed.

A qwerty keyboard has qwerty on it.

How very could they?

Muesli bars actually have muesli in them.

Can you even?


Now, I'm not being the slightest bit sarcastic in saying that I only discovered these three things in my twenties. I'm not ashamed but I feel like, perhaps, I should be...?


gifts for kids

I find buying presents for kids that are not my own very tricky. See, I tend to get really proud about buying kids stuff in general and I think I go overboard and, really, buy for myself rather then the little ones. Bailey likes it because she and I have the same taste but I feel like parents of the other kids I buy for hate me. Whatever.

Here are some of my top picks for kids gifts --

disney princess rashie set -- myer {actually a really lovely licensed set that B. will be unwrapping come Christmas time}


i have a thing for psychos

{Denzel always but for this here post -- The Equalizer}

As in, they turn me on. They make my crotch happy. You get the gist.

My Husband thinks I'm insane. I struggle between trying to not get turned on by the four above and not caring that psychos make my vagina happy.

I don't know what it is. It's slightly weird and even I get creeped out when Cape Fear {the DeNiro version} ends in escapades...

It may be the power.

The idea of all that bossiness resulting in really rough, amazing sex.

The spanking...

I don't bloody know but watching David Tennant be all creepy in Jessica Jones made me so hot under the collar that I wondered if I was a normal functioning member. I mean, I have severe issues with abuse and authority and here I am all turned on and mighty about bloody psychos. These people push poor sweet innocent girls in front of trains!

What am I thinking?

Clearly I'm not.

This is just like that time I was almost stupid enough to marry that balding-before-thirty-nerd. Oh wait...


sleep perfection

How do you do it? What's your favourite position? Sleep wise that is...

It occurred to me the other day that while I sleep quite strangely my perfectionist side has seeped into my sleeping life.

All lights must be off dare the evil brightness shine through {I am quite anit-light of any kind}. Everything must be silent. No dryer or washing machine noise. No snoring or heavy breathing. No noise period. The room must be the perfect temperature. I prefer it cold with feather quilts and egyptian cotton sheets. A fan or air conditioner are almost always on {even in Winter}. No pants

3 - 4 pillows with one perfectly contoured for my back. Nobody touching me without prior written consent. A blanket wedged tightly between my legs and providing crotch support {don't ask...} or a Husband's leg to crotch support on. Clean bedding is required once a week or more. Eye mask must not be too tight or too loose.

Ah - sleep perfection!

*can you imagine how much fun it is to be married to me? ha!


friday five//my ultimate christmas wishlist

The thing about getting older, I've noticed, is that when Christmas comes around I can't think of anything I actually want. I have everything I need {Husband, B, doggies, love}. Corny, I know but when you get older and you learn that it's okay to do what makes you happy and remove negative people from your life, well, you kind of don't need things to fill your life with. So, you're stuck racking your brain as December begins. Life is hard, man, this massive amounts of happiness and no shitty people thing. So hard. I've racked my brain for something or, rather, five things that could sit happily under my tree --

want. harry potter colouring book -- because, obviously...
read. imagine a city by elise hurst -- a favourite for my collection
need. lemons holdall toiletry bag -- two of these actually, one for products & the other for brushes
play. despicable me life -- how could you not? although, this will most likely become our family Christmas Eve board game
wear. shimmering leaves ring -- simple & pretty


the ultimate sadness cure

The other day I found myself inexplicably sad. Depression is just awesome.

When sadness hits this time of year I run to my ultimate cure all's -- go pyjama shopping a good pair of new pj's is always a good idea {love these Barbie ones}, pick up an adorable Christmas ornament {this merry kissmas! one is all things sweet and I need it} and then head home and watch your favourite movie. The other day You've Got Mail was the only cure with an adorable Tom Hanks, bouquets of sharpened pencils and scotch tape sniffing.


what say you//the makeup bullet

I came across this little weirdo the other day. I don't know what to think. On one hand I think -- ooh cute little sponge! On the other I think -- why the heck do I need a sponge for my finger?

The Makeup Bullet apparently allows you to multi-task because it's on your finger but I can multi-task perfectly fine by putting my sponge down or, you know, using this new fangled technique called holding it

Of course, I'm going to order one because, why not? But, also, you know what they should have made instead? A vibrator that you put on your finger! Now that I would not complain about.


j style//wearing & caring

Remember when I stressed about what Bailey wore? When I cared? Ha! No longer. I think it hit me when I realised that I wear whatever I want and I don't give a damn. So why should B. be any different? If I'm allowed to be a twenty-eight year old with a milk carton bag my 4 year old should certainly be allowed to be as carefree in dress even if I think scrunchies are ludicrous. 

The things is, I wear what I want, when I want it because that is how I feel free. Sandals with say what? on them and bloody dinosaur spangly sunglasses -- that is me.

I like polka dot dresses and ridiculous accessories and when I hop on asos I search for "bunny" and "cat" before anything else. I don't know if mum's are "supposed" to wear button up dresses with cleavage and bra showing. I don't know what people think of me and I don't care. 

When it comes to wearing, stop caring. Wear what you want. Tights as pants. Scrunchies. Whatever. As long as it makes you happy.