Pinkness

Well, after the excitement of Alice Cooper my bland little life hasn't seemed worth writing about. Not much has happened. The girl and I survived the school holidays without too many dramas, only came close to murder/suicide half a dozen times. At the moment I can't think of a single thing I achieved during the two weeks she was with me 24/7. I guess it doesn't matter, we have food to eat, clean clothes to wear, everything else is a bonus.
Yesterday we went to the salvos and bought a little 60's cupboard to go in the girl's room, $25. We then went to Bunnings and spent $140 on paint and a spray gun. Enough paint, hopefully, to eventually paint her room as well as the cupboard.
The cupboard just fit in the boot of the EK and after getting it home I managed to get it out of the boot and into the back yard (perhaps slogging at the gym is achieving something after all) to sand and paint it. The girl wanted pale pink with a rainbow. So I sanded all the old varnish off and was busting to use my new spray gun but the girl was even more desperate to help so we used brushes. She didn't do too bad a job after I explained to her about 75 times how to load up the brush with paint, and we got the first coat done eventually. I prayed it wouldn't rain and left it to dry. We cleaned up, came inside and got out the pencils to work out a design. I favoured the pink background with a very dominant rainbow diagonally across the front and top. The girl has decided on a rainbow just on the front, with love hearts, butterflies and stars and a moon on the top and sides. I honestly don't think I could do that without vomiting. I'll need to wear some sort of Goth talisman while I do it to protect me from the forces of all things pink and fluffy. At least she didn't want dolphins.
So today I sanded it back again and fired up the spray gun. I've always wanted one and it was only $40 so I thought I'd indulge (haven't bought a gadget for weeks). I read the instructions, carefully thinned the paint, sacrificed a pair of pantyhose to strain it, then blasted the cupboard. It looked great, for a few seconds, then every insect in the ACT landed on it and the paint started to run. Bum. So it was back to the brush to remove the flies and midges and fix up the dribbles. Lesson learned – use a finer spray and less paint. So now I pray it doesn't rain and will hopefully finish the pink tomorrow. I wish I could talk the girl into a more subtle design on it, just silver stenciled stars would look great, or a few mirror mosaic tiles scattered across it.
Regardless of how it looks it will ultimately mean the girl has more storage space in her room, which is the most important thing. Actually, with the macabre décor in the rest of the house, I'm not actually surprised she wants to go over the top naff for her room: a sanctuary of pink cuteness for a little girl lost in a sea of spiders, brutally murdered dolls, bats and blackness. I may, however, draw the line at the Ariel curtains she wants, I mean, can't she have pink spiders? Purple bats? I really wish I could steer her towards classic fairies and dragons and castles and away from the Disney pap but all my attempts have been woefully unsuccessful. I will persist.
So she dominates my life for now, that's OK, in a few years I'll be complaining that she never rings me or visits. She'll only be four once and I'll be a grown up for the rest of my life.

Read more!

Vincent Furnier

I squeezed into a brocade corset and the husband put on his mid-life-crisis-leather pants and we trundled off to the Australian Institute of Sport arena. I was curious as to what sort of crowd the countries most conservative city would produce for an Alice Cooper concert. As we were driving I asked the husband if he thought Alice would finish with School's Out or Poison.
We arrived and mingled with Blandberra's AC fans. Mostly middle class, middle aged and chubby public servant types surrounded us. Also quite a few slightly embarrassed looking people who had blacked their eyes (but wore their ordinary clothes) shuffled amongst us, I'm sure they all thought it was a good idea at the time. A few young 'uns and even a couple of gothy looking metal heads (as well as us) were wandering around as well. The highlight for me was a rather tubby guy with a ponytail wearing a T-shirt which said "no I will not fix your computer". Classic. We went to our seats, which were quite good as we had paid for grown-up seats in the stadium, not teenage seats on the floor and sat through what seemed like an eternity of a really boring support band. I was amused by the Dencorub billboard next to the stage.
Eventually Alice, in his white top hat and tails and cane, appeared. Then Alice in his black leather gear also appeared, stabbed the top hatted Alice and began singing No More Mr Nice Guy. Good start. Things progressed and I was impressed by his level of fitness (and cane twirling), unless you saw him in profile you couldn't see the jowls or paunch and he looked great and was energetic. His backing band, a rather gorgeous quartet of death rock boys, were excellent. He went through the standards, quite a few songs from Killer, before having a break. The boys played and impressed us with their talent while Alice did whatever aging rock stars do back stage (gasp into an oxygen mask? Have a cup of tea?) before re-appearing in a different costume and launching into more classic Alice. He did a rather violent dance routine with a life size rubber bride doll before swapping the doll for a dancer and going through a somewhat misogynistic version of Only Women Bleed. He then stabbed a baby through the heart, was put into a straight jacket and eventually gallows were wheeled out and he was hung by another Alice persona. The band played the chorus of I Love The Dead and Alice re-appeared for his final song – School's Out. After the obligatory few minutes he came back with Billion Dollar Babies and then Poison. His grand finale was Elected, complete with flag waving (US and Aus) and marching. The husband, who has excellent 20/20 hindsight, said "I knew he'd finish with that". Alice introduced and thanked the band, the dancer (who turned out to be his daughter) and then thanked us, and I am sure he said "Thank you Brisbane" but I could be wrong.
All-in-all we gave him 8/10 and drove home contented. Read more!

Found

A few weeks ago the husband found my video camera in a bag of clothes. This confused me. I distinctly remembered packing it with my rings before losing them all in the move. Anyway, I was glad to have it back.
This morning I was looking through a bag of knitting stuff that was under a coffee table, crammed into a corner and almost inaccessible, and I found a little cosmetics bag. I opened the bag and there were two ring boxes. One containing my engagement ring and my white opal ring and the other box contained my mother's engagement and wedding ring from my biological father. The significance of the find almost knocked me off my feet. Relief flooded through me and I cried for a bit and was teary for about an hour afterwards. I took the rings into the kitchen to show the husband. He was overjoyed. The loss of the engagement ring has been a sore point and the cause of considerable anguish for some time. The husband has used it as his right hook to finish me off during arguments. He took it as a personal insult that I had taken the ring off at all - I was merely trying to protect it. We had run out of boxes and bags to unpack and the ring had not appeared. We had both started to come to terms with the fact that the ring was lost. I was considering trying to find another (how do you replicate a custom made ring with a unique black opal?) and the husband was considering buying me a replacement. I guess we both had to let go before the rings could come back to me. Fucking life lessons. Praise be to the gods – many thanks.

Read more!

Gabba Gabba

Yesterday afternoon I was in a Ramones mood and put a couple of cds on the stereo. I bobbed around to the music for a few hours until the stepson emerged from his room "what's this?" he asked his father with a grimace. I was flabbergasted, this boy is hugely talented musically and has a broad knowledge of music from most genres. He made a mumbled disparaging comment and left the room. We called him back. "The Ramones are legends, founding fathers, don't you like it?" I asked "Nah" was the response. "But I've seen your friends wearing Ramones T-shirts, I thought you lot must listen to them" "They probably don't even know The Ramones is a band" he said and sauntered off. So it's come to this: one of the most influential bands of last century have become to today's teenagers merely a cool T-shirt design. Not only have The Ramones provided hours of musical listening pleasure, they have also helped me seduce for physical pleasure on two occasions. Years ago I used them as a topic to start a conversation with a boy I was interested in and more recently, I pretended the friend I was going to the Ramones film with was a date – thus causing the man I was pursuing (and boy was he playing hard to get) to become so jealous he not only showed up at the cinema but was in my bed two days later. The power of The Ramones is awe inspiring.
Old Fartery is not just creeping up on me, it is well and truly engrained. A few years ago my significantly younger brother and I were driving and Cyndi Lauper, True Colours was playing on the car stereo. He asked me who was stuffing up the Casey Chambers' song. I almost kicked him out of the moving vehicle. I know imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but one must give credit where credit is due.
Tonight the husband and I are going to see Alice Cooper. Now that is guaranteed to be an over 30's only event. We are very excited about it, having both spent our teenage years listening to Alice, in different decades of course - me being the child bride. But it proves his music is timeless.
I shall report on the musical extravaganza tomorrow. Read more!

Butane

I've done it. I've finally purchased the ultimate kitchen gadget. I've bought a little butane blow torch. It is the most indulgent I have ever been, kitchen wise. I mean, how often do I actually make crème brulee? And what else can you do with them besides melt sugar? I am cooking pork tonight and I was thinking I might try to crisp the crackling with the blow torch. I guess you could also use them to roast capsicum and peel tomatoes, but honestly – it would take a week and it's easier to do it with the BBQ. It took an eon to do the crust on the crème brulee and I was thinking maybe I should have gone to the hardware shop instead of the kitchenware place. It is quite woossy, a little flame that melted about 1cm2 of sugar at a time, but it was an enormous amount of fun.
I love making desserts. The more intricate and fiddly the happier I am. Unfortunately (for my waist line) I also love eating them. A well made dessert is pure bliss. I adore making elaborate decorations, sugar things and chocolate do-dads. I also love hiding the colour and content – especially with cakes – so once it is cut open a rainbow of colours and fillings are revealed. One of my favourite cakes is a chocolate cake done in the shape of a spider (of course!) but the body is filled with whipped green jelly so that when you stab the knife into its' stomach green goo oozes out. It's hysterically funny and looks great. I wish I had the opportunity (excuse) to do it more often. Unfortunately the child is entrenched in cliché at this stage of her life. For her last birthday I offered to make her a cake shaped like a castle, or a dragon, or a mushroom with fairies. But all she wanted was one of those cakes with a doll stuck in the middle of it. Yawn.
For my husbands' birthday last year I made, as well as the spider cake, chocolate covered Turkish Delight in the shape of skulls, several different kinds of bat shaped chocolates, many different biscuits and brownies shaped likes bats, ghosts and skulls. A myriad of Goth sweeties. I had an absolute ball making all the stuff and it took me several hours a night for over a week. Then we left it all sitting on the table in the kitchen and the damned dog ate most of it. I almost cried.
I would love to learn how to make sugar flowers; I have had a go just following instructions in book, with varying results. I managed to make decent enough roses to decorate our wedding cake. I made a basic sacher torte but with heaps of black food dye in the cake and ganache. The husband had found a cake topper that was a little bride and groom skeleton which was really cute and with the red roses and green leaves it looked pretty good. I would like to do a class to learn how to do flowers properly, but the only time they seem to be on in these parts is on a night that is unavailable to me. One day.
Tonight I have made the child a meat-loaf girl (biscuit cutter) which is currently going down like a lead balloon. It even had grated carrot hair. Apparently it is "disgusting".
Hopefully the boys will be more impressed with their blow torched pork.

Read more!

bbbbbbb

Tomorrow the pre-school is having a B-day party. The kids are dressing up as something that begins with B and we have to take a plate of food. I assumed the girl would go as a butterfly or ballerina or even, I cringe as I type this, a bride. But no, I was totally wrong. My beautiful little pink princess is going to B day as…..Batman!! And the biscuits we are taking are not butterflies but bones and bats! Praise be for the B. Dare I begin to hope that the pinkness is fading? These small victories give me strength...



p.s. there were 7 batmen, 2 bumble bees, buzz lightening, bob the builder, a brumby's fan, half a dozen butterflies and a couple of ballarinas.

Read more!

Every chick needs a shed

We purchased a garden shed from Bunnings, one of those kit thingamies. We figured, between us we have an Honours Degree in Biochemistry and an Honours Degree in Textile Design – so we should be able to put up a shed!
Have you ever read about those experiments that were done where the corpus callosum in the brain has been severed? It is radical surgery for people who suffer severe epilepsy and other seizer type afflictions. It severs the connection between the left and right side of the brain. The people who have had this surgery suffer some weird consequences, almost split personality type symptoms. Giving them a written question and having them respond in writing gives a totally different answer than if you ask them the same question and they respond verbally. One brain, two totally different ways of thinking.
I am, of course, almost completely left brained. The husband, I think, doesn't actually have a functioning left brain at all. Sometimes we have communication breakdowns of momentous proportions, simply because I can't understand what on earth he is trying to say. For example, the other day we were driving to the market and I asked which way at the roundabout, he said "you go szhut, szhut" waving his hand in the air. From this I was supposed to understand that I needed to go into the roundabout and take the second left. Frustrating to say the least.
So I armed myself with the instructions that were at times vague and other times downright contradictory, the husband wielded the screwdriver and two days later we have a functioning shed. At one point the neighbour, probably sick of listening to the continuous flow of profanities, leaned over the fence and handed us his cordless drill. This sped things up immensely. Now, it's not that we don't own a drill – I have a cordless one that can barely put a screw into pre-drilled plasterboard (a chick's drill) and the husband has an electric one that will rip your arm out of it's socket (a bloke's drill). He refused to use the drill initially because it was "too much trouble to muck around with extension cords". He also refused to let me square anything as we went, exclaiming "it'll square itself as we go". I was, of course, going nuts. It is a fundamental part of my nature to read instructions, measure and double check everything as I go. He is more inclined to wing it. Fortunately, after the initial teeth grinding and swearing we managed to see the funny side of what we were doing and by the end of it all were even managing to work together. So as far as I am concerned our marriage has passed one of the more trying tests – prefab kits. Read more!

The Husband

My husband does social type work, looking after the disenfranchised youth of Blandberra. The other day one of his regular clients, a rather colourful person, arrived at the service and demanded to know "is it fucken' true what they say about you?". My husband, not being one to ever admit ignorance shouted back "FUCK YEAH!". The young person responded "yeah, I fucken' thought so!" and promptly left. My husband is now left wondering who "they" are and what he has just admitted to. The array of crimes or personality traits to choose from are mind boggling. The punishment for being a smart arse.
One of his favourite jokes is…what do you call a youth worker who wears a full length leather coat and drives a Mercedes? A drug dealer. Hee Hee. (He's not, by the way. He looks very cute in his leather coat and the Mercedes is 33 years old).
He does an incredible job, deals with traumatized young people all day, five days a week, looks after them, solves problems. Then comes home to a basket case wife and a demented four year old and continues to take care of us.
Back in the olden days when I worked for a living I would be having a bad day at work because I'd misplaced a data file. He would ring, listen to my ranting and moaning. Eventually I would get around to asking how his day was going and he would tell me about a teenager who he just had to have admitted to the psych ward, or a girl who wanted an abortion because she had been gang raped. I would be instantly humbled; it is so easy to become self absorbed, to think your problems are earth shattering. More often than not they are trivial and not really worth getting so upset over.
At the end of my first year at uni, a year of drinking, drugging and shagging and not very much study I was faced with the prospect of failing. I was scared, upset, mad at myself and worried about disappointing my family. One of my housemates gave me a book of writings by Krishnamurti. I read it cover to cover in a single sitting. It wasn't earth shattering revelations or the secret to the meaning of life – just a reminder that life goes on regardless. It actually didn't matter if I failed Uni or if my local chemist stopped stocking my favourite lipstick colour – life goes on. I stopped worrying. I didn't fail, not very badly anyway and I was able to sit supplementary exams over the summer. I did fail physics, getting a measly 38 to be exact, so I needed to make up a subject. I ended up doing English Lit, quite an unusual thing for a science student to do, in fact the admin computer had to be adjusted to accept my enrolment. But it was brilliant and probably one of the better things I ever did academically. It never paid any bills, like biochemistry ended up doing, but it got a few of the cobwebs out of the right side of my brain, made me grow a few creative neurons. It was the silver lining. What was the point of this rant? Oh yeah, my husband is ace. Read more!

The Bliss of Motherhood

A day like Friday (previous post), in which the girl puts me on trial, wears me out. Days like that leave me feeling physically exhausted and emotionally gutted. I am constantly wracked with guilt over the fact that I am not a "natural" mother. I find the whole business hard work. I always considered myself a very maternal person, there was not a stray animal or human that I have ever come across that I haven't rescued, befriended or eventually slept with. I look after people; I am a nurturer by nature. I predicted that this nurturing instinct would be ten fold for a child I had borne. Not so.
Don't get me wrong – from the minute the girl was born my protective instinct was fierce. When she was a few days old and I was still in intense pain from the damage I had sustained during her birth I leapt across a room to rescue her when she did her first mega spew. I was actually unable to move without an extraordinary amount of pain and normal activity was performed very slowly and carefully. But the instant I saw her spew I was up and across the room and had her in my arms (ripped from the arms of another) and was tending to her in less than two seconds. It was only later when I realized my sudden burst of activity had burst something else and I was bleeding more heavily. I guess that story is to illustrate that from the beginning I was protector and carer extraordinaire, but I felt no love. I actually didn't feel any connection to her at all. I was waiting for her real mother to show up on the doorstep and take her back. There was certainly no correlation between the screaming, demanding baby in my arms to the little friend I had carried and loved passionately for 9 months. This disconnected feeling remained, interestingly enough, until I chucked her father out of my home. From that point my relationship with her on an emotional level began. She was two years old.
From that time I started to relax, grew to love her and started to allow myself to believe that she loved me. I still carry an enormous amount of guilt over the fact that I didn't actually love her for a long time. When I hear about women who fall in love with their babies the instant they see them I feel a mixture of disbelief, confusion and jealousy. These days I am passionately and blindly in love with my daughter. She is the most precious and wonderful thing in my life. But still I struggle. I just don't like playing Barbies and colouring in and playing hide and seek (which I am very good at – she never finds me even though I always hide in the shower). I have to force myself and feel hypocritical and fake the whole time. So on days when she really puts me to the test, takes all of my patience and tolerance and kicks the shit out of them, I feel an emotional and physical exhaustion that overwhelms me.
The husband made me stay in bed for most of Saturday. He has gaffa taped a TV and DVD player to the rail over the foot of our bed and I watched my newest DVD: Frederick Mitterrand's version of Madam Butterfly. It is a masterpiece, but in hindsight probably not the best thing to watch given my psychological state as I howled for ages. Cathartic perhaps.
I ran away from home for three hours on Sunday and today am feeling much better. It is almost 4pm and the girl and I have not had a single argument. We are pottering about, doing the laundry (first rain free day in weeks), trying to fix up her room which is in constant chaos and waiting for an electrician to come and fix the mess I made trying to wire in our new chandeliers. Whoops. Read more!

An outing

Yesterday I took my little girl to the zoo. There was nothing there but a dog. It was a Shi tzu. Read more!

Damned kid

I should have known it was going to be a bad day when I backed out of the driveway this morning and knocked over the recycle bin. The recycling only gets collected every two weeks here so it was full to the brim with wine bottles. As I picked them all up out of the gutter I managed to cut my finger. At kinder I was sitting on the floor with the girl doing jigsaw puzzles, as is the routine, when we noticed my finger was bleeding. I asked her to get me a tissue, instead she ran to the teacher with the dramatic story of her mother's injury and bleeding finger. So we had to go through the whole band-aid thing.
Once I got home I ran through the list of things I had to do – gym, grocery shopping, fix the heater in the car, put the training wheels on the girls bike. The husband had snored all night long and no amount of prodding, shaking or yelling could rouse him so I had ended up on the couch. Needless to say, I had slept badly and I was very tired. The husband looked at me and told me to go back to bed and get some sleep, which I grateful did after setting the alarm on my mobile. At 12:30 the husband rang to wake me, thankfully, otherwise after having slept through the alarm I most likely would have slept through kinder pick up time.
Now I had promised the girl that if she made it through this week without night-time nappies and without wetting the bed I would buy her a Prince Eric doll ( the ponce from little mermaid). This is her second week without night nappies and she has done brilliantly. She did wet the bed on Monday night, but she was mortified and denied doing it. I asked her why I had changed the sheets and her pyjamas in the middle of the night if she hadn't wet the bed and she insisted that I just did it without cause. I realized she was so desperate for the damn doll I let that one go. She has been really good for the rest of the week – even getting up of her own accord to go to the toilet – so I am very proud. And I think she had earned the doll. So when I picked her up from kinder we headed out to the big shopping centre where Target is as I figured that I needed new gym gear and she needed a doll and it was the most likely place to get both.
We entered the shopping centre through Myer, the toy department, which happened to be having a 25% off sale. The desired doll was sourced (actually the prince from sleeping beauty, but for now I can get away with that sort of thing since Disney princes are fairly generic and she can't read) and purchased. We then headed for a 'chino – mine a large and hers minus coffee. She wanted a large 'chino so I actually ordered her a small white chocolate. While we were waiting we ripped the prince's box into ten thousand small pieces in an attempt to liberate him from the ludicrous amount of packaging that they insist on putting children's toys in these days. By the time the coffees arrived the prince was parading up and down the table. Ten second later three quarters of the hot chocolate was all over the table, the child and the floor. This was cleaned up and ten seconds later the remaining drink was following the previous. So here I am, all I want is a coffee – my first for the day at 1:30pm – I am tired, I've got my period and my finger hurts. I started getting cranky.
"Do you want another drink?"
"NO! I didn't like it!!" (How do you know? Did some of it actually fall in your mouth??)
"Well then can we sit while I drink mine?"
"OK".
The prince, meanwhile, continues to parade around the table, eventually finding the wall, the chair and the chair of the girl (young woman) sitting at the next table…
"Stop it. Leave that girl alone. Turn around. Sit on your bottom. Now wait while I finish my coffee".
Ten seconds later…
"Get back in your chair".
Five seconds..
"Get the prince out of the puddle of milk".
"Clean him with the serviette".
"BUT THEY'RE ALL WEEEEET!!!"
I get more serviettes.
Five seconds…
"Pick up the princes crown off the floor".
Ten seconds..
"Get back in your chair".
Ten seconds..
"I'll get it".
"I said I'll get it, get back in your chair, sit on your bottom".
Fifteen seconds…
"If you drop his crown again I'm not coming back for it".
Ten seconds..
"Get back in your chair".
"Can I finish my coffee?"
"OK, let's get out of here."
The staff (and other customers) at the café breath an audible sigh of relief as we leave.
I attempt to get to Target….
"Stay with me".
Ten seconds…
"STAY with me".
This goes on for several minutes. Our progress is hindered by the child being distracted by every single thing she sees and wandering off and me having to chase her and convince her to come with me. We eventually reach Target. Out the front they have a sale table with black chandeliers on sale for $18.43. I ring the husband, discuss it, agree to get three. Find a trolley, load it up with chandeliers. All the while retrieving the child from various places. I attempt to shop for gym gear. After a few minutes of arguing and nagging at the child I give up and struggle with the stupid trolley to the checkout. At one point the child looked at me and said "Is that trolley giving you the shits mummy?". I agreed and laughed. It's not ALL bad.
On the way back through the shopping centre we go past a shop that is selling Le Creuset saucepans for 50% off. I recently paid off my credit card. I decided I deserved it, went in and bought a HUGE pot for $200. All the while running in and out of the shop, between signing sales dockets and such, trying to get the child to stand with the trolley at the front of the shop. After her almost knocking over their window display and ramming someone with the trolley I had my saucepan and get her out of there and into the car.
We then went to Bunnings where I shoved her in the playground and relaxed for five minutes.
On the way home we stopped at one of the local schools to pick up enrollment forms. Once we were in the school building she decided she was scared and started making a fuss while I'm trying to explain what year we are applying for – I'm still not quite sure about terminology in this state, I think they may call prep kinder. I dunno.
Then on the way back to the car she cried she was cold, so as soon as we got to the car she of course buggered off up a hill.
Finally we needed to go to the local supermarket to get a few things for dinner. She wouldn't get out of the car. I had to yell and threaten and behave like a psychopath to get her to come with me into the shop. She was vaguely helpful in the supermarket and even helped me find the chillies. At the checkout, however, they have the ice cream freezer so of course she wanted an ice cream. I refused - not after the afternoon's behaviour. She screamed while I was paying for my groceries and screamed all the way home.
By the time the husband got home I was almost ready for a straight jacket.
I acknowledge my mistakes: the doll should not have been purchased until we were leaving the shopping centre, that way it could have been used as a bargaining tool. Also, I shouldn't have gone back to bed, I should have sucked up my tiredness and gone out, done what I needed to do and left the afternoon clear to devote to the child. I should also have brought in the washing that has been on the line for a week before the rain that is currently pelting down commenced.
The heater in the car is still not working, the bike still doesn't have training wheels (but it's raining so it doesn't matter) but the girl is asleep, no night nappy, Ariel and Prince Eric are lying in the bath together (nude) and the husband has given me enough wine to help me calm down and relax.
Does anybody ever get the hang of this parenting gig? Just as I seem to have one type of behaviour under control a new one appears. Before I know it I'll be dealing with bras and periods and boys and drugs and booze and contraception. For now, Barbies and tantrums are enough.
When I put her to bed tonight she cuddled me, told me she loved me, kissed me on the cheek, cuddled me again, and made all of today's dramas fade into nothing. Read more!

Indulge me

Cute things my kid does....

Yesterday at the park we were playing hide and seek, she jumped out from behind a tree and yelled "you'll never find me" then jumped back again.

Today in the supermarket carpark a man said to me "that's a lovely car you have, ma'm". My little girl, all pink and golden ringlett 4 year old cuteness looks at him and says "it's a SEXY car!". Read more!