Sproglet has many new words. 'Duggg' for dog. 'Car' for car. Unfortunately the word' nig-nog' for the 'Ninky-Nonk' from 'In the Night Garden' and the like. Bless him - he bounds out of his bed and careers into us shouting 'La La' 'Duice' and 'Outide' while he directs me towards the TV and coco-pops in that order.
Best of all he shouts 'MAMA!' every time I walk into a room - with such gusto and joy that I feel like I have won an award every time. He is going through a 'Mummy' period where basically, I rock. Yay me! No matter what Husband does, what treats he bribes with or remote that he controls - I am king. Sproglet snuggles onto my lap and tucks his head in, or throws his arms tight round me and plants over long kisses on my face. Even though his never ending cold means I frequently am slimed with snot in the process, I am thrilled. Most mornings he comes into bed with me while I try to raise the will to shift myself out of it. He gazes up at me and tries to lift off my eye mitt things and picks at my glamorous mouth guard (have gritted my back teeth down to hell - this shield is an unfortunate necessity if I want to enjoy steak in life). I must look pretty scary with wild tossing/turning hair, embedded leftover make-up, ear plugs swinging to said hair and gumily trying to talk with a big rugby-player-friendly guard in my gob. But he stares at me like I am a goddess and strokes my face with his tiny hands, giggling and talking incessantly.
As we kick into Autumn - central heating at the ready, jumpers pulled out of the back of the closet, excuses to eat cake (gotta protect myself with an added layer of fat through harsh winter) - it is time to hibernate is it not? Lots of tea, stodgy food, oakey reds and tonnes of biscuits... and snuggling. Snuggle whatever the hell you can - blankets, stuffed animals, strangers, your plasma - whatever. Tis the season of snuggling - and no one does this better than Sproglet; with his freshly washed soft curls, clean jammies and blissful baby skin, he has the fine art of this down pat. Like all good things though, he reaches the end of his snuggle and jumps up - usually to get yet another book to read. But while it lasts, I'm telling you, nothing on earth comes close.
Wednesday, 24 September 2008
Saturday, 20 September 2008
Time flies
How come the supermarkets are full of chrimbo chocs, trees and tacky gift sets and yet we are basking in August like sunshine? What is with this hurrying through the year malarkey? Is the credit crunch forcing shops to get in there early hoping that if they remind us for long enough we will indeed succumb and begin our yearly festive shop fest?
Xmas shopping is hell on wheels so maybe getting it started soon would be a good thang. I digress - what is bothering me is how this year has run away with me. Jan crawled by as did Feb then I got my job and zooooom - Halloween is round that corner. I haven't popped back to Belfast all year to see my folks and friends and suddenly my Mum has booked her Xmas flights... Is it me or are the years zipping past like the ads on Sky+ fast forward on 30?
When my girls started making plans for a big 4 0 get together my brakes slammed on - I am only 21!!! Mentally... maybe even 17. How can I be sprinting towards middle age - hell I'm even enjoying 'Casualty' these days - I must be gettin' on. My life is a blurrrrr of scripts and rushing to drop off/pick up sproglet from militant nursery, food shops, cooking, bit of Grey's (tis back thank god) drinking red wine, Relate, dip in my best mate's hot tub and not getting enough sleep. I curse the Sunday papers for coming along again so quickly when last weeks are still piled by my bed with articles I am desperate to read. My lit agent wants me to fashion my Crummy Mummyness into some book form - have I a moment to do it? And in the midst of all this why have I developed a chronic Ebay addiction? I have little enough time as it is! I seem to be forever 'booking in' mates weekends down the line - which I hate as it makes life devoid of all spontaneity.
Last week I made it to the movies - woo hoo!! There was precious little on and my cousin and his lovely girlfriend were off to see some comedy from the 'Knocked up' fraternity - I plumped for 'The Women.' Meg Ryan, the wonderful Annette Benning, how bad could it be? I'll tell ya. Worse.
When I got bored of trying to work out how much botox Meg had pumped into her impish features I walked out and marched up to the all important ticket stub holders. "I am a mother who doesn't get out enough - especially to the cinema - so I cannot lose two precious hours of my life to this trash. What time does 'The Strangers' start"? Slasher horror is a weird fav of mine. It was pretty good actually - until the gruesome end when I dashed out - gratuitous stabbing not really my cup of tea. Point is - if it 'aint floating my boat - I gotta move on pronto. Life is too short baby.
Now where is my pumpkin carving kit?
Xmas shopping is hell on wheels so maybe getting it started soon would be a good thang. I digress - what is bothering me is how this year has run away with me. Jan crawled by as did Feb then I got my job and zooooom - Halloween is round that corner. I haven't popped back to Belfast all year to see my folks and friends and suddenly my Mum has booked her Xmas flights... Is it me or are the years zipping past like the ads on Sky+ fast forward on 30?
When my girls started making plans for a big 4 0 get together my brakes slammed on - I am only 21!!! Mentally... maybe even 17. How can I be sprinting towards middle age - hell I'm even enjoying 'Casualty' these days - I must be gettin' on. My life is a blurrrrr of scripts and rushing to drop off/pick up sproglet from militant nursery, food shops, cooking, bit of Grey's (tis back thank god) drinking red wine, Relate, dip in my best mate's hot tub and not getting enough sleep. I curse the Sunday papers for coming along again so quickly when last weeks are still piled by my bed with articles I am desperate to read. My lit agent wants me to fashion my Crummy Mummyness into some book form - have I a moment to do it? And in the midst of all this why have I developed a chronic Ebay addiction? I have little enough time as it is! I seem to be forever 'booking in' mates weekends down the line - which I hate as it makes life devoid of all spontaneity.
Last week I made it to the movies - woo hoo!! There was precious little on and my cousin and his lovely girlfriend were off to see some comedy from the 'Knocked up' fraternity - I plumped for 'The Women.' Meg Ryan, the wonderful Annette Benning, how bad could it be? I'll tell ya. Worse.
When I got bored of trying to work out how much botox Meg had pumped into her impish features I walked out and marched up to the all important ticket stub holders. "I am a mother who doesn't get out enough - especially to the cinema - so I cannot lose two precious hours of my life to this trash. What time does 'The Strangers' start"? Slasher horror is a weird fav of mine. It was pretty good actually - until the gruesome end when I dashed out - gratuitous stabbing not really my cup of tea. Point is - if it 'aint floating my boat - I gotta move on pronto. Life is too short baby.
Now where is my pumpkin carving kit?
Sunday, 7 September 2008
The World Cafe
I woke up this morning craving The World Cafe. A long deceased corner restaurant in West Hampstead that became our lounge (as I lived in our official one) from '99 - 2001. It had a long menu and a short clientele, thus it shut up shop shortly after we all moved house - I think my flatmates and I had kept it afloat. The staff were a mixture of fiery Italian chefs and Australian travellers. One boy - aptly named Angel - flirted with us all and fluttered his unfairly long lashes to the point that Nikki swore she was in with a chance, despite the fact he clearly preferred the hairier sex.
We would roll in every evening after work and stop for a glass that always became a bottle... or two. The staff would take a break and forget to go back to work. The bored chefs would send us over snacks - ideas they had for a menu that resolutely stayed the same. But Sundays, Sundays were our favourite days to stake our claim as territorial owners of the place - when I would stumble in, still in my PJs with a stack of Sunday papers and a tin of baked beans. The papers were to peruse over a leisurely breakfast - something to mop up the obligatory hangover. The beans because for some odd reason their cooked breakfasts omitted that all important ingredient; the sister restaurant had the same menu - the owner wouldn't add in the beans. So we bought them, brought them and the cook would nod and add them to our plates.
One Xmas we asked to hire the place for a big Xmas lunch - the staff agreed - closing it to the public, ordering in spirits that I'm pretty sure they didn't have a license for and asking us to come up with an Xmas menu. I seem to remember the event ended with dancing on tables and makeshift karaoke. We took it over for Claire and Est's b'day bash - once again banning uninvited guests and drinking wine that we somehow never paid for. The chefs would hang out at the back door, spilling into the alley from the intense heat of the stamp sized kitchen - offering a joint if we passed by and caught them on one of their eternal breaks. One night I went drinking there - already 3 sheets to the wind and in my jammies - I downed a glass of wine and then realised that it was actually the chef's wedding reception I had crashed...
It was never going to last. But while it did we ate like kings, were served by an Angel and didn't even have to get dressed to dine. I still miss those lazy Sundays...
We would roll in every evening after work and stop for a glass that always became a bottle... or two. The staff would take a break and forget to go back to work. The bored chefs would send us over snacks - ideas they had for a menu that resolutely stayed the same. But Sundays, Sundays were our favourite days to stake our claim as territorial owners of the place - when I would stumble in, still in my PJs with a stack of Sunday papers and a tin of baked beans. The papers were to peruse over a leisurely breakfast - something to mop up the obligatory hangover. The beans because for some odd reason their cooked breakfasts omitted that all important ingredient; the sister restaurant had the same menu - the owner wouldn't add in the beans. So we bought them, brought them and the cook would nod and add them to our plates.
One Xmas we asked to hire the place for a big Xmas lunch - the staff agreed - closing it to the public, ordering in spirits that I'm pretty sure they didn't have a license for and asking us to come up with an Xmas menu. I seem to remember the event ended with dancing on tables and makeshift karaoke. We took it over for Claire and Est's b'day bash - once again banning uninvited guests and drinking wine that we somehow never paid for. The chefs would hang out at the back door, spilling into the alley from the intense heat of the stamp sized kitchen - offering a joint if we passed by and caught them on one of their eternal breaks. One night I went drinking there - already 3 sheets to the wind and in my jammies - I downed a glass of wine and then realised that it was actually the chef's wedding reception I had crashed...
It was never going to last. But while it did we ate like kings, were served by an Angel and didn't even have to get dressed to dine. I still miss those lazy Sundays...
Wednesday, 3 September 2008
Relate-tionships
Yes, I know it has been a while. I am sorry. This full time work malarkey sure is getting in the way of my blogging vents. For the first time I ever, I hesitate to write about something. Strange as I should hesitate more often when I speak - less of the old foot in mouth moments - but normally when I blog I just throw it all out there - lock stock and dirty barrel. Thing is, I know lots of folk who read my blog - and what I am about to write - I imagined them all reading and it made me feel a bit... well vulnerable or naked or something. But then I thought - I am crummymummy, I wrote this to be true and honest about life, love and motherhood - so if I can't be honest here - what is the point? Those that know me who read this tend to be lovely supportive warm fuzzy types - so what have I to fear?
Monday evening - Husband and I had our first Relate session. Yes, I am a tired cliche - but am determined not be a divorce statistic - so I made that call. It was after one particularly vicious rowing weekend - and a Monday that just didn't improve (bit like the summer weather). We had the initial 'meet and greet suss you out' kinda chat weeks and weeks ago - but this is where the ball starts rolling. Weekly chats for us to vent and bitch and get it all out there onto the table and somehow work through that resentment and anger that has festered and grown and sometimes squeezes the joy out of our extremely limited time together. I'll just say here that out of respect for Husband, I won't go in to the ins and outs of the machinations and recriminations that we fired at one another - but I will say how it made me feel.
Husband had been nervous all day - he kept asking of I was just going to bitch at him for an hour - at the end of which he would pay £40 for the pleasure? He could hardly look at me in the car on the way there - his nerves curtailing any humour he might have about the whole awkward situation. We were taken to a room that had no windows but oddly had a sunny yellow curtain that covered an entire wall and an air conditioning unit that filled half the space but apparently was too loud to put on. This room became a furnace. We boiled our way through the chat regardless of rage. Our counsellor type woman was lovely. Cheery, ruddy, good humoured - not dissimilar to the Farmer's wife in Babe (thought not as curvey)- she immediately clocked Husband's reticence. Behind that wholesome kindness though, lay a smart cookie who knew when to pipe up and when to let us rant. She was horribly fair and completely neutral - and appeared to be immune to the creeping temperature. I didn't want the session to end. I got the sense that she felt she'd be seeing a fair bit of us for a while yet optimism shone from her every pore. I bet she is the kind of person that all her friends tell secrets to.
Softly softly she hooked us in and then before I even saw it - boom! She had opened up Husband to the point I couldn't get a word in edge ways. Was it weird? Well having been in a small room listening to peoples' woes as a Samaritan, it didn't seem odd. I forget that Husband is a man - and Auzzie one at that, and isn't so in tune with the spilling gene us women have. The hour flew by as we danced in the merry circles things have become. I almost felt sorry for our Zen Lady. She feels like a safe pair of hands. I wonder how long this will take? Will it work? I'm pretty sure that both Husband and I don't want to jack our relationship in, nor do we want to damage it in any irreparable way - so this is.... a way to work through the fog. To come out the other side stronger and surer and happier. We have hope. We have time. This marriage game is for life as we see it. Husband is changing his ridiculous work hours in the next two weeks - which is the biggest breakthrough yet. As cheery lady said at the moment we 'have no time.' Robbed of time how can any relationship be well watered and continue to grow?
I'm thinking of this Lady as our Baby Bio. I'll keep you posted on how well we flower. The roots are pretty strong though...
Monday evening - Husband and I had our first Relate session. Yes, I am a tired cliche - but am determined not be a divorce statistic - so I made that call. It was after one particularly vicious rowing weekend - and a Monday that just didn't improve (bit like the summer weather). We had the initial 'meet and greet suss you out' kinda chat weeks and weeks ago - but this is where the ball starts rolling. Weekly chats for us to vent and bitch and get it all out there onto the table and somehow work through that resentment and anger that has festered and grown and sometimes squeezes the joy out of our extremely limited time together. I'll just say here that out of respect for Husband, I won't go in to the ins and outs of the machinations and recriminations that we fired at one another - but I will say how it made me feel.
Husband had been nervous all day - he kept asking of I was just going to bitch at him for an hour - at the end of which he would pay £40 for the pleasure? He could hardly look at me in the car on the way there - his nerves curtailing any humour he might have about the whole awkward situation. We were taken to a room that had no windows but oddly had a sunny yellow curtain that covered an entire wall and an air conditioning unit that filled half the space but apparently was too loud to put on. This room became a furnace. We boiled our way through the chat regardless of rage. Our counsellor type woman was lovely. Cheery, ruddy, good humoured - not dissimilar to the Farmer's wife in Babe (thought not as curvey)- she immediately clocked Husband's reticence. Behind that wholesome kindness though, lay a smart cookie who knew when to pipe up and when to let us rant. She was horribly fair and completely neutral - and appeared to be immune to the creeping temperature. I didn't want the session to end. I got the sense that she felt she'd be seeing a fair bit of us for a while yet optimism shone from her every pore. I bet she is the kind of person that all her friends tell secrets to.
Softly softly she hooked us in and then before I even saw it - boom! She had opened up Husband to the point I couldn't get a word in edge ways. Was it weird? Well having been in a small room listening to peoples' woes as a Samaritan, it didn't seem odd. I forget that Husband is a man - and Auzzie one at that, and isn't so in tune with the spilling gene us women have. The hour flew by as we danced in the merry circles things have become. I almost felt sorry for our Zen Lady. She feels like a safe pair of hands. I wonder how long this will take? Will it work? I'm pretty sure that both Husband and I don't want to jack our relationship in, nor do we want to damage it in any irreparable way - so this is.... a way to work through the fog. To come out the other side stronger and surer and happier. We have hope. We have time. This marriage game is for life as we see it. Husband is changing his ridiculous work hours in the next two weeks - which is the biggest breakthrough yet. As cheery lady said at the moment we 'have no time.' Robbed of time how can any relationship be well watered and continue to grow?
I'm thinking of this Lady as our Baby Bio. I'll keep you posted on how well we flower. The roots are pretty strong though...
Monday, 25 August 2008
My Ya Yas
Names for one's lady garden? 'Lady's promise'(sounds like a type of chocolate box that men swim through sharks and scale mountains to reach)... 'Fan Anne' (sounds like the name of a flight company "Fasten your seatbelts ladeez and welcome to Fan Anne. We will be travelling today at a constant speed arriving at our destination at 9pm"). 'Foof'... 'Hairy Clam'... and it went on. 4 of us old schoolmates, beers in hand in some bustling Vietnamese restaurant on the wrong side of the tracks in Newcastle. 10pm on a Saturday night. We haven't caught up in a while but no matter - our historys are long our memories short. I've known these 3 since early teenage days and they are easy company; Hannah's Mother calls us her 'Ya Yas' (from the Ya Ya Sisterhood book) - we have seen each other through first periods, failed romances, bad boyfriends, parental angst, marriage, birth and sadly death. Things don't need to be said, we just know where we are with each other. Time and distance may have curtailed our meet ups but only enhance the sacred time we do get together.
We had ditched our kids and other halves and had headed north (for Emma - south) and pitched up at Hannah's house with bottles and nibbles and the giddy excitement of having no responsibilities for a whole 24 hours. Within five minutes the fizz was out. Then cocktails, gin, beers and a mad dash for a taxi. A martini to keep us watered and then on to the noisy meal. Two men actually turned their chairs round to eavesdrop on our X rated chat: Caroline grilling me about any lesbian activities of my giddy youth; insisting she knew more about my (alleged) sapphic past than I did. naming our bits. Remembering losing our big Vs to unsuitables. Etc. We gossiped, cajoled and hooted. 'Are you happy?' Caroline asked whilst she could still remember the answers. It was the only Oprah moment. There were no rows, no tears. No old wounds opened. A quiet one for us lot.
We headed for a nitecap. The bar opened onto a terrace with huge sails above our heads as a kind of overhead cover, with plants creeping up the outdoor open brick, fairylights twinking overhead. The rain came down and we all moved slightly to avoid getting wet. Caroline, slightly worse for wear - complained to barman and we scratched our heads as to why. Turns out she though the indoor air conditioning system was dripping on her - but we were OUTDOORS. Cue much laughter and me feeling smug that for once I wasn't the butt of the joke.
Home to tea, chocolate pavlova and recorded X factor. Yes - we are just crazee. It was 11:30. I rang husband who laughed at our 'wild' night out (as I had billed it). No matter that we hadn't danced til dawn and flirted with jailbait - we had had a great time.
I lay in - bliss. Three of us cooked a huge fry up and ooh and ahhed over facebook photos that were less than kind to old schoolmates (the girls you see 'haven't the time' for Facebook but gobbled up the info that one can find there - their husbands have joined so they read through osmosis). Caroline was missing from the table. Emma sympathised (briefly) as for once it was not she who was propping up the toilet in a well of regret.
We disbanded shortly after lunch. Caroline still curled up in a ball on Hannah's bed - unable to move or even speak. Thank god one of us were sick - otherwise it 'aint a proper night out eh?
I arrived home to husband's waiting arms and a black eyed sproglet. They claimed to have missed me. Me - I was having too good a time to miss anyone. Love ya Ladeez - when is the next meet?
We had ditched our kids and other halves and had headed north (for Emma - south) and pitched up at Hannah's house with bottles and nibbles and the giddy excitement of having no responsibilities for a whole 24 hours. Within five minutes the fizz was out. Then cocktails, gin, beers and a mad dash for a taxi. A martini to keep us watered and then on to the noisy meal. Two men actually turned their chairs round to eavesdrop on our X rated chat: Caroline grilling me about any lesbian activities of my giddy youth; insisting she knew more about my (alleged) sapphic past than I did. naming our bits. Remembering losing our big Vs to unsuitables. Etc. We gossiped, cajoled and hooted. 'Are you happy?' Caroline asked whilst she could still remember the answers. It was the only Oprah moment. There were no rows, no tears. No old wounds opened. A quiet one for us lot.
We headed for a nitecap. The bar opened onto a terrace with huge sails above our heads as a kind of overhead cover, with plants creeping up the outdoor open brick, fairylights twinking overhead. The rain came down and we all moved slightly to avoid getting wet. Caroline, slightly worse for wear - complained to barman and we scratched our heads as to why. Turns out she though the indoor air conditioning system was dripping on her - but we were OUTDOORS. Cue much laughter and me feeling smug that for once I wasn't the butt of the joke.
Home to tea, chocolate pavlova and recorded X factor. Yes - we are just crazee. It was 11:30. I rang husband who laughed at our 'wild' night out (as I had billed it). No matter that we hadn't danced til dawn and flirted with jailbait - we had had a great time.
I lay in - bliss. Three of us cooked a huge fry up and ooh and ahhed over facebook photos that were less than kind to old schoolmates (the girls you see 'haven't the time' for Facebook but gobbled up the info that one can find there - their husbands have joined so they read through osmosis). Caroline was missing from the table. Emma sympathised (briefly) as for once it was not she who was propping up the toilet in a well of regret.
We disbanded shortly after lunch. Caroline still curled up in a ball on Hannah's bed - unable to move or even speak. Thank god one of us were sick - otherwise it 'aint a proper night out eh?
I arrived home to husband's waiting arms and a black eyed sproglet. They claimed to have missed me. Me - I was having too good a time to miss anyone. Love ya Ladeez - when is the next meet?
Saturday, 16 August 2008
Thank you sweet Jesus!
Oh my god - a lie in!!! Drinking gin and tonics (huge measures - bless those Europeans and their free pouring) at midday, lying on the boardwalk watching fish swimming in the clear waters beneath, remembering why I love my boy so much, eating 3* Michelin food as the sun sets across the sea... oh my, mini breaks are fabulous!!!!
I forgot what 'we' were like. Minus the stress of bills, moving house, jobs and all the responsibility that children bring. Who were 'we' without all the baggage? We were/are people who wake up and still kiss before we brush our teeth. People who wander hand in hand and chat, never bored. People who relish great food and even greater wine. Who get excited by bizarre dishes brought forth from a chance booking at a dream restaurant. Who still enjoy time together, in silence, devouring papers and books, occasionally giving each other happy smiles and arm strokes. I relished every moment with husband. Not as a Father or boss or all the day to day things he is - but as my boy, my best friend, the person I most enjoy hanging out with.
Oh it was bliss. San Sebastian in festival week - fireworks soaring into the sky, children running from big headed puppets, music blasting from every available stage or step and cook offs releasing mouth watering flavours in every square. We met a fantastic couple from Chicago on our last night and drank with them under the stars until 2am. By then the buzzing streets had cleared, the warm night air had cooled. We strolled back to our hotel, mellowed by liquor, warmed by laughter and in need of sleep. Up at 7am we ran for the bus to the airport. As it wound through the lush green hills and drove through the hazy morning cloud, husband slept, head on my knee. And I... well I wished we were still there. In our own bubble.
PS I missed sproglet massively - to the point I viewed his pics on the digital camera every day... and yes he was our every third conversation... But we still managed to have fun!
I forgot what 'we' were like. Minus the stress of bills, moving house, jobs and all the responsibility that children bring. Who were 'we' without all the baggage? We were/are people who wake up and still kiss before we brush our teeth. People who wander hand in hand and chat, never bored. People who relish great food and even greater wine. Who get excited by bizarre dishes brought forth from a chance booking at a dream restaurant. Who still enjoy time together, in silence, devouring papers and books, occasionally giving each other happy smiles and arm strokes. I relished every moment with husband. Not as a Father or boss or all the day to day things he is - but as my boy, my best friend, the person I most enjoy hanging out with.
Oh it was bliss. San Sebastian in festival week - fireworks soaring into the sky, children running from big headed puppets, music blasting from every available stage or step and cook offs releasing mouth watering flavours in every square. We met a fantastic couple from Chicago on our last night and drank with them under the stars until 2am. By then the buzzing streets had cleared, the warm night air had cooled. We strolled back to our hotel, mellowed by liquor, warmed by laughter and in need of sleep. Up at 7am we ran for the bus to the airport. As it wound through the lush green hills and drove through the hazy morning cloud, husband slept, head on my knee. And I... well I wished we were still there. In our own bubble.
PS I missed sproglet massively - to the point I viewed his pics on the digital camera every day... and yes he was our every third conversation... But we still managed to have fun!
Tuesday, 5 August 2008
What is the point of men - bar Peter the nice boy at work?
Excuse my mood. It matches the weather. But with a bit more bite - if I had my way there would be thunder and some damn crackly lightening in there too. You know those days - washouts. A bit bleruurgghhh. I had one on Sunday as well. Keener than mustard I was about the Innocent fete at Regents Park - but as we arrived for a day of Pimms, sunshine, frivolity and a spot of Maypole dancing, the heavens opened. I was a drowned rat struggling to eat a £7 (!!!!!) burrito while my nose dripped water like a fountain. Sproglet slumbered underneath a plastic cover and I knew when he awoke he would want to run around and eat anything that didn't move. Sadly open toed shoes don't really go with muddy parks and teeming rain. Cue our exit from the most middle class of events. My mates stayed to savour the beer tent replete with bales of hay and jovial music but crummy mummies have to quit while they're ahead and find drier pastures.
Anyway I digress. I came home today to stacks of washed clothes, piles of clothes washing to be done, a full dish washer and breakfast dishes. Joy. Just what I fancy after a day at work. Oh - and a letter detailing the 3 points on my licence and a £60fine. My second lot in as many months. 6 points and £120 later....Yay! Dashing to pick up sproglet every day after work is playing havoc with my finances. But hey that's cool. I am a woman - ergo a juggler. But men - what are they there for exactly??? Nothing a turkey baster and a DIY manual couldn't fix. An article at the weekend stated that there has been a 40% increase in males seeking counselling for impotence problems and last month a medical study published proved the quality of men's sperm declines at 45 - to such an extent that the chances of their partner suffering a miscarriage doubles. (Ahh at last - the chorus of men bleating about their ticking biological clocks seems imminent - and gone will be the jokes about women over 30 settling for anything that shaves once a week with a pulse). Sales of beauty products for men have leapt 30% over the last decade and more men than ever are opting for plastic surgery. What have we here? A bunch of narcissistic empty-sacked egotistical mirror lickers?
What do men do exactly? Us women - well I could go all hippy dippy and talk of how we bleed and don't die,(on that subject I once knew a woman who made cards for her boyfriend decorated in period blood... ewwwwwwww) how we birth bairns and then be all things to all people for the rest of our lives, but that is just dull. Now-a-days us chicks can buy our own drinks, flats, shoes and sofas - we can jump up a career ladder without having to wear stockings and type proficiently and most of all we can grab a sperm doner or a rampant rabbit to fulfill all things male. Frankly if a man can't change a tyre or wire a chandelier for you - then why bother?
I tell you I am sick of stroking the biggest male member of all - (sadly) the ego. Boys can you not just do it for yourselves? Well the joke is on you after all - we can bat our lashes, put on a sickly sweet understanding voice and boom! you are putty in our hands. Don't get me wrong I believe sistahhhs should be doin' it for themselves and all - its just... aren't those testosterone filled man-childs so easy to play? It almost isn't sport. No wonder Li-Lo turned. Bimboy Callum Best or the talented Sam Ronson... no contest.
No - I am not about to eat from the hairy cup - I just had a crappy day and needed to vent. Husband being incapable of doing one whole job in the laborious house move -that of post redirection. 8 weeks later our post still goes to the old flat. Plus he booked our dirty weekend flights with a stopover. A stopover to Spain?? You gotta be kidding me! So I am venting about men, apart from Peter the nice boy from work who is our tea bitch and never complains. But I wonder if he uses moisturiser?
Anyway I digress. I came home today to stacks of washed clothes, piles of clothes washing to be done, a full dish washer and breakfast dishes. Joy. Just what I fancy after a day at work. Oh - and a letter detailing the 3 points on my licence and a £60fine. My second lot in as many months. 6 points and £120 later....Yay! Dashing to pick up sproglet every day after work is playing havoc with my finances. But hey that's cool. I am a woman - ergo a juggler. But men - what are they there for exactly??? Nothing a turkey baster and a DIY manual couldn't fix. An article at the weekend stated that there has been a 40% increase in males seeking counselling for impotence problems and last month a medical study published proved the quality of men's sperm declines at 45 - to such an extent that the chances of their partner suffering a miscarriage doubles. (Ahh at last - the chorus of men bleating about their ticking biological clocks seems imminent - and gone will be the jokes about women over 30 settling for anything that shaves once a week with a pulse). Sales of beauty products for men have leapt 30% over the last decade and more men than ever are opting for plastic surgery. What have we here? A bunch of narcissistic empty-sacked egotistical mirror lickers?
What do men do exactly? Us women - well I could go all hippy dippy and talk of how we bleed and don't die,(on that subject I once knew a woman who made cards for her boyfriend decorated in period blood... ewwwwwwww) how we birth bairns and then be all things to all people for the rest of our lives, but that is just dull. Now-a-days us chicks can buy our own drinks, flats, shoes and sofas - we can jump up a career ladder without having to wear stockings and type proficiently and most of all we can grab a sperm doner or a rampant rabbit to fulfill all things male. Frankly if a man can't change a tyre or wire a chandelier for you - then why bother?
I tell you I am sick of stroking the biggest male member of all - (sadly) the ego. Boys can you not just do it for yourselves? Well the joke is on you after all - we can bat our lashes, put on a sickly sweet understanding voice and boom! you are putty in our hands. Don't get me wrong I believe sistahhhs should be doin' it for themselves and all - its just... aren't those testosterone filled man-childs so easy to play? It almost isn't sport. No wonder Li-Lo turned. Bimboy Callum Best or the talented Sam Ronson... no contest.
No - I am not about to eat from the hairy cup - I just had a crappy day and needed to vent. Husband being incapable of doing one whole job in the laborious house move -that of post redirection. 8 weeks later our post still goes to the old flat. Plus he booked our dirty weekend flights with a stopover. A stopover to Spain?? You gotta be kidding me! So I am venting about men, apart from Peter the nice boy from work who is our tea bitch and never complains. But I wonder if he uses moisturiser?
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