I am going to have a good time if it kills me. Period.

We are at a beach house, which is ours. It sounds very exotic - however the previous occupant was a hydroponics expert who left behind a tangle of electrical leads, his security camera, holes in the wall ... and the smell of a thousand cones. It. Stinks. There's cockroaches, greasy carpet, and one very fragile toilet. But it is ours, courtesy of my very savvy builder husband. He is going to do amazing things and renovate and make it dreamy. He turns to me and tells me *exactly* what he is going to do. Then sees my face and asks me, oh - what do you think hon? We both know it does not matter what I think. (Kind of incredibly irritating, but a lucky thing to be irritated about.)

In the meantime, we've told the kids we are "camping!"

They love it. The backyard backs onto bushland, and there's a massive ropeswing. We all have bikes, and will be riding to the beach every morning as soon as the torrential rain stops.

Unfortunately, I have the worst PMS of all time. It's so hard, not to stab everybody. I know I'm being bitchy and horrible and dark for no goddamn good reason. So I keep it all contained inside. Like, awesome spotfires.

No amount of Evening Primrose Oil takes away the fact my husband talks too .... talky.

I made everybody watch Little House on the Prairie yesterday ... grand plans of watching the entire show on series were dashed when there was laughing and awkward silence during the first episode. When the credits rolled, I said there was a next one and Max turned to me in shock. "There's MORE?"

So we watched the 2010 DVD of the Tropfest finalists instead, and it was great. I have The Sound of Music ready to put on tonight - if I have to squish down my irrational anger and bile at every turn, these kids can watch Julie Andrews making clothes from curtains GODDAMIT IT TO HELL.

Helen from next door came over this morning with six eggs from her chickens. She has been living here for thirty-five years. She is a retired doctor and very lovely, but I SUCK at smalltalk. It's exruciating. I can't remember what I said - something about knocking a wall down. I *really* wanted to ask her what's the worst things she's ever done and how does she get through life when it's so tricky. Maybe next time.

Max said, wow, that's so cool she brought us eggs. We'll have to bring her something. I wonder what the protocol is? Do we just keep giving each other shit forever? Rocco carefully put the eggs in the fridge. When I opened it later, they were gone. I asked him where they were, and he told me they were in the trees because they were dinosaur eggs and they need to hatch baby T-Rexs.

I looked everywhere but can't find them.

I hope Helen doesn't find the egg stash just yet. Need to keep the pretence of normalcy going for as long as I possibly can.