Make Love Not War

My two year old has decided to potty train himself. Yup, I know what you're all thinking: stupid, weak Mummy strap a nappy on with sellotape and bribe with chocolate. I've tried! I've tried! But he figured out that vaseline de sticks sellotape on the first go, and I already bribe with so much chocolate that I suspected myself of attempting the hostile takeover of Cadbury's.
So he remains nappyless, with not a clue what to do without one. All he knows is that Buzz Lightyear (second hand) pants are far preferable to Barbie nappies (I had a lot left over from Isla, everybody swore blind that boys don't notice what they wear. This is no ordinary boy).
I didn't want him to do it, I wanted to wait until he was three, no strike that, I didn't want to do it at all. I've already done one and the dog, and the latter ensured any excreta training of any sort lost it's appeal. In fact, if I had my way, I would have happily (I think) stayed pregnant for a few more years while my unborn weaned and toilet trained himself in utero. In fact, if he'd done a few exercises and generally put a bit of work in, he could have walked out one day all finished, nodding at me with a sullen wave and a mutter of you're so embarrassing and it's not fair and behold I have a teenager all prepared and ready to fly the nest. If I'm honest, giving birth to a teenager seems an attractive option right now, a little more painful perhaps but to have bypassed the potty training bit? You've got yourself a deal.
Why didn't I think of this years ago?If I'd just had a little strength of character and concentrated on panting instead of pushing, I could have been the first woman alive to produce a ready done adult(ish).
Plus, I could have made a mint out of it. Think of all the book deals, titles like Don't push, sit on it and be patient you idiot. All your problems are about to be solved, come abounding to mind. I'm sure there's something snappier out there but be fair, I've only just thought of all this. And surely I could have sold the story to the tabloids? Think of the field day, the boosted sales as all women want to get in on the act. The Sun could even run a competition asking its readers to guess the amount of dilation needed for a teenager. The prize could be dinner with me. Fancy that, being a prize in a paper.
Obviously my newborn teenager will be incredibly embarrassed at all this attention, but hang that, I was pregnant for fourteen years, yes! try coming back from that one boyo. I will have had ample time to prepare for his most hormonal years and will even tolerate his 'Make Love Not War' T-shirt with a wry smile. I know it's not original, you know it's not original, but hey the lad hasn't been around long. When I discovered the Make Love etc slogan I wore it with pride and no bra. Now there's a statement. I thought I was The Girl, The Pacifist, original and braless until My Mother pointed out that it was her generation that came up with the slogan and the idea of going braless.
"And we did dear"
"Did what?"
"Make love not war, it didn't stop the war but it was a lot of fun. That is of course until your father knocked me up and my dad hit him on the head with a nut cracker until he agreed to marry me. He's still got the bump."
Quite.
Anyway, my Granny informed me that it was her generation that came up with the making love not war thingy, and that they could never afford bras anyway. Granny without a bra, now there's a slogan.

The Ten Commandments

It will come as no surprise to any of you that I routinely spend January making and breaking my New Year's Resolutions. So on Husband's suggestion, I'm going to give myself rules. Rules, apparently, cannot be broken. But we'll see.

1. Thou shalt not lie with thine son, no matter how much he screams and cries. You will only wake up squashed against the wall with Buzz Lightyear grinning manically at you and a smell of nappy wafting gently through the air. You will get no thanks for this, only more whining and smug satisfaction from Husband that he got the run of the bed.
2. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wine. They probably didn't pickle themselves in December, and are probably on the same bottle they started last week. You, on the other hand can barely remember Christmas and had to tip the bin men to take the extra recycling box away.
3. Thou shalt visit thy Granny every week. Despite the fact that she spends the whole time pointing out that the woman in the next bed looks like the transsexual actress from Coronation Street. You will even nod politely as Granny invites the entire ward to meet the actress and wonders loudly about the bits that were removed, even though the lady in the next bed is not hard of hearing.
4. Thou shalt show an interest in your dad's potting shed. And ignore, to the best of your ability, the porn hidden under the seed trays.
5. Thou shalt help your Mother clean your house. This will be a bonding time for both of you. You will, under no circumstances, flinch if she mentions: Dog hair, the whereabouts of the box of sex toys she gave you for your birthday, cobwebs, Husband's prolific use of toilet paper, the smell in the bedroom, Dad's virility, lack of suitable cloths, using effective contraception until you find a decent man, how it was when she was a girl.
6. Thou shalt be on time to pick up Isla from school three times in five, and show the teacher that you're not 'slightly unhinged with OCD tendencies'.
7. Thou shalt be more understanding and giving when Husband nudges you in the back. Even at 6am.
8. Thou shalt invite Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head for dinner, and not: Cancel at the last minute, disinfect the house prior to and after arrival, make jokes using words longer than two syllables, request ID, laugh at Husband laughing at them, serve dinner in a bucket, complain about the vomit.
9. Thou shalt not lie to: the doctor, dentist, giving up smoking nurse, police about the scrape on their car, your Mother about her chances in the lightest sponge competition, Dad about noticing the porn under the seed trays, Dad about porn in his dashboard, Dad in general about porn, Husband about his bald spot or any matter to do with sizing of anything at all. This is a minefield.
10. Thou shalt not blame hormones for any or all of the following: Lack of libido, cobwebs, takeaway for the fourth night in a row, crying at Notting Hill, crying at Star Wars, crying at any baby passed in the supermarket, chooching babies and making a choochy noise while in the supermarket, elbowing Mothers out of the way to chooch their baby, being irritable when Husband steals your chips, forgetting that you drank the last bottle of chardonnay, being cross for cross's sake, bad driving, mounting the curb while driving, forgetting to indicate while driving, putting lipstick on while driving, gaining ten pounds, spending the mortgage on a dress, writing sarcastic things on your blog.

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

• Ooh thankyou
• I do love Christmas
• Especially the present getting bit
• Ooh this one's nice and squishy
• Is it from you?
• Lovely
• Ummm
• It's very large
• Err
• Um
• Is it a rug?
• A throw?
• A what?
• Slanket?
• What's a slanket?
• I'm well aware that I'm holding one
• But how would one use it exactly?
• For wearing?
• It looks like a two large dog rugs sewn together
• One that the dog would refuse to sit on
• I wear it?
• How?
• Over my head
• Oh I see
• Why?
• Well I'm sure it will be comfortable
• Yes, yes it's lovely
• But really
• Well,
• It would be just as easy to sew two dog rugs together
• And put that over my head
• Yes it would look rubbish
• Exactly
• Well I'll give it a go
• What do you mean there's more?
• More presents?
• No
• Well what then?
• It's big enough for two
• Do you mean the two of us?
• Well I thought maybe you meant you and the dog
• Well why would we sit in a dog rug together?
• It's a naked thing?
• It does not
• It does not say that on the label
• Yes I can read
• Yes it says for naked use only
• But the handwriting gives it away
• As does the small pornographic drawing
• No it doesn't get me in the mood
• At all
• I said At All
• Yes I suppose we could give it a try tonight
• You've rented a DVD?
• To watch?
• Fantastic
• Well yes I suppose we could watch it naked in the slanket
• What's the movie?
• Die Hard
• I think I'll have an early night
• Yes you can borrow the slanket

Things I have said To My Parents Today

• Ooh thankyou
• Happy early Christmas to you too
• I like the wrapping
• Shall I guess?
• Ok
• Err
• Well it doesn't rattle
• It's squareish
• It's quite light
• I'm guessing a book
• Shall I open it?
• Excellent
• I wonder what it is
• Yes I was right, a book
• Sex As You Age?
• Sex As You Age?
• What do you mean I'm quite welcome?
• It may well have got you through some tough times
• But I'm in my thirties
• My Thirties
• I'm not aging
• Or in need of an elderly person's sex manual
• Oh crikey
• There's notes in the margin
• Especially for me?
• Was this your book?
• Dad please don't say Ours like that
• While putting your arm round mum
• Because I'm holding your sex manual
• And sitting next to you
• And trying desperately to think of something pleasant
• And Christmassy
• And not look at the chapter entitled Arthritis Of The Knee And You
• Dad
• Stop winking at mum
• Put your hands where I can see them
• Both of you
• I'm taking away the sherry
• No you can't have it back at bedtime
• Because we're in the room next to you
• And I can see you've put your knee bandage on
• Yes of course safety comes first
• But so does your daughter's mental health
• I'm sure you do have a book on that too
• But really
• No more books OK
• Because my nerves can't take it
• No thanks
• I don't want my other present
• Because it looks suspiciosly like a pot of chocolate
• And a box of knee bandages

Hot and Mothered

My dad has gone away.
This is a rare occurrence, he's as attached to his tweed arm chair and over head projector slides as Husband is to his balls (due to be removed soon har har). He's gone to a potato convention. That's right, a potato convention. He found the advert in the back of a seed catalogue and hasn't been so excited about anything since Barry from next door entered a dodgy cauliflower in the Best Cauliflower competition:
He hasn't got a chance the silly bugger, he strained to me from the corner of his mouth, breathing heavily in an attempt to supress his excitement,
the fool's deluded, I mean, look at it, it's almost as bad as his tomatoes. The silly buggery fool. You get the gist.
Anyway, Dad being away means Trouble (you note the capital T), because My Mother loses all focus, actually she loses every bit of focus she has: My Dad. No focus means a whirling dervish with nothing to whirl around. Who if not my dad will listen to the tirades about Shirley-The-Competition and her latest attempts to out wit My Mother in the Church league? Who tastes the sauces and exclaims with practised ease delicious dear, I don't know how you do it. Who acknowledges the hourly missives regarding paired socks (pin each pair together before washing to prevent loss), eating over cooked cheese (worse than death apparently, I have a feeling she's got a shock coming one of these days), saving empty butter wrap in the fridge for no apparent reason at all, hand washing clothes and then putting them in the washing machine (it's not thorough enough) and wiping the dog's bottom because he's practically human? My dad, that's who, I have a lot to thank him for.
But not this week because he's gone to this bloody potato convention. He set off with several examples of the potatoes he grows wrapped in bubble wrap and placed delicately in a briefcase. He looked like MI5 were developing a top secret potato based listening device and he had been bestowed the honour of providing Just The Right Potato. He even took his own spade because you can't buy them like this nowadays, i.e. with a long handle and a square spade on the end.
Anyway, where was I? Aha, yes, My Mother, I remember now because she's standing behind me, fiddling for her glasses and squinting at the screen. I haven't seen her, but I can feel the criticism cloud building as I type. Best type fast then.
As you have probably guessed, the whirling dervish has landed squarely on my doorstep. Approximately 32 minutes after my dad left for the station, My Mother let herself in to my house with a key that I have never given her (How? How? How did she do it?).
Hello Darling she trilled excitedly as she surveyed all the criticism potential hovering in the hallway, it looks like I've come just in time, pass me a duster would you and we're definitely going to need some bleach for the light shades.
She's here. To stay. And won't go away until my dad comes home which is in forty eight hours (2880 minutes/172800 seconds). She's washed all the curtains (full of bacteria), swept the ceilings (a hive of bacteria), bathed the dog (a bacteria factory), scrubbed the bath down (full of dog bacteria) and cleaned out the cheese tray (cheese is mouldy and therefore bacteria filled).
Last night I woke up to find her cleaning out under my eyelids with a toothpick before giving Husband a quick go down with the disinfectant.
Ok, so I can cope with a clean house, and I am nicely pleased with my clean Husband, but she has got to go. I'm going to get the Potato Convention to page my dad and say I've spotted blight. On his potatoes. Give me two minutes.

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

• Hmmm
• What is it?
• Well let me have a look then
• Hold still
• Don't complain all day and not let me look
• Pull them down a bit more
• Ok
• Hmmmm
• Er
• Well it looks like a rash
• Has it been chaffing?
• Well it looks like it has
• I'm well aware that it's itchy
• Nobody could have escaped the fact that it's itching
• Please don't scratch while I'm down here
• It's been a week now I think
• Judging from when the itching started
• Why don't you put some cream on?
• We have
• In the cabinet
• If it works for nappy rash it'll work for this
• It's not bum cream it's for rashes
• No I don't think you need something extra strength from the doctor
• Because it's just a rash
• Well I think it's just from sweat
• No, I don't think you're ill
• Or that it's life threatening
• Have you ever heard of death by rash?
• What do you mean Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head say it could happen?
• You let them look at your bum rash?
• Why?
• Why would they have any insight?
• Are they medically trained?
• Specialists in rashes?
• Have any knowledge at all of rash related deaths?
• Pokey had one?
• One like this?
• Oh
• Well what did the doctor say?
• His pants?
• Well how often did he change them?
• Do you only change your pants once a week?
• Oh good
• But every few days isn't good enough
• Every day
• Yes, every day
• Most people do
• It's not obsessive
• Or girly
• Most normal people change everyday
• Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head are not normal
• Because they're forty four and live together
• And only eat bacon
• And still have a wok in their garden
• That Bucket Head used as a toilet
• That's not normal.

Oh Glory Be

Ok, so I covered myself in glory on Saturday night. Glory I tell you. Award winning glory, glory worthy of Husband tutting and shaking his head. When Husband tuts and shakes his head at your inebriated state you know you're in trouble, and any sensible person would hot foot it to the taxi rank, pour themselves into a cab and attempt to get themselves home.

But no. I'm not sure why or how, but for some reason after a small barrel of wine my brain doesn't begin to shut down and home in on water and ways to get home to bed sharpish, oh no, my brain takes on a whole new personality and begins to think it's Madonna. Forget my two left feet, forget the three inch heels, forget the poise, the elegance, the stomach-in-shoulders-back stance I have been studiously practising all evening, I am Madonna. Forget also the good impressions I had been cultivating, the attempt at witty repartee, intelligent head nods and discreet laughter, fielding tricky questions with a light hand and clever twist. I am Madonna. I can dance (in three inch stilettos), I can sing, I am sexy and above all everybody (everybody.) wants to see me perform.

This is the point where I become Material Girl and move seamlessly from try-hard dinner companion to all singing all dancing queen of the evening, and there is absolutely nothing anybody can do about it. Not only that, but Material Girl is not shy, not a wallflower bone in her body and Material Girl absolutely and utterly has to have a stage. Any stage will do, but even better if it's up with the band, because Material Girl deserves a stage, needs a stage and knows that her performance will be the highlight of the evening.

Material Girl also thinks she is sexy, very sexy indeed, and that every dance move she makes with her forgotten two left feet is sexy too. And she thinks that mouthing all the words to the songs impresses everybody, and that suddenly three inch stilettos are easy peasy to dance in and refuses to remove them because it's not professional. She also thinks that every other person on the dance floor is watching her in impressed awe wishing beyond words that they could perform with such effortless sexiness while simultaneously holding a bottle of wine aloft and mouthing all the words to Hi Ho Silver Lining. I mean, how does she do it? they're all thinking, brains, long lyric remembering skills and sexy, we might as well give up and just watch her. Material Girl knows this and dances even more sexily and requests encores of the songs she knows best. Material Girl fights hard not to be dragged off the stage by Husband and instead shows him exactly why he was so lucky to marry her in the first place.

Except last Saturday night.

You see there was a wire, one teeny little wire attached to the guitar stolen from the lead guitarist that Material Girl was playing with incredible skill and dexterity, as well as managing to sing the entire bridge of Show Me The Way To Amarillo (such talent). But as I said, there was a wire, a wire that wrapped her feet and snaked slowly to her ankles before tightening suddenly and upending Material Girl, gashing her shin with the sharp sticky out bits.

Alas, Material Girl was no more, she was taken sheepishly and gingerly to casualty and sat as the doctors sniggered as Husband explained in what can only be described as intense detail exactly how the injury had been sustained.

Poor Material Girl I hear you all thinking, and you'd be right. Thankyou for your compassion as I sit here tapping away, leg swathed in bandage, brain ticking away trying to think of an entirely un-alcohol related reason for the injury to recount to my parents. Thankyou for what I know will be only kind and understanding comments in the comments section as my unshaveable leg grows hairier than next door's dog. And thankyou also for paying tribute to the last ever performance of Material Girl.

I hope you're proud of me.

Facelift

So, the more observant among you will notice that this blog has had a facelift, those who didn't pick up on the subtle changes IF YOU CAN'T READ THIS GET SOMEONE TO READ IT TO YOU AND THEN BOOK AN APPOINTMENT AT THE OPTICIANS. I say this because there is nothing subtle about the changes. No siree.
It is, in a nutshell a complete and utter face lift. Not for me the discreet trip to Switzerland to visit family for a month to return visibly refreshed in an indescribable way, scars hidden behind the comments section and under the blog archive, a little nip of the font, a tuck of the colour scheme. I didn't even bother to pretend to be away anywhere. In true blogger dedication I continued to post while the changes were underway. That's how dedicated I am to you all. The phone company should take note and perhaps book me for a seminar. I'm reassuringly expensive.
And I did think that it was about time I had a photo of myself up there, and this is exactly how I look, every day. I always think it important to wear pearls and an alice band whatever the weather, and this photo proves me right. There I was minding my own business the other day, taking a perfectly baked cherry pie out of the oven, when a photographer came to the door complete with a blue background and snapped me unawares. I mean, how often does that happen? Rarely, I tell you, which is why it's important to accessorise even when alone in the house baking.
Can you imagine what would have happened if I hadn't had such exacting standards? It just doesn't bear thinking about. Imagine a morning of screaming children, slippers, poached egg covered dressing gown, last night's eyeliner, bed hair, bored dog humping your leg and a photographer at the door with a blue background. Then what would I have done about a blog photo, probably picked wildly and ended up with some stupid laughing horse, or something.
Anyway, I'm glad you get to see me as I really am, and let this be a sage lesson to you. You never know when a photographer is going to come to your door, best have the good china out just in case. You have been warned.

ps I don't usually do tags, mainly because I am incapable but Husband has promised to help. The design was done by Jennisa, who was just fab and deserves a (working) tag here.

pps If it doesn't work, Husband did it.

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

• It's salmon
• Salmon
• Fish
• You do like fish
• You do
• Well you like it from the fish and chip shop
• That is fish
• Cod is fish
• Well why do they call it a fish and chip shop?
• It's not just an old fashioned name
• It's called fish and chips because that's what they serve
• So you believe me?
• That cod is a fish?
• So you like fish
• Well then you like salmon
• What's wrong with pink fish?
• It's not a bit girly
• Pretend it's cod dyed pink
• Thankyou, now eat it up
• If you play with it it'll get cold
• And I can see you hiding it under the cabbage
• And behind the broccoli
• I'm not stupid
• Or blind
• Look just try one mouthful and if you don't like it leave it
• Great
• Pretending to gag is so mature
• Please stop gagging
• And holding your throat
• And gesturing to the toilet
• And attempting to dial 999

Things I Have Said To The 999 Operator Today

• Oh hello
• I'm so so sorry
• It was a mistake
• No not the children
• Or the dog
• Well, my Husband
• He doesn't like his fish
• Salmon
• I'm glad you sympathise
• Oh, with him, I see
• No he's not ill
• Err
• Well I suppose he is gagging
• But he's pretending
• Yes I'm sure
• Because he does this every time I give him peas
• And porridge
• And sometimes if my Mother comes over
• Yes he is quite dramatic
• Yes I suppose he could go on the stage
• Oh sorry
• Is that better?
• I just had to leave the room
• All the gagging was stopping me hearing you
• No he's in the toilet
• Gagging and pretending to throw up
• Yes he will stop in a bit
• When I give him some ice cream
• I'd better get it hadn't I
• Sorry again for wasting your time
• Yes, I agree no more salmon

Rub A Dub Dub

Can someone please explain to me the rules regarding using a communal jacuzzi? I don't mean one of those hot tubs that people place thoughtlessly in the supposedly hidden area of their gardens. The ones which once night has fallen envelopes the users with such a misguided degree of privacy that they run from the house, giggling, dressed only in a towel to wallow the night away in champagne. The ones where the champagne takes over and amorous pursuits become, well amorous, and they forget momentarily that since the hot tub was installed the neighbour has invested in a night vision telescope. If only they would google their address they would find a virtual diary of their fondling on Youtube. Sorry if that scares you hot tub owners, but still, you pays your money you takes your clothes off.
No, I mean the ones at spas and gyms, the ones large enough to house thirty wallowers dressed in nothing but glorified underwear, thirty wallowers all pretending to be the Only Wallower and studiously ignoring the other twenty nine. Thirty wallowers pretending to have absolutely no idea that another twenty nine semi naked people are sharing their bath.
I mean, it doesn't make sense does it? If a big fat hairy man walked into your bathroom and sat down in a bubble bath with you wearing nothing but his underpants you'd at least say hello wouldn't you? Or ask him if he'd like a little more warm water? Anything to be polite really and show him you're au fait with sharing a bath with him, despite thinking you may have seen him on crimewatch but you can't be sure when he's wearing just his pants.
You may even attempt a polite conversation about his underpants or efficient chest hair removal creams (come on, it's all he's giving you). I mean, he's in your bath, he must be comfortable with himself, or perhaps you're a bit of a people pleaser and find yourself offering the non tap end and a bit of a go with the loofa. Either way you'd have a stab at something wouldn't you.
But no, not in a communal jacuzzi. You just sit there like a large potato enjoying the pleasant bubble sensation maybe, but otherwise staring at the ceiling, looking anywhere (anywhere!) other than at the other bathers. Nobody speaks and nobody (shudder) touches. Why bother? Why not just go home and take a bath with your electric whisk? Same pleasant bubbly thing, lots more places to look at than the ceiling. Everybody wins (although explaining the electric whisk thing to Husband could be tricky, especially if he thinks it's a Large Hint and next time you're in bed produces a spatula and a chef's hat with a large flourish. This never happened)
It's not only that you have to convince yourself and the others that they don't exist, but (and here comes the difficult bit) you then have to extricate yourself from your bath without arrousing the suspicions of the Other Wallowers that you have indeed been taking a bath with them. You've been lying back thinking that you look like you're contemplating dreamily the finer points of Brecht's non illusory theatre, but really you're plotting how to remove yourself with decorum, which is tricky. I mean, there's the whole gauntlet to be run without touching anyone at all in any way, there's the lifting yourself out, complete with nonchalant air about being seen in all your cellulite glory, the studied walk to your towel as you will yourself to un wobble and flex any muscle that may be in a position to, well flex. Oh the shame that the only firm one is attached to your wine drinking arm, everything else screams sofa, Sunday night drama, chinese takeaway, pizza, sex in one position and fungal toe.
Is there some sadistic genetic thing that regular jacuzzi users have that I've been born without? I really don't know, but I'm going to find out. I'm going to the gym spa every day this week, I'm going to ask every user if they have a sadisitc tendency, I'm sure they won't mind, they like bathing together after all. Wish me luck.