Sunday, 21 February 2010

Madame at her Station

Mr Man has just sent me this picture for my profile thingy. Taken a couple of weeks ago after Minx had had her fun on my face - practicing her make-up techniques. Let her express herself I say.

He has just re-named me Lady Blah Blah.

Not sure if I think this is funny or not.

Not sure I look evil enough.

It's a start.

We thought she was such a nice girl

Got me thinking about my swearing. Remembered my finest moment. About 9 years ago.

After an extremely long and emotional wrangle with a cowboy garage not fixing my car properly after a smash, and having to threaten to get another garage to do it for which I would charge the first garage, they agreed to buy the car off me. Their gorilla slapped a cheque at me and drove off my precious but violated little red mini late on Friday afternoon.

First thing Saturday Mr Man dropped me into town to stick the cheque in at Nationwide. Then the bastards wouldn't accept it 'cos one of the letters in my name on the scrawled cheque looked a bit like another letter, sort of, if you were a cunt.

I said lots of high pitched things to her and her supervisor and to anyone else in ear-shot before stamping out, knocking someone over in the process I recall. Picked up my mobile, stabbed in the number and screamed my message on the home answer-phone - 'You won't fucking believe the fucking cunts in that fucking bastard place they wouldn't fucking take the wanking fucking bastard cheque the felching shitkicking wanking fucking cuntshaped cock-sucking fucking wank bastards I'm going to fucking throw a wanking brick through their bollocking fucking window and burn the fucking cunthole place down.' Click.

Oh look, the bank's open.

In I trotted. Put the cheque in no problem. Have a nice day. I'll just ring Mr back and tell him it's OK. Tap tap tap......clonk - the sound of the penny dropping.

You know when you don't actually dial your own home number that often... ? But there is a number I can dial in my sleep and that number is....... ah.... oh. Tap tap tap.... ' I think I just left a message on your answer-phone by mistake. I was a bit cross and um...well it's alright now and um...sorry about that. Byee.' Oh god oh god.

Tap tap tap.....'Hello kind of just left a message on your mum and dad's phone......'

Meanwhile, back from the shops come my father-in-law, mother-in-law, sister-in-law, her husband and their 2 children. 'Oh look - there's a message on the machine' ............

Yes, it still gets mentioned.

Friday, 19 February 2010

Bedends to Everything

Firewood - that's what it is. I now have nowhere to sleep.

Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to flick bogeys from.

And when Ninja-Flying-Monkey Boy's little chum's parents came to pick him up this evening he described the swearing and screaming with perfect clarity.

Scooby Doo chuckles all round.

Well we really must be going........

Finally mended N-F-M Boys football team socks after about 18 months. Guilt?


Not enough plain chocolate in the house.

Thursday, 18 February 2010

Bottom Bunk Bedends to the Brown Stuff

I have now been clearing, cleaning, rearranging, dismantling, remantling, grappling and groaning under the weight of toys, books, bricks, shelves, bedding, beds, boxes, baskets, dead flies and mouse poo for about 2 weeks. And I'm bored. I'm still living in filth - albeit moved about a bit - and I've got back-ache, head-ache and bottom-ache.

Everyone has moved bedrooms - which always seems like a good idea. It has been a major operation. And still not complete. Dismantling the Big Bed tomorrow (no Mummy not the Big Bed Yes darling the Big Bed) - which I'm convinced will disintegrate on contact with my little friend Allen (key) and never stand up again but it has to be attempted. Living in a wonkey fun-fair joke house built for asymetrical midgets with Alice in Wonderland door frames and sudden slopes at head level and/or feet level is a challenge for any furniture mover-abouter. PG Tips chimps would have had a ball. And this comes from someone who pretty much IS a midget. I feel I am becoming more asymetrical and chimp-like with every grunt and stumble. But hey - by the end of the week-end (yes yes yes) we shall all be in the right place. In my case - a mental institution.

That'll be here then.

But this is the first night that my little Rock Godling has stayed put in his (HIS) bed despite still being awake when I got out. This really is a bunting event. We were kind of doing OK up til a couple of weeks ago and then we went to see Horrible Science on stage and it terrified him from the off. As soon as it gets dark now he is limpeted onto my leg, tormented by the thoughts of giant talking bacteria. Spongebob amputations and Ben 10 alien mutations and general cartoon and computer game savagery etc is fine. Some lovey dressed up in a purple velour blob-suit - WAAAAAAAAGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wasn't sure that contructing the bunk beds was going to be a good move during this crisis but they seem quite popular. Apart from the inability to sit up on the top bunk due to midget house - it's not pretty seeing me clamber, drag and slither on either. And there's not much wallpaper left as it rips off wonderfully well while Mummy's pretending to be asleep - 'and this bit looks like a crocodile...' But I did hoover up all the Hogwartsy spiders (dead and alive) before I started which was an education in itself. More fun-fair cobweb special effects down the stairs however. Sod that tho'. Minx and I building the damn bunks together was achievement enough. Still basking actually. Not going to spoil that with cobweb ski-jumping even if it would be blog-heaven. Sod you.

I often find that after a day of high achievement, I inevitably follow this with a day of total crapness. So progress is slow. I'm also like this regarding eating healthily. I celebrate a day of being 'good' with being remedial - like if noone sees me devouring brown stuff then it doesn't count. And then my bottom reminds me. I used to consider having allergies was just an affectation - look at me I'm special - pander to me etc - and so my punishment for this intolerance is now Intolerance. First it was the tiny delicious sesame seed. Little pellets of pure evil. And now I seem to have suddenly become Lactose Intolerant. How fucking boring. It's mostly fine as I prefer goats' milk and cheese anyway and hardcore dark chocolate but it's all the irritating questions I now have to ask people in cafes and friends' houses. And it's the innocuous munching of the kids' stuff when we're on the move. I've obviously used up all my chocolate tokens. I've only got a couple of alcohol tokens left as it is - just enough for a small sherry at Xmas. So what's next? I can't do drugs - too paranoid. I can't drink anymore - too much too young. Don't smoke - was always crap at that so stopped pretending years ago. Sex? Well...... I have very effective contraceptive kids so that's more of a thing to look forward to when we 'retire' - along with Scrabble and hedgehog rescuing. So that leaves chocolate doesn't it? Bugger.

I suppose I've still got coffee. And swearing. (I even called a rogue escapee cushion a cunt this evening thinking that Python Boy was asleep - oops. I usually keep that one for Daddy). And flicking bogeys at the wall. But they're a bit lame for vices aren't they? I need some suggestions for badness. I'm too old for mooning (but in my day .........), and too young for prescription-amnesia. I NEED HELP. I know you won't let me down.......

Tuesday, 2 February 2010

Basket Case

Will somebody please tell me to stop reading through everybody else's blogs and go to bed! It's about 2.15am and I've been awake since 6am and I am not doing anyone a favour by still being here.

While I'm asking for sage advice - what do I do with all those bloody Hot Wheels tracks that don't fit back into the boxes they came in even if I still had them? I've got about 4 sharing a couple of baskets that I cannot tell apart with dinosaurs and aliens and god knows attached to bits of them. I cannot make them comply with the rules of this house - ie if you don't fit nicely in one of Mummy's baskets you will be evicted. Only I can't evict Hot Wheels. That's a step too far for even evil me. I have been ruthless in my dealings with the previously mentioned delightful wooden toys. Hidden in a cupboard rests about £50, 000 - worth of bloody natural organic treasures your children will cherish forever hand-made by dyslexic dolphins on a yoga retreat in Lindisfarne. Fuck 'em. Mutant deviants with flashing bits from the anals of China R Us after all. It's good to be back.

I suppose I have the bastard rodents to thank for this intensive clearing and cleaning of the past few days. Am now obsessed with seeing bits of carpet and patches of wall where there used to be just stuff. The stench of death hangs in the air but I can reach the curtains again.

I'm almost retching at the memory of money handed over in the past few years for all these Good and Worthy imagination-freeing toys. Cared for by ...... me. But the sense of liberation now I'm ditching all this crap is truly imagination-freeing. We just don't need it - they never did! It was only me thinking this is Good For Them.

I still hate bright beeping plastic things in my house but a while ago I just bought a big sea-grassy trunk thing so I can hide the worst of it in there when I'm feeling all delicate. Battery things may still mysteriously disappear when the first battery runs out (or is ripped out) here and there but I am much more chilled about dealing with stuff I know they actually play with. And the battery things that are granted asylum will now be unscrewed - replaced - screwed up again by the small people themselves now - Good. I'm busy chucking out their other stuff while they're occupied doing that.

I've also concurred that they do not get their kicks from collage - just because 'when I was their age...' and they're not dedicated to weaving, nor do they spend much energy making clothes for their toys, or even bother making camps that often from our old voile curtains and so in finally realizing this I have freed up 4 more large baskets of patronisingly provided raw materials.

And then I started on my Home Ed Heaven Cabinet of Wonder. Oh wow. I really am a fucked-up mind control freak. Unfortunately alot of it has ended up back where it was - maybe it visited another basket for an hour or two and lost a few old hangers-on but I can't change everything about me overnight. But I reduced and reorganised and even now celebrate the purple and orange and green boxes and boxes and boxes of dinosaury bits. Colour and wicker live side by side. My bin is overflowing. I have a tower of about 12 (last count) empty baskets - to either dump (oh-god-oh-god I need basket counselling) or to refill with my next wondrous plans to compartmentalise the world (no-No-NO!!!)

The sea-grassy trunk needs attention too. I'm sure the beeping stuff is held aloft by georgette scarves of all soft tones and Aesop's Fabled finger puppets etc.

And the next stop - the musical instruments trunk. I'm shaking like a maracca (help with spelling here please Not Waving?) already at the thought of relinquishing my coconut halves and bottle cap rattlers. One step at a time eh?

Noone can say I didn't try. I did more than dip my toe in the pure gentle waters of Conscious Parenting and can say with total honesty that Unconscious Parenting is way more preferable - and more effective - and cheaper - and ...... more colourful.

And that's not just my language.