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
Sunday, August 29, 2010
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!!
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