How Did That Happen?

It appears I may have started to get old, not old as in stooped and hunched and best friends with the commode but the growing up kind of old. First my best friend's little sister went and rather selfishly turned thirty, reminding me that I must be way over that, and now she's gone and gotten engaged. Engaged! To a real person and everything. She's even having a hen night, one to which I've been invited. I was quite chuffed actually, who wouldn't be? Until she let it be known that they thought a few oldies would help keep everyone in line during the drinking games. Drinking games? Surely she's too young?
Last time I saw her she was even discussing kids, much to my horror, I reminded her that she was expected to keep chaste until her wedding night, just as I and Husband had done. The fact that Isla was born three months after our wedding was a small aberration, Isla was one of those quick growing babies, My Mother was dead impressed, she even called the local paper.
Anyway, secondly, I went to my younger brother's leaving do on Saturday night, he's moving to LA with absolutely no thought as to where I'm going to find a replacement Younger Brother (the position is up for grabs if any of you want to apply, must babysit/wash regularly/be more inhibited when discussing his admittedly impressive love life, if I'm going to hire a new one we might as well go for some improvements).
This party was one of those all dayer things: lunch followed by drinking through until closing then attempting to bribe the barman on bended knees for a lock in (if any police officers are reading this, he said no). Obviously because I am now a Grown Up I couldn't go until the evening due to having Responsibilities. I'd missed lunch but sensibly ate a large carbohydrate dinner just before leaving, we wouldn't like to be drunk in front of the babysitter would we? I then proceeded to drink my body weight in wine (some things qualify as Grown Up even if it doesn't sound too mature) and chatter and laugh in a seemly and discreet manner.
It was about this time that I had my big growing up realisation. You see, I went to the toilet and there was no toilet paper. The old, immature, more drunken me would have yelled into the next cubicle to see if the other toilet user had any, the kindly user would then pass some under the door and we'd have a little drunken bonding session about tissue and pubs (you read that right) and all manner of interesting things. We'd then both exit our toilets and smile in an embarrassed manner because we knew we'd heard the other one wee and now we didn't know what to say to each other. But it would have been fun, and an interesting diversion.
But I was denied all this because I had a little packet of tissues in my handbag, you know, just in case. And that's when it hit me, I'm a grown up, a sensible, tissue carrying, proper contraception using, wine sipping, non shot gulping, going to a best friend's little sister's hen night as an oldie, grown up. Dammit. There's only one more place for me to go before the grave now, I get to turn into My Mother.

Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Retold.

Once upon a time in a land far away there lived a family of bears, Daddy Bear, Mummy Bear and Baby Bear. They were a little unusual for a bear family however in that they eschewed the traditional bear family set up and attempted to fit in with the local population by donning clothes and living in a house in the woods. They had been vegetarian for some time and Mummy Bear usually dished up bowls of porridge at each meal. She was not known for her vegetable based repertoire and missed the days when a nice fresh salmon would suffice.
One morning Mummy Bear woke late and rushed the usual porridge order serving it up without a thought as to its consistency or temperature. Baby Bear’s porridge, luckily, was just right, but hers was too cool and Daddy Bear’s far too hot, much to his disgust. They decided, as any family would, to go on a nice walk while Daddy Bear’s porridge cools down, by which point Baby Bear’s porridge will be cold and Mummy Bear’s congealed, but hey ho, that’s what you get for appointing Daddy Bear the head of the family.
While away on their walk, from the other side of the forest came Goldilocks. A deceptively sweet looking girl and as yet unfettered by an ASBO, she was allowed to wander freely about the forest. She decided to do a quick break and enter into the Bears’ cottage just to see if they lived on that foreign muck that her mother claimed they did. Goldilocks wasn't sure what foreign muck was, or why it made her Mother sniff so loudly when she mentioned it, but she was going to find out. All rather exciting actually.
On entering Goldilocks spied the uneaten porridge and having only had Coco Pops herself for breakfast, she decided to give it a try. Finding Daddy Bear’s porridge too hot and Mummy Bear’s too cold, she settled on Baby Bear’s and giving no thought to hygiene finished it all up.
Golilocks’ body reacted to the strange, sugar free breakfast and began to shut down, so she decided to go upstairs and have a little rest. On finding the three single beds that the Bear family occupy rather chastely during the night she tries each one out in turn. Daddy Bears is too hard, mainly due to the plank of wood Mummy Bear inserted under the mattress to help his sciatica. Mummy Bears is too soft, she should never have removed the base and given it to Daddy Bear, sciatica or not. Baby Bears turned out to be just right and Goldilocks fell into an oat induced slumber.
On returning from their walk, the Bear family found Baby Bear’s empty porridge bowl. Baby Bear was secretly pleased and crossed his fingers that Mummy Bear had some Crunchy Nut Cornflakes hidden somewhere. In a fit of temper at having their home invaded the Bear family marched upstairs to search for the miscreant. The Bears found Goldilocks asleep on Baby Bear’s bed and roared in an unfriendly and uninviting manner. Goldilocks woke startled, and fearing for her life ran from the house. Mummy Bear managed to snatch at her ankle, but the electronic tag was all she could grab hold of and it came away with ease. Goldilocks disappeared into the forest towards an uncertain future and untimely motherhood. The Bears retired to discuss What The World Is Coming To over a bowl of porridge.

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.