I bloody well choked on my coffee yesterday as my dear friend asked in a conspiratorial whisper "Hey, have you ever come across vaginal smoking?"
I mean, WTF?
There we were, having a long-awaited catch-up after 3 days abstinence and she's asking me about smoking vaginas??? We were in a coffee shop, not a bloody sex shop. I quickly had a look around to see if anyone had heard her. Couldn't really tell. Several people were all looking at me snorting coffee at 3 in the afternoon though. Oh well.
My brain immediately leapt understandably to sex.
"Smoke from dry friction you mean? No, can't say that I've ever had that problem!"
"No, no, I came across the term yesterday on a website when I was booking my trip to Indonesia"
"Oh, that explains it. It must be some sort of trick, you know like those girls who fire ping-pong balls from their fanny's as entertainment for tourists!"
At this point I had a mental picture of a woman with a glowing pack of twenty between her legs making smoke rings with her vagina. I also had coffee all down the front of my shirt and tears down my cheeks. I was getting stared at.
"No, no, no that can't be it. Must be something else..... they only offer it at high-class establishments. I saw it mentioned on The Four Seasons website"
My mind then wandered to poor unfortunate women so addicted to smoking that they had deviated to using a second orifice and the practice, obviously being socially unacceptable required rehab in expensive establishments.
"Can't they use bloody nicotine patches or something? It's unbelievable, I can't believe that neither of us has ever heard of this before"
Both my friend and I consider ourselves to be intelligent, women of the world. Why wouldn't we have heard about this practice? How could we have missed it?
"Funnily enough, it came up under spa treatments. Someone called Martha swears by it"
SMOKING is bad for your health. We all know that. It's a nasty, smelly, socially unacceptable habit. And as a reformed smoker of ten years or so I hate the smell, it makes me want to gag.
"Don't tell me you're going to try it for godsake.....you've been trying to give up for months!"
At this point one of the kind staff approached our table and offered a damp cloth to wipe my shirt down. Actually I think that she just wanted to get a better handle on our conversation cos she loitered a little longer than required. We decided to take our leave and walk to the school yard to collect our offspring. I had a brainwave.
Google: Vaginal Smoking Indonesia BRILLIANT!!
As we reached the schoolyard the answer popped up on my iPhone. Apparently, the practice comes from Java and is considered a traditional treatment before marriage. It is supposed to cleanse and disinfect the vagina.
Unfortunately I then got a crystal clear image of someone in a beekeepers outfit with one of those smokers puffing it up your you-know-what like they smoke beehives. We were both laughing uncontrollably by now, supporting each other as we walked across the schoolyard like a couple of drunks. Heads turned, tongues tutted, but it was only the usual humourless suspects.
As other parents saw us approaching in our juvenile hysterics one smiled and said " Ok, whatever it is, I'm sure we'll read about it tomorrow"
I couldn't resist......"Yep, and if she comes back from her holiday next week smelling like a bloody ham, then I'm writing about that too!"
Sunday, August 29, 2010
The Chill Pill - your essential daily supplement
It's been one helluva day.
Actually, it's been a helluva week....and it's only Wednesday.
Sound familiar? Yep, I bet that there are a whole bunch of you out there in cyberspace who can relate to, and probably even surpass the kind of stress levels found in the bra straps of a double F cup. Ok, that was a childish euphemism but you know what I mean.....
Whether it's trying to multi-task to the point where you end up with your head so far up your own backside that you've forgotten what week it is, or whether your stress levels stem from something difficult happening in your life, the end result seems to somehow be the same. We seem to lose sight of the bigger picture and become embarrassingly introspective. So now my lovely readers, I'm going to tell you all about me and my week so far cos I just know you're dying to know!
Yeah, yeah, I'm being deliberately and embarrassingly introspective but indulge me for a moment. Firstly, this week the five and six-year-old have finally mastered the art of squabbling and got it down to a fine art. Each session swiftly reaches a crescendo both in terms of volume and flaying of arms and feet, followed by a dramatic finale which generally has me running for an ice-pack as they try to knock seven bells out of each other. And my two are girls! Secondly, this scenario tends to kick-off before we've left the house or even better....in the back of the car on the way to school.
Thirdly, there is never anywhere to park when we get into the village because I'm always too bloody late to bag a space having dealt with the morning's shenanigans whilst multi-tasking (making packed lunches, finding lost socks, homework etc, etc...you know the score). Finding a parking space then becomes a competitive sport with the kids in the back shouting "Mum, mum, I've just seen a lady holding her car keys!" or "Quick, over there - reversing lights! ooh too late"
Then, having deposited one child at school and on my two lucky days each week, the other at pre-school (cos I get to go to the toilet unaccompanied on those days) I admit, I head for the favoured coffee shop. It's generally conveniently placed somewhere between where I finally managed to park the car and the school. I love this coffee shop. Not because they make great coffee - which they do - but because I love the staff. When I walk in and request a Vodka-Valium-Latte with no sugar, no-one bats a bloody eyelid! In fact, some mornings they'll have the thing ready for me before I sit down.
Ok. I think I'm giving you the gist and you're all nodding sagely because you're there with me one way or another (even if you're commuting into your job and the stress levels are different because they involve dealing with adults who behave like children in commuter traffic) Yep, and we've only got through the first few hours of our day....
I then try to multi-task by checking my emails, bank balance and daily horoscope on the good 'ol iPhone whist sipping on my Vodka-Vallium-Latte. I need to do this because without fail there are always 10-13 daily emails from the ex which require heavy sedation before reading, an unplanned overdraft to contemplate and musings from Madame Destiny warning me that someone has been dishonest financially and requires pulling into line....no shit! Generally I then manage to lose the dog. Well not loose him exactly just misplace him. Twice this week (and remember it's only Wednesday) I've either forgotten where I tied him or yesterday actually driven off without him. Of course I didn't get too far. I realised the car didn't stink as much as usual before I reached the end of the road, so I turned back....but guess what? Some bugger had already nabbed my parking space!
It's somewhere around this point that I usually remember to take my chill pill.
I look at myself and I laugh.
So what if my children drive me crazy? I am truly blessed to have them.
So what if life is completely mad at the moment? - at least it's not boring.
So what if I have no money? - it's forced me to be very creative with what little I do have.
So what if I forgot where I parked the dog for a moment? - he has his name tag and at least I always remember the children!
The chill pill is my essential daily supplement. It allows me to get some perspective. Getting some perspective allows me to appreciate what's important in life and thus avoid an expensive medical bill for extracting my head from my backside! It's a proven medical fact - check it out.
Enjoy a chilled rest of week fruitloop followers and remember that essential daily supplement xx
Actually, it's been a helluva week....and it's only Wednesday.
Sound familiar? Yep, I bet that there are a whole bunch of you out there in cyberspace who can relate to, and probably even surpass the kind of stress levels found in the bra straps of a double F cup. Ok, that was a childish euphemism but you know what I mean.....
Whether it's trying to multi-task to the point where you end up with your head so far up your own backside that you've forgotten what week it is, or whether your stress levels stem from something difficult happening in your life, the end result seems to somehow be the same. We seem to lose sight of the bigger picture and become embarrassingly introspective. So now my lovely readers, I'm going to tell you all about me and my week so far cos I just know you're dying to know!
Yeah, yeah, I'm being deliberately and embarrassingly introspective but indulge me for a moment. Firstly, this week the five and six-year-old have finally mastered the art of squabbling and got it down to a fine art. Each session swiftly reaches a crescendo both in terms of volume and flaying of arms and feet, followed by a dramatic finale which generally has me running for an ice-pack as they try to knock seven bells out of each other. And my two are girls! Secondly, this scenario tends to kick-off before we've left the house or even better....in the back of the car on the way to school.
Thirdly, there is never anywhere to park when we get into the village because I'm always too bloody late to bag a space having dealt with the morning's shenanigans whilst multi-tasking (making packed lunches, finding lost socks, homework etc, etc...you know the score). Finding a parking space then becomes a competitive sport with the kids in the back shouting "Mum, mum, I've just seen a lady holding her car keys!" or "Quick, over there - reversing lights! ooh too late"
Then, having deposited one child at school and on my two lucky days each week, the other at pre-school (cos I get to go to the toilet unaccompanied on those days) I admit, I head for the favoured coffee shop. It's generally conveniently placed somewhere between where I finally managed to park the car and the school. I love this coffee shop. Not because they make great coffee - which they do - but because I love the staff. When I walk in and request a Vodka-Valium-Latte with no sugar, no-one bats a bloody eyelid! In fact, some mornings they'll have the thing ready for me before I sit down.
Ok. I think I'm giving you the gist and you're all nodding sagely because you're there with me one way or another (even if you're commuting into your job and the stress levels are different because they involve dealing with adults who behave like children in commuter traffic) Yep, and we've only got through the first few hours of our day....
I then try to multi-task by checking my emails, bank balance and daily horoscope on the good 'ol iPhone whist sipping on my Vodka-Vallium-Latte. I need to do this because without fail there are always 10-13 daily emails from the ex which require heavy sedation before reading, an unplanned overdraft to contemplate and musings from Madame Destiny warning me that someone has been dishonest financially and requires pulling into line....no shit! Generally I then manage to lose the dog. Well not loose him exactly just misplace him. Twice this week (and remember it's only Wednesday) I've either forgotten where I tied him or yesterday actually driven off without him. Of course I didn't get too far. I realised the car didn't stink as much as usual before I reached the end of the road, so I turned back....but guess what? Some bugger had already nabbed my parking space!
It's somewhere around this point that I usually remember to take my chill pill.
I look at myself and I laugh.
So what if my children drive me crazy? I am truly blessed to have them.
So what if life is completely mad at the moment? - at least it's not boring.
So what if I have no money? - it's forced me to be very creative with what little I do have.
So what if I forgot where I parked the dog for a moment? - he has his name tag and at least I always remember the children!
The chill pill is my essential daily supplement. It allows me to get some perspective. Getting some perspective allows me to appreciate what's important in life and thus avoid an expensive medical bill for extracting my head from my backside! It's a proven medical fact - check it out.
Enjoy a chilled rest of week fruitloop followers and remember that essential daily supplement xx
Internet Dating - read between the lines!!
Isn't it great to have friends?
I have to say, I'm blessed with many wonderful friends. Having moved to a different hemisphere, where I had no family, my friends have become just like family bless them. They have supported me physically and emotionally, made me laugh, made me scream, made me cry. I love them all. Yep, they're more like family than family, but at least I got to choose them. They look out for me, they give sound, collective advice.... which leads me to the real gist of this post. I can rely on my friends to tell it like it is and comment on absolutely anything.
So, first, I get an urgent text message a few days ago from one friend telling me to check out a certain profile on a certain internet dating site. Apparently, this profile had popped-up as a possible match for her. The minute she saw the picture she just HAD to alert me. That clever little software programme that those dating sites employ had matched her with The Psychopath! Holy sh**t. I think she cancelled her membership on the spot citing she wasn't going to join "NuttersRus"
Then, I can only assume that this hot little nugget of information spread like wildfire among my other friends because within a few hours I received this email from another friend:
Hi babe, I've checked out *****'s profile. Not sure about the non-smoker since he smokes like a f***ing chimney. Divorced? well, you've been trying to divorce him for a few months and he keeps stopping it. Not sure if he wants more children? Didn't he have that last girlfriend on IVF after only a few weeks? Oh and his use of 999 in the profile? Well that's a classic. All I can say is we all know the bastard has narcissistic personality disorder, so the bugger must have mistaken the sign of the devil 666 in that bloody mirror of his.
Profile reads intelligent, loyal and caring. Hey, that's a really clever way to describe psychopathic mastermind, stalker and control freak. Seriously, it's all about the nuts. He's got balls, but not nuts, and he only uses them for hitting women and frightening children. Not for rescuing damsels in distress or doing good deeds. He hides the nuts. You want the nuts. Most of the village is now out to get his nuts. Quite frankly, he is nuts. Now we all need nutcrackers and are joining dating sites full of nuts. Seems that life is all about bloody nuts.
Think I'll ponder that while I enjoy my cashews xxx
That email arrived on a day when things were looking pretty grim. It made me laughed so hard I got stared at in the cafe where I had gone to try to do some work. It's a good job that I live in a small community and everyone knows I'm nuts. Well, in a zany, loveable sort of way.
So, the moral of my little post is this. If any of you are internet dating, for gods sake read those profiles and then imagine that they've been written by a mastermind spin doctor....You have to read between the lines!
And thank your lucky stars for your friends. Mine are the best. God bless them.
I have to say, I'm blessed with many wonderful friends. Having moved to a different hemisphere, where I had no family, my friends have become just like family bless them. They have supported me physically and emotionally, made me laugh, made me scream, made me cry. I love them all. Yep, they're more like family than family, but at least I got to choose them. They look out for me, they give sound, collective advice.... which leads me to the real gist of this post. I can rely on my friends to tell it like it is and comment on absolutely anything.
So, first, I get an urgent text message a few days ago from one friend telling me to check out a certain profile on a certain internet dating site. Apparently, this profile had popped-up as a possible match for her. The minute she saw the picture she just HAD to alert me. That clever little software programme that those dating sites employ had matched her with The Psychopath! Holy sh**t. I think she cancelled her membership on the spot citing she wasn't going to join "NuttersRus"
Then, I can only assume that this hot little nugget of information spread like wildfire among my other friends because within a few hours I received this email from another friend:
Hi babe, I've checked out *****'s profile. Not sure about the non-smoker since he smokes like a f***ing chimney. Divorced? well, you've been trying to divorce him for a few months and he keeps stopping it. Not sure if he wants more children? Didn't he have that last girlfriend on IVF after only a few weeks? Oh and his use of 999 in the profile? Well that's a classic. All I can say is we all know the bastard has narcissistic personality disorder, so the bugger must have mistaken the sign of the devil 666 in that bloody mirror of his.
Profile reads intelligent, loyal and caring. Hey, that's a really clever way to describe psychopathic mastermind, stalker and control freak. Seriously, it's all about the nuts. He's got balls, but not nuts, and he only uses them for hitting women and frightening children. Not for rescuing damsels in distress or doing good deeds. He hides the nuts. You want the nuts. Most of the village is now out to get his nuts. Quite frankly, he is nuts. Now we all need nutcrackers and are joining dating sites full of nuts. Seems that life is all about bloody nuts.
Think I'll ponder that while I enjoy my cashews xxx
That email arrived on a day when things were looking pretty grim. It made me laughed so hard I got stared at in the cafe where I had gone to try to do some work. It's a good job that I live in a small community and everyone knows I'm nuts. Well, in a zany, loveable sort of way.
So, the moral of my little post is this. If any of you are internet dating, for gods sake read those profiles and then imagine that they've been written by a mastermind spin doctor....You have to read between the lines!
And thank your lucky stars for your friends. Mine are the best. God bless them.
Extracting those expensive teeth!
If any of you are squeamish, then apologies in advance....perhaps you'd better not read this post. Turn the computer off and go do something useful!
For the rest of you who may be thinking...well how bad can this be. It's pretty bad, but absolutely, cross-my-heart true. The whole yucky subject was brought up again yesterday by my barrister in an off-the-cuff comment during a court case. Here's a bit of background.
The ex had a dental problem. One that he went to great lengths to conceal for many years until our family dentist was a little indiscreet (she assumed that as his wife I knew my husband only had three or four of his own teeth left and the rest were the result of some seriously amazing engineering!) During my regular check-up and gossip, she advised me that there was not much more that she could do for my husband and he would have to wear dentures. He was only 37 at the time. Anyway, enough of the background. He flatly refused to have dentures and opted for a whole mouthful of extremely expensive titanium implants that we had to re-mortgage our house to pay for.
Fast forward a few years by which time I had discovered that this man had a serious personality disorder with psychopathic tendencies......and yep, he used to shout an awful lot (among other things). Once, he was ranting about something or other, eyes glassy, body tense and menacing when he actually bellowed a tooth right out of his mouth. It flew right across the room and landed at my feet. Ughh. It was a great distraction though! That, in retrospect was the beginning of the end for the expensive, implanted teeth.
A few weeks later during a meal he made a strange face. God, he's sussed that I've laced his gravy with laxative I thought....but no...He'd swallowed a bloody tooth! Well, it turns out that he would have been glad about the laxative (if he had known) because he was determined that such an expense should not go down the pan as it were...sorry. I'll skip the details, but within 24 hours that expensive tooth was back in his mouth! Oh yes, and that was the first of three similar incidences that I know of. Funnily enough, at around that time I kept finding my kitchen colander in the bathroom and blamed the kids....UUUUUGGGGGHHHHH
Oh,I should point out that by this stage of our relationship there hadn't been any physical contact between us for years (thank god, could anyone stomach the idea of kissing the bugger?) and the colander went straight in the bin.
So anyway, I finally made my escape from this psycho and I'm sitting in court yesterday with my lawyer trying to sort out the lies that masqueraded as his financial affidavit. My lawyer has subpoenaed some bank documents and suddenly exclaims "Dear god, it looks like he's spent over twenty grand last month on dental work...what's wrong with his teeth?" So I gave her a potted history.
Meanwhile, our barrister is in another room trying to negotiate some sort of fair deal for me. He knows nothing of the new documents that have just surfaced. This is his fourth attempt in as many hours at coming to an agreement with The Psychopath (but then the barrister is also still unaware of the ex's mental state) Our barrister returns to us running his hands desperately through his hair with an exasperated look on his face. My solicitor and I look up at him expectantly.
"That man is completely mad" he says "Anyone would think we were trying to extract his bloody teeth"
That's when I knew that things were going pear-shaped!
PS. If anyone is wondering about the laxatives in the gravy, have a look at my confessions in the archives. I'm not that bad honestly.
For the rest of you who may be thinking...well how bad can this be. It's pretty bad, but absolutely, cross-my-heart true. The whole yucky subject was brought up again yesterday by my barrister in an off-the-cuff comment during a court case. Here's a bit of background.
The ex had a dental problem. One that he went to great lengths to conceal for many years until our family dentist was a little indiscreet (she assumed that as his wife I knew my husband only had three or four of his own teeth left and the rest were the result of some seriously amazing engineering!) During my regular check-up and gossip, she advised me that there was not much more that she could do for my husband and he would have to wear dentures. He was only 37 at the time. Anyway, enough of the background. He flatly refused to have dentures and opted for a whole mouthful of extremely expensive titanium implants that we had to re-mortgage our house to pay for.
Fast forward a few years by which time I had discovered that this man had a serious personality disorder with psychopathic tendencies......and yep, he used to shout an awful lot (among other things). Once, he was ranting about something or other, eyes glassy, body tense and menacing when he actually bellowed a tooth right out of his mouth. It flew right across the room and landed at my feet. Ughh. It was a great distraction though! That, in retrospect was the beginning of the end for the expensive, implanted teeth.
A few weeks later during a meal he made a strange face. God, he's sussed that I've laced his gravy with laxative I thought....but no...He'd swallowed a bloody tooth! Well, it turns out that he would have been glad about the laxative (if he had known) because he was determined that such an expense should not go down the pan as it were...sorry. I'll skip the details, but within 24 hours that expensive tooth was back in his mouth! Oh yes, and that was the first of three similar incidences that I know of. Funnily enough, at around that time I kept finding my kitchen colander in the bathroom and blamed the kids....UUUUUGGGGGHHHHH
Oh,I should point out that by this stage of our relationship there hadn't been any physical contact between us for years (thank god, could anyone stomach the idea of kissing the bugger?) and the colander went straight in the bin.
So anyway, I finally made my escape from this psycho and I'm sitting in court yesterday with my lawyer trying to sort out the lies that masqueraded as his financial affidavit. My lawyer has subpoenaed some bank documents and suddenly exclaims "Dear god, it looks like he's spent over twenty grand last month on dental work...what's wrong with his teeth?" So I gave her a potted history.
Meanwhile, our barrister is in another room trying to negotiate some sort of fair deal for me. He knows nothing of the new documents that have just surfaced. This is his fourth attempt in as many hours at coming to an agreement with The Psychopath (but then the barrister is also still unaware of the ex's mental state) Our barrister returns to us running his hands desperately through his hair with an exasperated look on his face. My solicitor and I look up at him expectantly.
"That man is completely mad" he says "Anyone would think we were trying to extract his bloody teeth"
That's when I knew that things were going pear-shaped!
PS. If anyone is wondering about the laxatives in the gravy, have a look at my confessions in the archives. I'm not that bad honestly.
Care home v's Granny Flat....It's a no brainer!
Here's a true story that I just had to share with you all since I heard it yesterday....and the lady concerned hadn't even read my post "What's in your genes"!
Yesterday I was introduced to this charming, vivacious lady who I had the pleasure of spending most of the day sailing with. At the end of the afternoon whilst we were sitting enjoying a celebratory glass of wine we had the following conversation:
Her: Well, my mother lived has with us in her own granny flat until recently, but now we're considering care homes.
Me: That's a hard one isn't it. My older children keep threatening me with a care home.... How did the granny flat work out for you all?
Her: It was great for a few years, you know, while mum was independent and active. It was nice that she could entertain and live her life independently knowing that we were just downstairs if she ever needed us.
Me: Sounds like a perfect solution when you have someone who's active and you just need to keep a caring eye on them.
Her: Yes, it generally worked out well except for the time when I was making breakfast one morning and I could hear some odd noises coming from upstairs. I was very concerned. I could hear this groaning and gasping. I dropped what I was doing and ran upstairs utterly convinced that she was suffering a heart attack or similar.
Me: God, how awful, did you get there in time?
Her: Oh yes. I got to her door with the phone in my hand ready to call an ambulance. As I got there I called out "Mum are you alright?, don't worry, I'm calling an ambulance' because there was still this godawful groaning going on. Suddenly the noise stopped and she cheerily called out " I'm fine darling, I just have a friend visiting that's all"
By now this lady's story had me crying into my wine with laughter. The tears were streaming down my cheeks.
Me: Can I ask, how old was your mum when this happened?
My new acquaintance took a calming sip of wine and between teeth that were clenched with what I think was embarrassment uttered: Seventy five.
Note to my children: If you're reading this, forget the care home idea. When the time comes I shall insist on a granny flat with sound proofing.
Yesterday I was introduced to this charming, vivacious lady who I had the pleasure of spending most of the day sailing with. At the end of the afternoon whilst we were sitting enjoying a celebratory glass of wine we had the following conversation:
Her: Well, my mother lived has with us in her own granny flat until recently, but now we're considering care homes.
Me: That's a hard one isn't it. My older children keep threatening me with a care home.... How did the granny flat work out for you all?
Her: It was great for a few years, you know, while mum was independent and active. It was nice that she could entertain and live her life independently knowing that we were just downstairs if she ever needed us.
Me: Sounds like a perfect solution when you have someone who's active and you just need to keep a caring eye on them.
Her: Yes, it generally worked out well except for the time when I was making breakfast one morning and I could hear some odd noises coming from upstairs. I was very concerned. I could hear this groaning and gasping. I dropped what I was doing and ran upstairs utterly convinced that she was suffering a heart attack or similar.
Me: God, how awful, did you get there in time?
Her: Oh yes. I got to her door with the phone in my hand ready to call an ambulance. As I got there I called out "Mum are you alright?, don't worry, I'm calling an ambulance' because there was still this godawful groaning going on. Suddenly the noise stopped and she cheerily called out " I'm fine darling, I just have a friend visiting that's all"
By now this lady's story had me crying into my wine with laughter. The tears were streaming down my cheeks.
Me: Can I ask, how old was your mum when this happened?
My new acquaintance took a calming sip of wine and between teeth that were clenched with what I think was embarrassment uttered: Seventy five.
Note to my children: If you're reading this, forget the care home idea. When the time comes I shall insist on a granny flat with sound proofing.
The parable of the psychotic squirrel and his nuts
Help! I am being driven insane by a psychotic squirrel.
It's the guilt you see. My squirrelly offspring keep complaining that they're cold and hungry. Now as any mummy squirrel knows, this type of complaint from your offspring elicits a very strong primal response. I'm bloody determined to find where that bugger has hidden our nuts!
Oh, what to do about that mad daddy squirrel who I so stupidly left in charge of family 'nut duties' while I looked after our baby squirrels? The injustice is killing me. Seriously, his antics are driving me nuts! I keep encountering him scurrying industriously around the tree-tops with his cheeks stuffed to bursting, but I can't seem to catch the slippery bugger.
I've tried to get him to squeak, but his cheeks are so bloody full with booty that he can't utter a single, sensible word. He just mumbles inanely and holds his empty paws out in a mad gesture of 'look, nothing in here!" Hmmmmm
I've watched him zip enthusiastically up the fat,red female squirrel's tree with his cheeks full to bursting and then mysteriously reappear flaccid-cheeked, paws behind his back and whistling innocently. Suspicious, very suspicious.
I've used up my own meagre back-up supply of acorns and nuts since we fled the family tree. I had naively hoped that by now he would have done the decent thing and disclosed the location of our family store so that we can share it fairly. I mean, I happily handed over my entire store of nuts when we set up nest together and I want to know what he's bloody well done with them. It's one thing to be a selfish, greedy rodent, but making your offspring suffer cold and hunger is something else entirely. It goes against nature...thats where the psycho bit comes in I think.....
So this week I've hired me a professional squirrel catcher on a 'no result, no fee' deal and if he doesn't catch the fat rodent then I'm calling in a taxidermist.
Yep, as you can probably tell, I'm spitting chips here. The whole situation has gotten me so bloody mad and frustrated that it's made me even more determined to have that offending squirrel's nuts!
It's the guilt you see. My squirrelly offspring keep complaining that they're cold and hungry. Now as any mummy squirrel knows, this type of complaint from your offspring elicits a very strong primal response. I'm bloody determined to find where that bugger has hidden our nuts!
Oh, what to do about that mad daddy squirrel who I so stupidly left in charge of family 'nut duties' while I looked after our baby squirrels? The injustice is killing me. Seriously, his antics are driving me nuts! I keep encountering him scurrying industriously around the tree-tops with his cheeks stuffed to bursting, but I can't seem to catch the slippery bugger.
I've tried to get him to squeak, but his cheeks are so bloody full with booty that he can't utter a single, sensible word. He just mumbles inanely and holds his empty paws out in a mad gesture of 'look, nothing in here!" Hmmmmm
I've watched him zip enthusiastically up the fat,red female squirrel's tree with his cheeks full to bursting and then mysteriously reappear flaccid-cheeked, paws behind his back and whistling innocently. Suspicious, very suspicious.
I've used up my own meagre back-up supply of acorns and nuts since we fled the family tree. I had naively hoped that by now he would have done the decent thing and disclosed the location of our family store so that we can share it fairly. I mean, I happily handed over my entire store of nuts when we set up nest together and I want to know what he's bloody well done with them. It's one thing to be a selfish, greedy rodent, but making your offspring suffer cold and hunger is something else entirely. It goes against nature...thats where the psycho bit comes in I think.....
So this week I've hired me a professional squirrel catcher on a 'no result, no fee' deal and if he doesn't catch the fat rodent then I'm calling in a taxidermist.
Yep, as you can probably tell, I'm spitting chips here. The whole situation has gotten me so bloody mad and frustrated that it's made me even more determined to have that offending squirrel's nuts!
Why children can't be PC
I have this little problem.
My children haven't yet learned to be politically correct. Well, they're only five and six years old so I suppose the political part is bollocks anyway. Combine this with the usual age-related fascination with bodily parts and functions and yep.... it's pretty much a recipe for bloody disaster! My youngest is the worse offender, especially anything that involves bums,willy's, boobs, skin colour, race and such like. She's like a dog with a bone.Trouble is, she has a rather wickedly good sense of humour.
I have a good friend who is black, and until recently I hadn't even thought about my children's reaction to skin colour because the subject has never come up. Well not until she opened the door to him one night recently and blurted out " Oh it's you, I couldn't see you outside in the dark!" Now, I'm sure that she's never even heard the joke and thank god he wasn't offended, but I wanted the floor to open up. I'm sure you all know the feeling. Anyway, it actually got worse because later that evening I had to stop her following him to the bathroom. I patiently explained that it's not polite to follow guests to the bathroom (even though in our house we three girls all barge in on each other). The little minx looked me in the eye and replied oh-so-matter-of-factly "But mum, I only wanted to check what colour willy he has!"....
Here's her latest repertoire of social faux-pars.
Last week the little darling gleefully informed me that she "could see the postman's hairy bum". He was handing me my post at the time. Actually we could both see the postman's bum because he'd dropped a letter, bent down to retrieve it and exposed rather more than one might have wished over the top of his trousers. Damn it, I will now have to wear a wig and sunglasses when visiting the village post office.
Then this week she asked the new and really nice, shy young barista in our local cafe what colour underpants he was wearing! He went a strange shade of puce and handed me my coffee with a look of complete terror dancing about his face. I strongly suspect he may have been going commando - but that's pure conjecture on my part. Thank god I'd ordered a take-away I thought as I swiftly frog-marched her outside to run through the rules of social decorum yet again. Trouble is, that I just know from the look in her eye that this time the question she posed was not an innocent enquiry. Oh no. The twinkle of mischief in her eye gave it all away. She knew exactly how embarrassing she was being.
Last Sunday, I really thought we had reached a turning point. The three of us had been invited out to sail on a friends boat. Now I crew regularly on this boat with a really lovely guy - who has only one leg........ What to do? The girls really wanted to sail. I really wanted to sail. But could I trust the little one NOT to mention the leg?? I briefed both of them fully. Do as you are told, always hold on with one hand, stay away from the boom and for god's sake DONT MENTION THE BLOODY MISSING LEG! Both nodded sagely in agreement. We went sailing. They were both perfectly behaved all day - an absolute credit. I was so proud of them. As we moored the boat and were walking back along the jetty with the rest of the crew at the end of the day I told them how proud I was. The little one looked up at me beaming with pride and said in her loudest voice "Does that mean I can ask to look at his missing leg now then?"
Today though, I think she truly hit her peak. We had been standing watching a group of surfers going through their paces in the surf. A little later they got out of the water and walked past myself and my daughters on their way to dry off. My youngest had been watching very intently, and with perfect timing as they passed by she blurted out "Mum, how does that man with the great big willy get it inside his wet suit?"
It's all our own fault. You see, we tell our children to always tell the truth. We teach our children to be inquisitive, to learn and be creative. THAT"S WHY LITTLE KIDS CANT POSSIBLY BE PC.
My children haven't yet learned to be politically correct. Well, they're only five and six years old so I suppose the political part is bollocks anyway. Combine this with the usual age-related fascination with bodily parts and functions and yep.... it's pretty much a recipe for bloody disaster! My youngest is the worse offender, especially anything that involves bums,willy's, boobs, skin colour, race and such like. She's like a dog with a bone.Trouble is, she has a rather wickedly good sense of humour.
I have a good friend who is black, and until recently I hadn't even thought about my children's reaction to skin colour because the subject has never come up. Well not until she opened the door to him one night recently and blurted out " Oh it's you, I couldn't see you outside in the dark!" Now, I'm sure that she's never even heard the joke and thank god he wasn't offended, but I wanted the floor to open up. I'm sure you all know the feeling. Anyway, it actually got worse because later that evening I had to stop her following him to the bathroom. I patiently explained that it's not polite to follow guests to the bathroom (even though in our house we three girls all barge in on each other). The little minx looked me in the eye and replied oh-so-matter-of-factly "But mum, I only wanted to check what colour willy he has!"....
Here's her latest repertoire of social faux-pars.
Last week the little darling gleefully informed me that she "could see the postman's hairy bum". He was handing me my post at the time. Actually we could both see the postman's bum because he'd dropped a letter, bent down to retrieve it and exposed rather more than one might have wished over the top of his trousers. Damn it, I will now have to wear a wig and sunglasses when visiting the village post office.
Then this week she asked the new and really nice, shy young barista in our local cafe what colour underpants he was wearing! He went a strange shade of puce and handed me my coffee with a look of complete terror dancing about his face. I strongly suspect he may have been going commando - but that's pure conjecture on my part. Thank god I'd ordered a take-away I thought as I swiftly frog-marched her outside to run through the rules of social decorum yet again. Trouble is, that I just know from the look in her eye that this time the question she posed was not an innocent enquiry. Oh no. The twinkle of mischief in her eye gave it all away. She knew exactly how embarrassing she was being.
Last Sunday, I really thought we had reached a turning point. The three of us had been invited out to sail on a friends boat. Now I crew regularly on this boat with a really lovely guy - who has only one leg........ What to do? The girls really wanted to sail. I really wanted to sail. But could I trust the little one NOT to mention the leg?? I briefed both of them fully. Do as you are told, always hold on with one hand, stay away from the boom and for god's sake DONT MENTION THE BLOODY MISSING LEG! Both nodded sagely in agreement. We went sailing. They were both perfectly behaved all day - an absolute credit. I was so proud of them. As we moored the boat and were walking back along the jetty with the rest of the crew at the end of the day I told them how proud I was. The little one looked up at me beaming with pride and said in her loudest voice "Does that mean I can ask to look at his missing leg now then?"
Today though, I think she truly hit her peak. We had been standing watching a group of surfers going through their paces in the surf. A little later they got out of the water and walked past myself and my daughters on their way to dry off. My youngest had been watching very intently, and with perfect timing as they passed by she blurted out "Mum, how does that man with the great big willy get it inside his wet suit?"
It's all our own fault. You see, we tell our children to always tell the truth. We teach our children to be inquisitive, to learn and be creative. THAT"S WHY LITTLE KIDS CANT POSSIBLY BE PC.
Mum, what do you want to be when you grow up?
Yep, from the mouths of babes as they say!
Admittedly, the question posed by my 5-year-old came straight after we had finished a sock-surfing session on the kitchen floor - I had given my best performance to date and was smugly showing my kids how to perfect the slide,turn and recover technique.
Anyway, the question got me thinking a bit.......
Now, I'm sure you'll all empathise with this, I keep forgetting how old I am! (maybe it's Alzheimer's) I'm serious. I was actually having a conversation with my father the other day and mentioned my age. He corrected me and I looked at him in stunned confusion as he said " You can't bloody pull that trick on me, I'm your father, and I was there"
Trouble is that most of my friends are younger than me, and I sort of morph into this younger persona most of the time until I say something like " Yeah, well do you remember that kids programme the Magic Roundabout?' and someone pulls me back into line with " Nope, cos that was before we were born!"
So, back to the question of what I want to be when I finally grow up. It's a tough one, given that I don't know if I ever will. But if I do, here are some ideas I've been mulling over....
A Hell's Granny - because I have a hankering for a motorbike and I'd love any excuse for donning leather after the age of seventy. If I'm too infirm by then, then I think I'll just get me one of those motorised old-age scooter things cos then I can drive on the pavements and it'll be legal! I'll even be able to give my ageing mates lifts back from poker nights on the handlebars... I know from observation that you don't need a licence to drive one of those recklessly!
A Belly Dancer - well, I've already got the belly for it and it jiggles a fair bit. How hard can it be to learn how to get it to jiggle in time to music? I think I'd really enjoy seeing how my children react when 'nanna' insists on doing her party piece at family gatherings!
A Spy - I really do think that the CIA and MI5 should seriously consider recruiting among the elderly. I mean, by the time you reach your sixties or seventies you're a bit like Obi-Wan Kanobi. Cool, calm collected and incredibly wise. Great attributes for the perfect spy. Plus, who would suspect a sweet little old granny of being a spy? Oooooh imagine the excitement when you get your company car from Q. Pass me that recruitment form and a martini NOW!
Well, those are my thoughts for now. Actually, there's nothing stopping me from being all three if I want...Further suggestions from my readers would be great, so lets hear from you! Oh, you know what? The one thing that I know with absolute conviction and certainty that I will be when I grow up is:
A Nuisance. Sorry kids but it'll be payback time!!
Admittedly, the question posed by my 5-year-old came straight after we had finished a sock-surfing session on the kitchen floor - I had given my best performance to date and was smugly showing my kids how to perfect the slide,turn and recover technique.
Anyway, the question got me thinking a bit.......
Now, I'm sure you'll all empathise with this, I keep forgetting how old I am! (maybe it's Alzheimer's) I'm serious. I was actually having a conversation with my father the other day and mentioned my age. He corrected me and I looked at him in stunned confusion as he said " You can't bloody pull that trick on me, I'm your father, and I was there"
Trouble is that most of my friends are younger than me, and I sort of morph into this younger persona most of the time until I say something like " Yeah, well do you remember that kids programme the Magic Roundabout?' and someone pulls me back into line with " Nope, cos that was before we were born!"
So, back to the question of what I want to be when I finally grow up. It's a tough one, given that I don't know if I ever will. But if I do, here are some ideas I've been mulling over....
A Hell's Granny - because I have a hankering for a motorbike and I'd love any excuse for donning leather after the age of seventy. If I'm too infirm by then, then I think I'll just get me one of those motorised old-age scooter things cos then I can drive on the pavements and it'll be legal! I'll even be able to give my ageing mates lifts back from poker nights on the handlebars... I know from observation that you don't need a licence to drive one of those recklessly!
A Belly Dancer - well, I've already got the belly for it and it jiggles a fair bit. How hard can it be to learn how to get it to jiggle in time to music? I think I'd really enjoy seeing how my children react when 'nanna' insists on doing her party piece at family gatherings!
A Spy - I really do think that the CIA and MI5 should seriously consider recruiting among the elderly. I mean, by the time you reach your sixties or seventies you're a bit like Obi-Wan Kanobi. Cool, calm collected and incredibly wise. Great attributes for the perfect spy. Plus, who would suspect a sweet little old granny of being a spy? Oooooh imagine the excitement when you get your company car from Q. Pass me that recruitment form and a martini NOW!
Well, those are my thoughts for now. Actually, there's nothing stopping me from being all three if I want...Further suggestions from my readers would be great, so lets hear from you! Oh, you know what? The one thing that I know with absolute conviction and certainty that I will be when I grow up is:
A Nuisance. Sorry kids but it'll be payback time!!
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Confessions of a fruitloop
"Mum, what about that time you shaved dad's eyebrow off? Or, when you stuck prawns under the bonnet of his car and it took him weeks to work out what the stench was?"
"Yes, but he deserved it!"
... I'd sort of forgotten the pranks that I used to get up to with my first husband. The trouble was, he was a bit of a prankster himself and during an argument he always had to have the last word. Now, as every women will tell you, from a female perspective, that's way too frustrating. So, to vent my frustration I would dream up the most creative retributions. The longer we were married, the more creative my pranks became until the thirteenth year of our marriage....better known as 'the year of the eyebrow' where I think I went just a tinsy bit too far!
In my defence though, my first husband was pretty good at pranks too. His absolute best was getting me out of the shower to answer the door to him under the guise of loosing his house keys. Now, we lived in London at the time on a busy commuter road. So, dripping wet and swearing profusely, I opened the door with nothing but a towel wrapped around me.
Swiftly and expertly, and with the grace and guile of a stage magician, he stepped inside, swiped the towel away, manoeuvred me onto the doorstep and closed the door! To this day I don't think I have ever moved so fast. Covering my bits with my hands, I sprinted across the front garden and spent the next fifteen minutes hiding in a hedge bordering the roadside with commuter traffic only a few feet away whilst he made faces at me from an upstairs window. Bastard!
The Prankster and I divorced amicably many years ago. In fact, he 's probably reading this blog right now and laughing his head off. Now, my wonderful 'fruitloop logic' told me that I should try a sensible, reliable individual next time around, even if that did equal boring. So, fast forward a few years and by a complete mistake, I somehow managed to marry The Psychopath.....see my archive post.
Now, I blame that film 'The War of the Roses' with Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner, for giving me some really naughty ideas. Let's have some sympathy here.....Living with a psychopath is infinitely more frustrating than a living with a prankster. Yeah, yeah, I know. Playing pranks on a psychopath is pretty mad and very dangerous. That's when that film popped back into my head.....Think dog food pie, toothbrushes to clean toilets, laxatives in coffee, itching powder in underpants........Enough. Enough.
Eventually, I popped in and very quietly confessed all to The Psychopaths' psychologist, seriously fearing that I too was beginning to lose the plot. Guess what?
Yep, I got complete absolution! It would seem that cleaning the toilet with a psychopath's toothbrush is completely normal.......
"Yes, but he deserved it!"
... I'd sort of forgotten the pranks that I used to get up to with my first husband. The trouble was, he was a bit of a prankster himself and during an argument he always had to have the last word. Now, as every women will tell you, from a female perspective, that's way too frustrating. So, to vent my frustration I would dream up the most creative retributions. The longer we were married, the more creative my pranks became until the thirteenth year of our marriage....better known as 'the year of the eyebrow' where I think I went just a tinsy bit too far!
In my defence though, my first husband was pretty good at pranks too. His absolute best was getting me out of the shower to answer the door to him under the guise of loosing his house keys. Now, we lived in London at the time on a busy commuter road. So, dripping wet and swearing profusely, I opened the door with nothing but a towel wrapped around me.
Swiftly and expertly, and with the grace and guile of a stage magician, he stepped inside, swiped the towel away, manoeuvred me onto the doorstep and closed the door! To this day I don't think I have ever moved so fast. Covering my bits with my hands, I sprinted across the front garden and spent the next fifteen minutes hiding in a hedge bordering the roadside with commuter traffic only a few feet away whilst he made faces at me from an upstairs window. Bastard!
The Prankster and I divorced amicably many years ago. In fact, he 's probably reading this blog right now and laughing his head off. Now, my wonderful 'fruitloop logic' told me that I should try a sensible, reliable individual next time around, even if that did equal boring. So, fast forward a few years and by a complete mistake, I somehow managed to marry The Psychopath.....see my archive post.
Now, I blame that film 'The War of the Roses' with Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner, for giving me some really naughty ideas. Let's have some sympathy here.....Living with a psychopath is infinitely more frustrating than a living with a prankster. Yeah, yeah, I know. Playing pranks on a psychopath is pretty mad and very dangerous. That's when that film popped back into my head.....Think dog food pie, toothbrushes to clean toilets, laxatives in coffee, itching powder in underpants........Enough. Enough.
Eventually, I popped in and very quietly confessed all to The Psychopaths' psychologist, seriously fearing that I too was beginning to lose the plot. Guess what?
Yep, I got complete absolution! It would seem that cleaning the toilet with a psychopath's toothbrush is completely normal.......
Anti-ageing tips that really work!
Hey, as you may suspect if you read my blog, I'm all for growing old disgracefully. I mean, why should the all the fun in life stop just because you've got a few wrinkles?
However, whilst embarking on growing old disgracefully, I've come up with a few of my own anti-aging tips that really do work. Guys...you might like to skip to the end paragraph right now. I've written a bit especially for you. This first bit is strictly for the girls only.....we don't want to give our secrets away do we?
Girlie Tips
- Do the upside down mirror test. You know, the one where you place the mirror on the floor then look down into it. If you frighten yourself stupid, then here's my first tip. Do not, no matter how much you may love it, ever, ever do the girl-on-top position any more! Well, not unless your guy is blindfolded. Result -5 years off your real age. Sky's the limit with the blindfold!
- When naked, never, ever lay sideways if your boobs and/or belly end up in your armpit or on your bed. By the way, this also applies to on the beach or at the pool! Your body may look absolutely stunning when upright - don't spoil the illusion! - Result - 5-7 years off your real age.
- Go for an exhilarating adrenaline rush. Anything naughty that scares you rigid and puts colour into your cheeks will do. I can highly recommend climbing behind a young, leather-clad Adonis and riding motorbike pillion at alarming speeds. Guaranteed to take 10 years off initially. Results however are short-lived.
- Always wear absolutely stunningly, sexy underwear. Knowing that beneath your trackies or old jeans you're wearing drop-dead sexy underwear puts a huge spring in your step and a youthful twinkle in the eye.
- Adopt a 'zero tolerance' policy on grey pubes. Get rid of the buggers whatever it takes! You may have successfully camouflaged the ones on your head so for god's sake don't give the game away down there!
- Always wear one item of clothing that you bought in a shop for 20 year-olds just so long as it's not a short skirt okay? One current trend item or accessory is guaranteed to make you look hip and cool without anyone muttering "mint sauce" in the school yard.
- Forget punishing yourself at the gym. Go for the home love-in! Infinitely more fun and great aerobic exercise. Other benefits include oxygenated skin and a smile that can take years off.
- Finally, I've recently discovered the awesome, super-cool www.bellamumma.com for the really girlie stuff that makes us feel good.
Guy Tips
- Underwear. I'll say no more, but if you're still sporting the same style of underwear that you wore ten years ago then sort it dude! It'll make you feel hip and cool and less like your grandpa. Result - 5 years (when you take your clothes off)
- Hair suddenly sprouting in places other than your head is not a youthful look. Remove offending hair immediately no matter how much pain you have to endure in the process. Warning: do not pluck your eyebrows unless you think the gay, surprised look will suit you. Trim the damn things with scissors.
- Man boobs and beer bellies. Do I need to say more? Just this once, have a quick look at girlie tip number two.
- No matter what, stay away from slippers! I don't care how bloody cold it is never, ever succumb to 'the lure of the slipper'. Get some thick socks, wear soft-soled runners...I can guarantee you'll put 15 years onto your age if you go anywhere near the suckers!
- Play the sport, don't watch it! And if you're too damn old to play footie or rugby then take up rock-climbing or anything that gets the old adrenaline pumping. The years will fall away once you get off the sofa.
- Hair. If you don't have any on your head, then pleeeeease, don't pretend that you do! Shave the remaining wisps off and go for the sexy, virile look. I guarantee you'll look at least 2 years younger. That back-combed, trained stuff that defies the laws of science wont cut it. Speaking of which, if you're still going to the same barber/hairdresser that you were ten years ago. Sort that too!
Well, Fruitloop has spoken! Let me have your thoughts via the comment box and any other tips we can all share and giggle about.
However, whilst embarking on growing old disgracefully, I've come up with a few of my own anti-aging tips that really do work. Guys...you might like to skip to the end paragraph right now. I've written a bit especially for you. This first bit is strictly for the girls only.....we don't want to give our secrets away do we?
Girlie Tips
- Do the upside down mirror test. You know, the one where you place the mirror on the floor then look down into it. If you frighten yourself stupid, then here's my first tip. Do not, no matter how much you may love it, ever, ever do the girl-on-top position any more! Well, not unless your guy is blindfolded. Result -5 years off your real age. Sky's the limit with the blindfold!
- When naked, never, ever lay sideways if your boobs and/or belly end up in your armpit or on your bed. By the way, this also applies to on the beach or at the pool! Your body may look absolutely stunning when upright - don't spoil the illusion! - Result - 5-7 years off your real age.
- Go for an exhilarating adrenaline rush. Anything naughty that scares you rigid and puts colour into your cheeks will do. I can highly recommend climbing behind a young, leather-clad Adonis and riding motorbike pillion at alarming speeds. Guaranteed to take 10 years off initially. Results however are short-lived.
- Always wear absolutely stunningly, sexy underwear. Knowing that beneath your trackies or old jeans you're wearing drop-dead sexy underwear puts a huge spring in your step and a youthful twinkle in the eye.
- Adopt a 'zero tolerance' policy on grey pubes. Get rid of the buggers whatever it takes! You may have successfully camouflaged the ones on your head so for god's sake don't give the game away down there!
- Always wear one item of clothing that you bought in a shop for 20 year-olds just so long as it's not a short skirt okay? One current trend item or accessory is guaranteed to make you look hip and cool without anyone muttering "mint sauce" in the school yard.
- Forget punishing yourself at the gym. Go for the home love-in! Infinitely more fun and great aerobic exercise. Other benefits include oxygenated skin and a smile that can take years off.
- Finally, I've recently discovered the awesome, super-cool www.bellamumma.com for the really girlie stuff that makes us feel good.
Guy Tips
- Underwear. I'll say no more, but if you're still sporting the same style of underwear that you wore ten years ago then sort it dude! It'll make you feel hip and cool and less like your grandpa. Result - 5 years (when you take your clothes off)
- Hair suddenly sprouting in places other than your head is not a youthful look. Remove offending hair immediately no matter how much pain you have to endure in the process. Warning: do not pluck your eyebrows unless you think the gay, surprised look will suit you. Trim the damn things with scissors.
- Man boobs and beer bellies. Do I need to say more? Just this once, have a quick look at girlie tip number two.
- No matter what, stay away from slippers! I don't care how bloody cold it is never, ever succumb to 'the lure of the slipper'. Get some thick socks, wear soft-soled runners...I can guarantee you'll put 15 years onto your age if you go anywhere near the suckers!
- Play the sport, don't watch it! And if you're too damn old to play footie or rugby then take up rock-climbing or anything that gets the old adrenaline pumping. The years will fall away once you get off the sofa.
- Hair. If you don't have any on your head, then pleeeeease, don't pretend that you do! Shave the remaining wisps off and go for the sexy, virile look. I guarantee you'll look at least 2 years younger. That back-combed, trained stuff that defies the laws of science wont cut it. Speaking of which, if you're still going to the same barber/hairdresser that you were ten years ago. Sort that too!
Well, Fruitloop has spoken! Let me have your thoughts via the comment box and any other tips we can all share and giggle about.
What's in your genes?
I have to say, I was shocked.
Bemused and embarrassed came close, but shocked was a more apt description of my feelings when I realised that my mum had lived a secret life.
She'd managed to keep a lid on the whole thing until I was about 35. There was I thinking that my mum, that sweet, quiet, gentle woman who had raised my brother and I, was just an average, much-loved, run-of-the-mill, mum and grandma. You know, the type you see portrayed in nice family TV shows. But, oooh no....One fateful night I discovered that beneath that quiet, unassuming exterior was a sexy, sassy, fun-loving, hell-raising, bloody maverick! So forget Carol Brady in the Brady Bunch and think Patsy from Ab Fab.....
Actually, in retrospect I should have realised that something didn't quite add up. As a child I remember being sent home from school to change because my outfit was distracting the class. It was about 1969 and mum had made me a dress with little hippy bells on. Then there was the case of the black PVC hotpants....yeah, let's not go there. Oh, and of course those friends of hers. As a child, you tend not to evaluate or judge adults too much but thinking back now 'eclectic and left-of-centre' would be a bit of an understatement!
So back to the fateful night of the revelation.......
After 30 years I met up with a childhood friend who had lived next-door to us in the 70's. We picked up where we had left off and even settled an old argument about those coveted Chopper Bikes. Anyway, we decided that it would be a fantastic idea to get our mums together too as they had been quite good mates back then. Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!
What subsequently followed was an evening of hilarious reminiscing in such intimate detail between two 60 year olds, that the conversation on adjacent tables stopped so that they could enjoy the entertainment. My friend and I were appalled. Highly entertained, but appalled by our mother's revelations. Their stories featured police raids, parties, joints, unsavoury characters, hair-raising antics, and as for the sex.....Well, I mean, you just don't like to think of your mum having a sex life at all do you? Let alone a better one than you've had! We decided to frog-march the pair outside when as a finale, they began discussing oral sex. Enough was enough.
So, what am I saying here?
Well, I guess my point is this: Until the age of 35 I thought that I was the only sexy, sassy, fun-loving, hell-raising fruitloop in the family.... Funny that.
Post Script - provided by my brother via Facebook last night.
"Sis, mum just drove us back to the airport. On the way I asked about the old friend of hers that she'd taken the kids (my niece and nephew) to visit in Soho yesterday. Mum said "Yes, he played the piano for them, but I think he only smokes the occasional joint now, and of course he is gay!!" I just sat in the back of the car in stunned silence....and you wonder where you get it from?"
PPS. For those who have done the math....my mum is into her seventies!
Bemused and embarrassed came close, but shocked was a more apt description of my feelings when I realised that my mum had lived a secret life.
She'd managed to keep a lid on the whole thing until I was about 35. There was I thinking that my mum, that sweet, quiet, gentle woman who had raised my brother and I, was just an average, much-loved, run-of-the-mill, mum and grandma. You know, the type you see portrayed in nice family TV shows. But, oooh no....One fateful night I discovered that beneath that quiet, unassuming exterior was a sexy, sassy, fun-loving, hell-raising, bloody maverick! So forget Carol Brady in the Brady Bunch and think Patsy from Ab Fab.....
Actually, in retrospect I should have realised that something didn't quite add up. As a child I remember being sent home from school to change because my outfit was distracting the class. It was about 1969 and mum had made me a dress with little hippy bells on. Then there was the case of the black PVC hotpants....yeah, let's not go there. Oh, and of course those friends of hers. As a child, you tend not to evaluate or judge adults too much but thinking back now 'eclectic and left-of-centre' would be a bit of an understatement!
So back to the fateful night of the revelation.......
After 30 years I met up with a childhood friend who had lived next-door to us in the 70's. We picked up where we had left off and even settled an old argument about those coveted Chopper Bikes. Anyway, we decided that it would be a fantastic idea to get our mums together too as they had been quite good mates back then. Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!
What subsequently followed was an evening of hilarious reminiscing in such intimate detail between two 60 year olds, that the conversation on adjacent tables stopped so that they could enjoy the entertainment. My friend and I were appalled. Highly entertained, but appalled by our mother's revelations. Their stories featured police raids, parties, joints, unsavoury characters, hair-raising antics, and as for the sex.....Well, I mean, you just don't like to think of your mum having a sex life at all do you? Let alone a better one than you've had! We decided to frog-march the pair outside when as a finale, they began discussing oral sex. Enough was enough.
So, what am I saying here?
Well, I guess my point is this: Until the age of 35 I thought that I was the only sexy, sassy, fun-loving, hell-raising fruitloop in the family.... Funny that.
Post Script - provided by my brother via Facebook last night.
"Sis, mum just drove us back to the airport. On the way I asked about the old friend of hers that she'd taken the kids (my niece and nephew) to visit in Soho yesterday. Mum said "Yes, he played the piano for them, but I think he only smokes the occasional joint now, and of course he is gay!!" I just sat in the back of the car in stunned silence....and you wonder where you get it from?"
PPS. For those who have done the math....my mum is into her seventies!
Mum's the word on Facebook
" Mum, if you don't behave, we're coming out there to have you put in a home. Don't you dare get onto the back of a motorbike... it's not safe!"
Wise, but futile words from my 21 year-old daughter to me on Facebook.
It works both ways, this Facebook relationship that I have with my two eldest children. I read their posts and they scare the bejesus out of me, and then I post something and they're immediately on my case threatening homes for the insane!
Horrendous mother that I am, I reluctantly left my eldest children then aged 17 and 20, four years ago, to live on the other side of the world. Well, to be fair, they had already left home and then I did the runner. Since then, I've come to realise that parenting older children from a different hemisphere might actually be more productive than living with them .
You know why?... Because they actually listen to me. Well, by that I mean they seem to take notice of my posts and even sometimes act upon my motherly advice. Hell, even a whole bunch of their friends have recently requested to be my friends...What the?
Social networking has brought us closer, and now it doesn't matter so much that we live on opposites sides of the world. I can track what the little buggers are getting up to, I can see what their friends are saying and I can join in with their banter. Wow, my kids even tell me that they love me via Facebook - that's sooooo embarrassing!
Thank god for Facebook. Now I've got a real understanding of their daily lives, their hopes, their dreams and their disasters. I have far better insight than I ever had when communication from my children came in the form of a grunt in passing.....I do have to resist the overwhelming urge to moan about their god-awful spelling though.
Psst... I'm keeping one step ahead because now I twitter too. My kids haven't started yet, but I'm sure it wont be long.
Wise, but futile words from my 21 year-old daughter to me on Facebook.
It works both ways, this Facebook relationship that I have with my two eldest children. I read their posts and they scare the bejesus out of me, and then I post something and they're immediately on my case threatening homes for the insane!
Horrendous mother that I am, I reluctantly left my eldest children then aged 17 and 20, four years ago, to live on the other side of the world. Well, to be fair, they had already left home and then I did the runner. Since then, I've come to realise that parenting older children from a different hemisphere might actually be more productive than living with them .
You know why?... Because they actually listen to me. Well, by that I mean they seem to take notice of my posts and even sometimes act upon my motherly advice. Hell, even a whole bunch of their friends have recently requested to be my friends...What the?
Social networking has brought us closer, and now it doesn't matter so much that we live on opposites sides of the world. I can track what the little buggers are getting up to, I can see what their friends are saying and I can join in with their banter. Wow, my kids even tell me that they love me via Facebook - that's sooooo embarrassing!
Thank god for Facebook. Now I've got a real understanding of their daily lives, their hopes, their dreams and their disasters. I have far better insight than I ever had when communication from my children came in the form of a grunt in passing.....I do have to resist the overwhelming urge to moan about their god-awful spelling though.
Psst... I'm keeping one step ahead because now I twitter too. My kids haven't started yet, but I'm sure it wont be long.
Beware your pre-schooler's definition of news!
I am all for encouraging our adorable little pre-schoolers to participate in 'news time' or 'show and tell' at pre-school. It develops their confidence and must sometimes provide the teachers with much-needed light entertainment. But have you ever given a thought as to the type of information your pre-schooler might categorise as news?
An innocent exchange with one of the staff at our pre-school last week has left me both enthralled but completely paranoid. It's given cause for great mirth and speculation in our small community....because, of course I had to share the hilarious little nugget of information I had obtained with a few mums after drop-off.
Cutting to the chase, the story goes like this.....
After a few morning pleasantries, one of the pre-school staff asked how my work was progressing. She showed unusually detailed knowledge, then followed it with the comment "Oh yes, we now know all about your book and why you want it published under a pseudonym"
I smiled politely. Please god she didn't know why I thought a pseudonym was a good idea.... "Really?" I managed to choke, wondering how the information of the slightly racy content of my work may have inexplicably escaped from my laptop. "We were given a little 'synopsis' by your daughter at news time this week!"
At this point, I heaved a sigh of relief. My daughter cannot yet read further than D-O-G. The detailed content of my writing was obviously pretty safe. I would have to investigate my 5 year-old's little synopsis further once I got her home. I decided to steer the conversation away from myself just to be on the safe side. "I bet you get some great stories from these little ones don't you?"
"Oh yes, quite hysterical. Last week one of the boys stood up in front of class. His parents obviously hadn't helped him prepare for his news slot, and so for a moment he was a bit stuck, just standing there racking his brains for a topic. Then suddenly his little eyes lit up, and he blurted out.....This morning, my daddy had a shower......and you know what? He has an enormous willy!"
"Oh my god" I laughed, "Which little boy was it?"
The teacher gave a wry smile, "Now, that would be indiscrete, wouldn't it?"
Suffice to say, there is much speculation among the mum's at pre-school as to the identity of this child and the staff are quite rightly staying tight-lipped. However, I'm sure that eventually my daughter will voluntarily divulge all. Just so long as it's not about me.
Note to self: Remember to help my children prepare their news from now on....oh, and lock the bathroom door!
An innocent exchange with one of the staff at our pre-school last week has left me both enthralled but completely paranoid. It's given cause for great mirth and speculation in our small community....because, of course I had to share the hilarious little nugget of information I had obtained with a few mums after drop-off.
Cutting to the chase, the story goes like this.....
After a few morning pleasantries, one of the pre-school staff asked how my work was progressing. She showed unusually detailed knowledge, then followed it with the comment "Oh yes, we now know all about your book and why you want it published under a pseudonym"
I smiled politely. Please god she didn't know why I thought a pseudonym was a good idea.... "Really?" I managed to choke, wondering how the information of the slightly racy content of my work may have inexplicably escaped from my laptop. "We were given a little 'synopsis' by your daughter at news time this week!"
At this point, I heaved a sigh of relief. My daughter cannot yet read further than D-O-G. The detailed content of my writing was obviously pretty safe. I would have to investigate my 5 year-old's little synopsis further once I got her home. I decided to steer the conversation away from myself just to be on the safe side. "I bet you get some great stories from these little ones don't you?"
"Oh yes, quite hysterical. Last week one of the boys stood up in front of class. His parents obviously hadn't helped him prepare for his news slot, and so for a moment he was a bit stuck, just standing there racking his brains for a topic. Then suddenly his little eyes lit up, and he blurted out.....This morning, my daddy had a shower......and you know what? He has an enormous willy!"
"Oh my god" I laughed, "Which little boy was it?"
The teacher gave a wry smile, "Now, that would be indiscrete, wouldn't it?"
Suffice to say, there is much speculation among the mum's at pre-school as to the identity of this child and the staff are quite rightly staying tight-lipped. However, I'm sure that eventually my daughter will voluntarily divulge all. Just so long as it's not about me.
Note to self: Remember to help my children prepare their news from now on....oh, and lock the bathroom door!
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