Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

• Here's your honey and lemon
• Of course I blew on it
• You think I'd say I blew on it when I didn't?
• Look, here, blow blow.
• There, it's cool now
• I know you're ill
• And I am being sympathetic
• Yes you're right, I would have made a rubbish nurse
• Because I just don't care enough
• Of course I care about you, just not your cold
• Yes, I'm well aware you might die without proper care
• Well I'm willing to take the chance
• Of course I'd regret not taking better care of you, it's just that no one to my knowledge has ever died of a runny nose
• What's that you're writing?
• We've already made a joint will
• What do you mean you're leaving it all to the dog
• You mean if I was nicer I'd get everything?
• Well I bought you a book up
• It's the sequel to Mister Bump
• I know how much you enjoyed it so I bought you Mister Tickle
• It's really good, he's got long arms
• See I do care
• Will you leave me the house?
• No, you can give the dog to my Mother

Where There's a Will There's a Way

So have any of you been thinking that I've been a little silent of late? Just a little? Go on, you can admit it, you've missed my comments, my neediness to be read, my general presence in the blogospehere. Or at least I hope you have. I have, for me at least been a little silent of late, not that I haven't been reading you all you understand, just not commenting. It's my own fault, ten days ago I spilt Olive Oil on my laptop, all over the letters hjlkuionmbgt, which as you can imagine are pretty integral to composing a post. I managed to fob you all off a little by reposting a hitherto unread post, but in reality I was stuck. I managed a few messages, hammered out with much frustration, before giving in (I've never been much of a grafter) and allowing you all to do the work and allowing me to sit back and just enjoy. It was quite pleasant really.

Anyway, it's felt like an age, and life is moving on. So what's been happening? Firstly I have a shiny, pink, new laptop, complete with ability to type hjlkuionmbgt which is pleasing. Secondly, I believe Husband and I have finally, painfully, slowly, reached what could possibly pass for adulthood. Forget buying a house, forget having children, forget even consolidating your debt for the first time, we have the ultimate test of adulthood: a will. And we made it ourselves, from a do-it-yourself will pack from WHSmith, in the kitchen. But no empty yogurt pots or double sided sticky tape were used so it looks pretty authentic.

It was quite good fun to start with, we opened a bottle of wine and sat thoughtfully, seriously, thinking about the Big Grown Up step we were about to take, of lives that would be touched, at the thought that our untimely demise would warrant such planning, such preparation, due of course to the importance we play in everyone's lives. It was a sober(ish) moment; one of contemplation and reverence.

Until of course we realised we could write anything we liked. Anything at all! After all weren't we grown ups? Sensible and mature enough to make our own decisions? Yes of course we were, we had all the other grown up things: kids, house, car, nintendo wii fit (unused), so what should we write? We contemplated a couple of scenarios; firstly simply putting All to Edna! and signing it. What fun to watch from the other side as everybody tried to figure out for the life of them (rather than the life of us) who on earth Edna was, and why was she getting our millions, (sorry, thousands, ok then hundreds)? Regard with mirth the Hunt For Edna, the scouring of the birth/marriage/death records for a likely match, the heated, enraged conversations at the dinner table about Edna's whereabouts and likelihood of her handing over the goods to the rightful next of kin. Ah, what a legacy to leave our beloveds; a never ending treasure hunt.

We also contemplated confessing that the jewel heist was hidden at Husband's best friend Matt's house so that we could watch the police prepare their raid, barge the door at dawn and rush in yelling, police! stand back! The icing on the cake of course (although we couldn't state this in the will, it would give the game away) would be Matt caught, boxers down, mid coitus, shaking violently and whimpering innocent, innocent as a stunning woman whom he'd been courting for years looked up, removed herself from the clinch and silently dressed, never to be seen again. Years of courting down the drain. Excellent.

Obviously, we didn't put any of this, why bother when we're not sure at all that we''d get to watch it all? We did though have to make all the surreal decisions about what happened to whom in the event of us passing. It was a pickle I can tell you, the opportunities to offend were everywhere. Every corner we turned presented us with another what if? case scenario where someone we loved/tolerated would be incredibly offended at our decisions. Until that is (cue second wide eyed revelation of the day) we realised that it didn't matter; we wouldn't be there to offend anybody. Ha! What a way to cause trouble with our relatives and get away totally scott free! The opportunities were endless. Pick a relative, any relative and say whatever you like, they can't ever ever answer back! Now that's what I call entertainment value.

In fact, thinking about it, I could have more fun than I ever imagined. I could admit to anything, (anything!) and get away with it. What was My Mother going to do about it? Ground me? No! Ha! No more grounding ever! For me or Husband. At last! A way to rid myself of my sins, cast out the fire of wrong doing and start again, clean and renewed. I would tell her about the time Shirley the-Competition criticised her flapjacks at the Church fete because she'd found a plaster in the middle of one. My plaster. Put in deliberately. Or I'd tell her how I'd always secretly agreed with dad about the kitchen wallpaper - it did remind me of slime, or about the time she found an image of our dog Barry in one of her chrysanthemums and sent me to the post office to send it to the readers section of the Daily Mail. I never sent it. I was too embarrassed to write chrysanthemum with image of our dog Barry on the contents section of the parcel label. My Mother stopped taking the Daily Mail after that. Every cloud.

I could even, even, (huge gulp at the posiibilities of life after death) haunt her, appear in her dreams as a phantom voice, wake her in the middle of the night as a ghostly apparition floating ghoulishly at the end of the bed. Crikey I could even swamp her in ectoplasm a la Ghostbusters and watch as she lamented ever discussing my first period with Dan Hutchin Crush Of All The First Years.The possibilities stretched out like a long, glitter filled road, of redemption, revenge, and best of all no consequences. Life, it seemed was finally worth living. What a bargain; life lessons, revenge, redemption and a new appreciation for the Joy of Living. All for £2.94 from WHSmith.

Losing It*

My friend from school came up to me this morning, and before you laugh, yes, I have a friend, we've bonded over finding the whole talking outside the school thing quite challenging. So in true friendship fashion we sit each morning in our respective (warm) cars and ignore each other and everyone else until we absolutely have to get out. Only then do we chance a quick smile and chat as we usher in our children.
Anyway, she looked worried. Just this morning, she confided through the corner of her mouth, she'd lost it with her boys. Shouted. Screamed. And get this she whispered, thrown all their toys out of the window. The fear was palpable, the light sweat on her forehead belying the cool exterior of the mummy-out-and-about.Fair enough this was good going for before 9am, but really, toys out the window? That's nothing! I've torn heads off Barbies, thrown perfectly good princess tippy toe shoes in the bin, thrown toys out of the car window (there's a lot of throwing it feels really good), made an Easter egg sandwich and thrown (yes) it onto the table shouting 'there's you bloody dinner, happy now?' And before you phone social services, I don't know any mother that hasn't done similar things.It's just what happens, it doesn't do the children any harm (well none that they can't see a therapist about later on), in fact, we tell ourselves, it's good for them to see that mummy has a line (a good line in throwing especially).
I was listening to an awful, pompous man on the radio the other day and he was chatting to a woman who was worried about losing it with her sons, apparently she shouts at them. Shouts. Okaaay, I was waiting for the next bit but there wasn't one. Shouts? That's nothing! I've.. (see earlier list). Anyway the point of this bit is that the pompous I've-never-stayed-at-home-on-my-own-with-the-children-day-after-day-while-other-people-get-to-be-citizens-of-the-world man asked her is if she would ever lose it public, say in Boots? No, she replied, well then he said, you can control it. Sorry? The taste of chalk and cheese stuck painfully in my throat. Boots? But there are so many more options available in Boots. Shelves and shelves of things to accidentally sweep to the floor (I've managed a whole aisle), shopkeepers to smile at as you drag your child away from the teletubby bubble bath into the corner for a good shouting at. In fact you can feel like a good mummy in Boots (and it doesn't have to be Boots either, I've done it lots of times in Thorntons). Look, you are saying as you raise you voice without embarrassment, I'm a zero tolerance mummy, I stand up to my children and Lay Down The Law. Hoorah for me, you won't be seeing me on Super Nanny, (though you're hoping that they didn't see last Summer's episode that you starred in, and have obviously failed at miserably hence the Boots/Thorntons tantrum).
You see, when you're out in public it's not other people that stop you losing it and carrying out bizarre and, let's face it, pretty stupid punishments (it took me ages to glue Barbie's head back on, and Easter egg sandwiches have had to become part of the weekly menu), it's that other people mean company, freedom, space. A good disciplining can be admired, taken note of, I'll try that shouting-in-the-corner-thing myself you can hear people thinking, I'd look really good doing that. At home there is nobody around to admire your handiwork, and nowhere else to go but bizarre. Four walls leave you with no option , when you've tried everything else, sometimes you have to lose it, let it go, take it out on Barbie (you never liked her anyway), do whatever it takes to lose control without actually losing control. It's the only way. And if you don't agree then you don't have children.
My brother in law, Alec, has been staying with us for the last few days and I haven't lost it once. Not because I'm being polite, we know each other far too well, but because I've had some company. I don't mean to insult Isla and Jack here, they're lovely company, but it's been nice to have some that I didn't also have to feed/wipe/bath/nappy (although it's been close, he's not that domesticated). He's been someone to chat to (at), he's played with the children while I 'got on with things' (oh how blissful to actually get on with it all), he's played with Jack to stop him crying instead of me holding him in one arm, pushing the dummy in with the other and stirring the sauce with my toes. He's even read stories, made mud pies, tickled, played 'you can't catch me' for two hours and generally entertained in the manner of Koko the Klown all day. It's been great, everyone should have a visitor that isn't child-jaded (it took him going to South Korea for a year but still). It has, in a nutshell, been blissful. And it's going to carry on for sometime, I've hidden his passport.

*Reposted for Fiona, with love

Cutting The Ties That Bind

So it's new year, new start, new decisions. And we're still at that old chestnut of a dilemma about Husband's forthcoming vasectomy.
It's not a dilemma for me obviously, it's the natural, easy decision to ensure our child rearing is restricted to the two we chose, but it seems that Husband is still undecided. Actually, undecided doesn't really do the situation justice, denial is probably the best way of representing Husband's state of mind; denial and procrastination. Excellent.

The thing is, it's almost impossible to discuss it with him. Bring the subject up (in all senses of the word) and he cowers in the corner, whimpering like a damp dog confronted with the hair dryer. He then recounts excuse after excuse as to why he should be left intact and as nature intended him. I always point out that he's ginger and nature probably didn't intend for him to reproduce at all, so he's damn lucky he got me and my willingness - within reason - to mate with him.

Anyway, the worst is that his boss had it done last year and has spent the last twelve months regaling Husband with tales of cow-pat-like scrotums and John Wayne walks to the off licence for a ball numbing beer. Husband's fear stems from hearing about the injections where nobody should ever be allowed to inject. I point out that he's very keen for the dog to have it done, and even teases him about how he should make the most of being virile before the vet loads his syringe. But Husband says that dogs were born to have it done, it's responsible, whereas removing his own virility may affect the future population's ability to include ginger in their gene pool. I'm considering conducting a survey to establish whether this is a primary concern for the local community. I'm guessing it's probably pretty low on the agenda, at least behind the spaceship landing area someone has proposed for the local park.

Anyway, Husband has been trying to find alternative ways to ensure us a two child only future but I can only suggest tying a knot in it or abstaining completely, I've Kindly offered to take a lover should he choose to do this, as a way of assuaging his guilt. 

The thing is, there really isn't anything he can do that isn't ultimately up to me. He came home on Friday in a state of high excitement however. Helpful Boss, of the cow pat scrotum,  had told him about the male pill and suggested this as an alternative to the looming scrotumectomy he was about to have inflicted.

Damn.

The male pill is something I've been keeping under wraps as much as possible. The male pill involves a certain amount of personal responsibility from its imbiber, at the very least a memory capable of, you guessed it, remembering to take it daily at the same time of day. That's three things to remember: Take it daily, take it at the same time each day, and remember that you actually have to take it. No chance. This is a man ladies and gentlemen who was told by the dental hygienist that he has an infected gum and needs to do a salt rinse every night. He was told this three months ago. He's remembered his salt wash, ooh about zero times, even with a bloody, swollen gum to remind him. How on earth is he going to remember the Pill except perhaps at a time of heightened ardour, when I promise you I at least will remember it, and also remember the fifty two pills he's forgotten in a row.

This is a man who routinely leaves one or both of his children strapped in the car on arriving home. Only discovering their absence after he has entered the house, made himself a cup of tea and realised there's nothing on TV. So would I trust our family planning to this Man. In a word, no.

So we have to discuss it sometime, but he won't even let me use the word Vasectomy in his presence. It's been hard going trying to think up an alternative name that is acceptable: your little procedure results in squeals of denial about there being nothing little or procedure like about the Major Testicular Surgery I am trying to get him to have. Lopping your balls off lasted for about five seconds I thought it was good: precise and to the point and most importantly hilarious. To me.
I can't use snip because it's what Isla likes to do with scissors and evokes visions of child-surgeons and blunt nursery scissors. So I've plumped for when you go for your third child prevention surgery which has been reasonably successful. I think because it reminds him of the logic behind the little procedure (it's my blog I'll call it what I like, and besides compared to childbirth it is a little procedure, crikey the needle's tiny!). It really is the only assured way to a safe, easy, small car owning, two child future. Put it like that and it makes sense, it's the sensible, the sane, the downright responsible choice for sensible, sane, downright responsible families. Wonderful, decision made. Oooh I can't wait to lop his balls off.

High Resolution

So, I suppose you're all wondering how I'm doing with my new year's resolutions, and if you weren't that's probably because I forgot to tell you I had made some. Oh yes, Millennium Housewife (and family by default) is excellent at making new year's resolutions, excellent I tell you. On the 30th December, every year without fail, I hop skip and jump to the kitchen table to make a long, substantial and to be fair incredibly ambitious list of new year's resolutions. Then, with true diligence and determination I eradicate them one by one using the following criteria:
1)Remove all resolutions that prevent consumption of stress relievers (wine/chocolate/Solpadeine)
2)Remove any that will result in time away from family and friends (gym/volunteer work/weight watchers)
3)Remove the one about making friends at the gym
4)Remove the one about the gym family membership
5)Remove any weight orientated resolution to prevent sense of failure next December 30th
6)Remove any resolution that requires Husband to keep a resolution too. The likelihood of failure is directly proportionate to the number of spouses involved in said resolution.

So, that leaves me with: Join or create a new religion, which I am going to give a really good go this year. Last year's attempt was lame to say the least, I only attracted eight followers, mainly from the local Slimming World and a couple I found outside Weatherspoon's. It had it's successes too though, the Thou Shalt Not Walk a Mouse on Thursdays decree was followed, ahem, religiously, as was the Turn Up When You Feel Like It approach to worship. It was a good religion I felt, just a bit lacking in a worshipable deity, I think that's where I went wrong. So the next few weeks are going to be dedicated to finding a good deity and a place to put it. Ha! Resolution almost complete - dedication and planning always win the day. Anyway, while having a heart to heart with Husband last month, we both agreed that we really should try and keep up our fitness levels (unfortunate turn of phrase from him, my fitness level is easily maintained by sitting watching Murder She Wrote and drinking Horlicks), but he's right (sigh), fitness is important and crossing out fitness related resolutions is becoming less and less satisfying every year.

So it was back to the gym (by back to, I mean creeping in, back to the wall, hoping nobody can see me, not as in returning to the gym), the treadmill, the (kid's) weights, the aerobics classes, the step classes (although if you can't actually manage the step can it feasibly be called a step class?), the coffee shop, the melting cookies. I calculate that 2.3 cookies=1 step class, and they said maths was my weak point, Ha! Take that old maths teacher, 1 weak subject+1 weakness for soft cookies = substantially improved ability at weak subject, I may try to sell that concept to the Education Minister and win a Nobel prize for singlehandedly improving School Performance. Watch this space.

Anyway, I have been really good at the gym, and improvements are being seen. I have this huge mental image of where I want to be in a few years time: Thin (obviously), even thinner, with new teeth, boobs, hair, nails, oh go on then while we're at it, new brain. Then of course everything will be different, people will notice, cue Tyra Banks, doe eyed and full bosomed, fairy godmother heart worn ostentatiously on her sleeve lest you forget who this show's really about, holding aloft my best studio shot breathy voice whispering: Congratulations Millennium Housewife, you're 197,000 steps away to becoming America's Next Top Model. Yup, that's what I'm aiming for, I'm nothing if not ambitious. In a few years I'll be stretched to six foot (I'm not sure how but I'm sure stretching technology will have moved on by then), buffed and betoothed to perfection, you won't recognise me. Watch out Kate Moss, The Middle Aged Modelling Agency only has a few places you know.

Hitting The Pelvic Floor

This gorgeous award was given to me by the fabulous Morethanjustamother, a relatively new blogger who can write beautifully and has managed to make me laugh and cry already. Thankyou.

Just to explain, the Pelvic Floor Award is not, as you may have imagined, an award for the strongest (or weakest for that matter) pelvic floor, oh no. But for a funny blog that makes you wet yourself. Quite. Hmmm, reading that back I'm not so sure now, firstly how could any of you have thought it would be for the ability of your pelvic floor to contract sufficiently to retain all liquids (or release all liquids)? Ewww, shame on you! How do you think Morethanjustamother would have tested for this award? Is there some cyberspace equivalent to one of those 'exercisers' advertised in the back of Mother and Baby? (come on ladies it's a vibrator that was so badly designed that it doesn't vibrate. I know it, you know it, lets just all go to Ann Summers and be done with it). Did she pass the 'exerciser' out among the Mummy bloggers, let them take the test (it involves cold water, hot water and lots of squeezing. Apparently), then score them out of ten for Pelvic Floor Performance? And then (and only then) can you be awarded the Pelvic Floor Award. No. So it's not that sort of award.

But.

It is an award for blogs that make you wet yourself. Cheers. Visit Millennium Housewife and leak like an anywayup cup standing the right way up, i.e. copiously (you did get the irony there didn't you?). In fact, best remove underwear and sit on a plastic sheet before logging on, and you can forget it if you really do have a weak pelvic floor. Carnage is all I can predict (and absolutely no hope of a real Pelvic Floor Award, but you could peruse page 125 of Mother and Baby if you felt the urge).

Soooo, if you've braved it this far then I thank you all, those who have had to run off for a quick change I thank you too, mainly for coming back to read the rest. I hope the plastic sheet isn't sticking to your legs.

I'd like to pass it on to A Confused Take That Fan, I'm not sure about the state of her pelvic floor, but I know I worry for mine when reading her blog, she's hilarious.

A Tale of Two Fishes

Happy New Year to everybody out there, I hope 2009 brings you more money than we're promised, less doom and gloom than we're promised and a fairly sturdy umbrella if it all happens to come true. The Millennium Housewife family had rather a chilled new year actually, for once less than a vat of wine was consumed, although this was mainly due to Husband being at death's door (read: in bed with a cold demanding lemsips and attention). The only glum moment was the goldfish dying. Yup, sorry to say but old Sally has carped it (pun utterly intended, should you have doubted it for a second), in fact less of the old actually, she's only about six months but then every goldfish month is the equivalent to twenty human years according to the man who sold it to me (door to door, he also sold lucky heather which I bought and tied to the goldfish bowl). So really Sally was about eighty and had had a good innings and was due to visit that old fish pie in the sky.

Sorry if all this has come as a shock, I know how much she meant to you all and how you enjoyed hearing about her adventures in the bowl water continuum having had ooh precisely zero posts dedicated to her. But a death in the family is a death in the family and worth noting.

It happened New Year's Day, I'd staggered down bleary eyed, with Isla already waxing lyrical about the adventures Barbie and Sally were going to embark on today (it involved Barbie's new bikini which I have to say is far too old for her, and possibly pornographic). Isla's lilting crescendo of waffle died low (but not as low as Sally's obviously) as she spied the upside down, floating, mouth-stilled Sally (you've all seen it before). Look at that mummy she yelled in her prettiest voice, Sally's sunbathing like Barbie. Grasping the oft withheld opportunity to not explain Life And It's Miseries to my child I hummed agreement and carried on a one sided conversation about how Sally might like a bikini to match Barbie's while simultaneously fetching the sieve (bless that multi tasking gene). It was at the point where Isla was musing as to whether Sally would like a two piece pink sparkly bikini or a purple all in one that she saw the sieve. What have you got mummy? Ah. Errr, I stalled, shirking yet another opportunity to enlighten my child (come on, I was in the zone), I was going to sift some flour.

Really? boomed Isla, are we going to make shortbread?

Um, OK, why not?

So the morning was spent making shortbread while Sally sunbathed it away making absolutely no effort to help. That is until Husband lumbered down and enquired loudly as to why the fish was dead. Dead? Isla squeaked (at last! a way to get her to lower the decibels), we thought she was sunbathing didn't we mummy? Husband shot me a reproachful look and knelt down as if to begin a heart to heart with his eldest child about life, love and the Universe. She probably is sunbathing yes darling, he said (coward!), I'll have a look.

As we bent, ear to ear over the goldfish bowl we whispered urgently about how to save the situation. In a moment of inspiration I ran to the cupboard and grabbed a straw. Lifting Sally I attempted the kiss of life by breathing down the straw. Husband looked at me as if I had just offered to clean the skirting boards. But I knew, I'd seen My Mother do this to a catfish we'd inadvertently caught while fishing in Florida (apparently my dad hadn't thought we'd catch anything so it wouldn't do any harm. It did do rather a lot of harm though to the catfish). Husband whispered something along the lines of My Mother's face looming over any corpse would be enough to scare it back to life, but soon got into the drama by coaching, one two three, clear! yelling in time with every breath. He even cut a sliver of carrot and waggled it above Sally, she might think it's a man goldfish and give her something to live for he explained helpfully. But to no avail, Sally's little fishy soul had well and truly left the building, no autographs please. We lifted her towards Isla, look towards the light! bellowed Husband in a moment supposedly Spiritual but I suspect lifted straight from Hollywood. We knelt down, attempting to stroke Sally kindly and without any sign of fish phobia, and explained as gently as we could about dying and how a fish's last wish was always to be flushed down the toilet. Isla took it well and even said a few farewell words above the toilet bowl before waving as we flushed. She turned to us, sadness etched on her face, are you OK darling we asked kindly, yes she said, it's just..it's just.. who's going to swim with Barbie now? Quite.

So now we have another fish, a more resilient one we imagine given the race to get her back in the bowl after Isla attempted to get her into her bikini. One that hopefully will live to at least a hundred and give Isla many months of pleasure. We've pulled out all the stops and placed another piece of lucky heather on the bowl.

Seven?

I have been terribly remiss about passing on awards and joining in with the tag list, it's my shy and retiring nature you see, it just won't let me show off. But I'm going to have a good go and try to think of seven 'interesting' things about Millennium Housewife....And to pass on a few awards.


So, I was lucky enough to be tagged by the lovely Confused Take That Fan and Boy From Oz as well as the hilarious Potty Mummy , 21st Century Mummy and Nunhead Mum of One, all of them blogs I love to read so it doubled the pleasure. As mentioned above I have to write seven things about myself and tag others in return...


So, seven things eh? Sounds familiar, let's have a go....

1. Lust: I was born a mermaid, it was quite a shock both for My Mother and the midwife, they haven't had a live Human to Mermaid birth for 49 years round here. They had to put me in water straight away, luckily one of the nurses found a big potty which sufficed until they could get me to the sea. About eight years ago I was swimming in my lovely glistening bit of water when I spied Husband walking along the shore, I had to have him. Had to. So writhing in lustful thoughts I bought a spell to change my tail into legs. The rest as they say is history. And let that be a lesson to you about where lust gets you. Married to a ginger surveyor, that's where.

Pride: I am most proud of my chocolate collection. I have been adding to it for years and am most diligent in keeping it updated with the latest lines. I keep it on a shelf in my stomach.

Envy: I do envy my sister, she lives in Los Angeles with an extremely large pond between her and My Mother.

Wrath: Buses make me wrathful, I don't know whether it's just the way their headlights are positioned but they always seem to me to look like they think they are much much better than you.

Greed: Husband would say I'm greedy when I won't share my bottle of wine with him. To me it's an invesment in the future, the more pickled I am the less I'll age.

Gluttony: is something I will fight all my life, and it often feels like I have one hand tied behind my back (and the other hand has a large piece of chocolate cake in it).

Sloth: This sin was invented just for me. I LOVE sloth, call yourself slothful with pride and it gets you out of all sorts of things. "why haven't you cleaned the house for a month?" "Oh that's just me being slothful" "Why do we need a cleaner when you don't work" "Sorry, that's just little old slothful me again, got to go I'm off to put my feet up and read a magazine, byee," You get the jist.

So now to awards, I was incredibly lucky to get this from Devoted and would like to pass it on to Rosiero who writes an amazing blog about life with a alcoholic, she is never self pitying, always entertaining and an all round good blogger friend.






I received this one from the wonderful Mud in the City and would like to pass it on to the hilarious Confused Take That Fan, she makes me laugh (loudly), she makes Husband laugh (loudly), tells it like it is and makes me think, phew!
















Fabulous Cheshire Wife and Rosiero gave me this one and I'd like to pass it onto Mud in the City, I just love living vicariously through her romantic adventures....

Books I Am Planning To Write

• The School Run. Why it should be called The School Creep, The School Struggle to Find A Parking Space, The School Wrestle With Coats and Hats, The School Remove Clingy Child From Thigh. Then you can run.
• DIY for Husbands. Volume one: Bandaging
• Getting Enough? Sex or sleep, you decide.
• Baking with toddlers and other ways to ruin your house
• Why? The Definitive Answer (RRP £1.2 bn)
• The Joy of Sex and Other Great Jokes Men Have Played On Women
• The Place Where Curvy Women Are Worshipped (includes free map)
• Crisps: fat free if you wash them
• The Only Diet You'll Ever Need: The Seafood Diet. Crisps, chocolate, croissants, chardonnay, cookies, cake, cream, chips, cheese

Eye Eye Cap'n

I knew trouble was brewing the moment I laid eyes on My Mother's friend/critic/enemy Shirley-the-competition. She had new glasses. Not just any glasses, oh no, little gold, shiny, half moon ones, the kind your headmistress wore hanging on a bead necklace that you always imagined she tied her husband up with in bed. Thinking about it now though she probably doesn't anymore, not with the arrival of Ann Summers, and besides she must be about a hundred by now and operating bondage gear with arthriticky hands would probably put them off most nights. Maybe just special occasions and birthdays:
Do you fancy one tonight Bert? (or some other old person sounding name, you're welcome to use your imagination),
Why, what's the occasion Doris? (again, imagination-using invitation proffered),
Another one of those blasted telegrams from the Queen
Oh heck, best get your necklace out then
Shall I do your bunions first to stop them chaffing?
I'll get the sandpaper
Anyway, Shirley-the-competition stood there, half moon glasses perched Dame Edna-like upon her rather pointy and long nose (for sticking into things according to My Mother), staring at My Mother's carrot cake. And this is when it happened, Shirley -the-competition lifted her chin a little into the air (not too much you understand, just enough to let you know she'd practised this in the mirror at home) and peered down over her glasses at the cake.
Hmmm, she said, in her best Church Flower Arranger voice I think you may need to add a little more baking soda next time, it's a little flat this side.
My Mother glared upwards, no doubt spotting herself reflected in the new glasses and not liking what she saw (who does? it's like discovering you are really an upside down spoon shaped potato head), and observed Shirley-the-competition peering down at her. It was as good as saying excuse me little worm and flat carrot cake maker, I am older, wiser and significantly more important that you. In fact, forget my advice about the carrot cake, you're not worthy of it.
My Mother sniffed and moved away from the glare of the glasses and busied herself with a pot plant. I knew then, with a certainty as strong as my liking for chocolate, that trouble was a-brewing, and I scarpered.
The next day My Mother came calling, running the usual finger along the mantelpiece checking for dust, sniffing loudly at the milk before she used it and laying the clean tea towel she'd bought with her onto the chair before sitting down. She cut straight to the point: I've been noticing recently Darling that I'm not quite as observant as I once was, have you noticed anything? Because if you have you would tell me wouldn't you? I mean one isn't quite as young as one once was, and one does know that one's faculties may be fading just a tad (My Mother talks like she thinks the Queen would, personally I think the Queen would have a fit at the interpretation, or at least require a stiff whiskey and an early night with Prince Philip and the necklace). If she had paused for breath at all, just once, I would have taken the opportunity to break in and save her the trouble of the pretense. She wants some glasses. Half moon, shiny, gold ones (although heaven forbid I hope she doesn't want the necklace) just like Shirley-the-competition. How on earth can she be expected to keep Shirley in her rightful place (i.e. lower than her and last on the Church roster) if Shirley uses such a downright unfair prop? Once she had turned so blue that she was forced to pause and inhale, I suggested this to My Mother who looked at me as if I'd just stripped in front of the WI (she hasn't seen the calendar so doesn't realise it's de riguer now). What Shirley has she sniffed, means absolutely nothing to me, I'm simply concerned for my eyesight and was wondering if I may need some glasses. This from a woman who, when we were growing up, could spot a misdemeanor at one hundred paces, it was like being raised by an owl.
There was no point arguing, once My Mother wants something, she invariably gets it, so I've booked her into the optician tomorrow. Now I just have to work out how to slip a pair of half moon, gold, shiny spectacles into the optician's hands without My Mother's owl eyes alighting on them like some unfortunate rodent and guessing that the question of her getting some glasses (albeit ones with plain glass in them) is a foregone conclusion. That and how to explain that under no circumstances is she allowed to keep them on a beaded necklace.