Hennie is the dish man in this house. I cook, fuck up the kitchen beyond belief, make it look like I got into a mixed martial art fight with the food ingredients, lost, freaked out in retaliation and possibly got hurt…and then he comes in and cleans up after me. It’s amazing. Which means Hennie knows where everything is. When my ball for my smoothie shaker goes rogue, I know I can always ask Dishman…na na na na na dishman! I am forever yelling at Hennie to tell me where my shaker testicle is.

I am concerned about the possibility of moving into town this summer. What will happen to my spontaneous dance parties by myself? Where I blast nineties music and do some amazing white girl moves. I sometimes get carried away and try to twerk but inevitably throw my hip out and hurt my back. What will the neighbours think…

Well I can’t believe the new reason for the season is Elf on the Shelf. People were insanely buying them, pleading for them, not even blinking an eye at spending $35 on them. I decided the elf moving around the house creepily keeping an eye on your children, like the festive Christmas pedophile midget, was really taking away from the real point of Christmas. I have decided, next year, I will be making Jesus on the Shelf. He will glide around your house on a floating cloud, keeping an eye on your children to make sure they are good, rather fearful and not on the path to hell. His eyes will follow you wherever they go as they tend to do. He will not report to Santa but God whether you have made the heaven or hell list. I think it will make the kids take being good way more seriously. Like if I am bad, Jesus can see me and then I may go to hell for all of eternity. This season kids will be terrified for their life 24/7. Merry Christmas! I think I am going to make millions…

A kid I work with shaved half of her hair off. I told her I really liked her Britney-during-her-meth-breakdown-haircut. I said it was like she was about to go Sinead but couldn’t fully commit. I asked if her if she would do her makeup different on one side of her face to look like the joker on Batman. Like have sad clown makeup on the side of her face that she shaved and regular make-up on the other side. I may be the worst youth worker ever. Thank god she has a sense of humour.

My Dad and I collectively spent close to an hour trying to make a poster to put up for my Grandma’s 95th birthday. It was like dumb and dumber. I kept saying I don’t know how to use Word Perfect (which Hennie tells me is not what I was using at all, I don’t even know if it still exists. Any program I have ever used that seems like it’s from a PC I call Word Perfect. No? Not right? Oh well). But it certainly wasn’t Pages and finally after humming and hawing, losing our minds I clicked a few things and deleted the whole thing altogether. Perfect. Dad decided to try his hand at the computer (which is a joke and pile of swear words in itself). I told Dad I liked his one finger typing skills and if I should come back in a few hours when he was done typing the sentence. We finally managed to put a picture on the poster and write a sentence. After we printed out three Dad noticed there was no date on the poster, only a time. Holy shit. We re-did it, with the adequate information and then Dad insisted we put it on fancy paper. So Grandma’s birthday poster has a pretty amazing Rainbow border, which makes it look a little bit like a gay pride parade but oh well. 95 y’all! There should be a bloody parade! Even if it’s muscly, vaselined, gyrating men in gold speedos…My Grandma may even enjoy it!