Dearest Humphrey
Thank you for the note you left on the kitchen bench this morning.
I appreciate the fact that you believe I have supernatural powers and the ability to make lunches for hungry men out of - thin air.
My comment yesterday that "The larder is emptyeth" obviously fell upon deaf ears.
Upon finding your note and after deciding what painful manner in which I will cause your death, I opened the pantry doors. This is what I found:
1 kg white flour.
1 bottle white vinegar.
2 half-used bottles of tomato sauce.
1 tin sweetened condensed milk.
Whilst Nigella (and obviously you mix us up every now and then) may be able to whip up a degustation with the abovementioned ingredients my own feeble imagination fails me.
Sincerely
Charlotte.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Where is Nigella When You Need Her
They say that with age comes wisdom. I my case it is coming to terms with the fact that I am a monumentally BAD cook. Regardless of how many utterly puke-worthy meals I place before Humphrey he still insists on inviting people over for dinner, which sends me into the corner taking up the foetal position and weeping. He knows this, but enjoys the sadistic pleasure of watching me crumple when he says "Oh, I've invited ten people over tonight for a barbecue".
"Just whack some sausages on some bread with sauce, it'll be so easy," he says.
Humphrey has no idea that NO SELF RESPECTING WOMAN would ever have anyone around for sausages on bread unless the recipients were under the age of two and unable to repeat to Mummy what they ate at Charlotte's place.
"You know I can't just have bread and sausages," I whine to Humphrey, " It's just not right."
"Why make work for yourself," he replies.
"Because THATSJUSTTHEWAYITIS!" I screech.
I would like nothing better than to be able to swan about the kitchen adding a pinch of this, a garnish of that and placing a steaming pot of heaven onto the table with a flourish. Unfortunately this never happens.
Tonight, for example, Humphrey has decided we need to gather together all the staff and have a barbecue. Usually barbecues are fairly easy to navigate. Marinate some chops, throw together a couple of salads and voila! But not me, oh no. I decide that tonight I'm going to make potato bake, that turned out fine (I think). Then I think "MMmm, there's some broccoli and cauliflower I could make a bake with that too!!" Yay yay, clappy clappy me.
What emerged from the oven were bits of half-cook cauli and broccoli swimming in a beige salt soup. I have to serve this monstrosity tonight as we have no other vegies in the pantry and the lettuce is limp. Off to the corner I go to chew my nails. Those poor, poor men are right this very minute oblivious to the Buffet From Hell they are to find themselves in front of tonight.
Humphrey seems to be oblivious to the fact that people are too polite to refuse his offers of a meal. My reputation as a culinary disaster zone has spread far and wide - possibly to Brazil. To date I haven't actually manslaughtered anyone with my cooking, but it's only a matter of time.
Humphrey also seems oblivious to the fact that I need at least a week to mentally and physically prepare for any meals out of the ordinary, not three hours prior.
Right now I feel like serving Humphrey a steaming stew of his own tongue. Damn Men!
"Just whack some sausages on some bread with sauce, it'll be so easy," he says.
Humphrey has no idea that NO SELF RESPECTING WOMAN would ever have anyone around for sausages on bread unless the recipients were under the age of two and unable to repeat to Mummy what they ate at Charlotte's place.
"You know I can't just have bread and sausages," I whine to Humphrey, " It's just not right."
"Why make work for yourself," he replies.
"Because THATSJUSTTHEWAYITIS!" I screech.
I would like nothing better than to be able to swan about the kitchen adding a pinch of this, a garnish of that and placing a steaming pot of heaven onto the table with a flourish. Unfortunately this never happens.
Tonight, for example, Humphrey has decided we need to gather together all the staff and have a barbecue. Usually barbecues are fairly easy to navigate. Marinate some chops, throw together a couple of salads and voila! But not me, oh no. I decide that tonight I'm going to make potato bake, that turned out fine (I think). Then I think "MMmm, there's some broccoli and cauliflower I could make a bake with that too!!" Yay yay, clappy clappy me.
What emerged from the oven were bits of half-cook cauli and broccoli swimming in a beige salt soup. I have to serve this monstrosity tonight as we have no other vegies in the pantry and the lettuce is limp. Off to the corner I go to chew my nails. Those poor, poor men are right this very minute oblivious to the Buffet From Hell they are to find themselves in front of tonight.
Humphrey seems to be oblivious to the fact that people are too polite to refuse his offers of a meal. My reputation as a culinary disaster zone has spread far and wide - possibly to Brazil. To date I haven't actually manslaughtered anyone with my cooking, but it's only a matter of time.
Humphrey also seems oblivious to the fact that I need at least a week to mentally and physically prepare for any meals out of the ordinary, not three hours prior.
Right now I feel like serving Humphrey a steaming stew of his own tongue. Damn Men!
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Christmas Insanity
The past couple of weeks have been insanity on crack in this household.
The Things have been high on candy canes for about, oh, a month now. I'm waiting for the insulin downer. Should happen any day from December 26. I'm thinking of enroling them into the local methadone program with all the other three to nine-year-olds.
The Return of the Zombie Housewives has returned to all Kmarts and Big W's near you. In the toy aisles it's a total moshpit of body-odour, pram riding sugar junkies and the possible homicides (who knows WHAT could happen if you reach for the last Battle Blade or Trash Pack).
This is the time of the year when parents around the western hemisphere share many WTF moments. For example, what is with Trash Packs? It's kind of like a smurf renaissance but uglier. Hideous little plastic monsters in their own lime green bin. That's it. But the kids LOVE them and if you have any chance of being "with it" you've got to "have it". If Thing One doesn't get a Trash Pack for Christmas he will advertise for a new family. Landfill, that's the only word that springs to mind.
Speaking of new families, that is exactly what Thing One suggested we get Thing Two for Christmas. Nice.
A little spat over who gets the TV remote results in sibling trafficking.
Yes, I've got real charmers in this household.
Watching tele the other night (one of those classy neighbourhood dispute/hidden camera/thank-god-it's-not-me programs) and I said "Hey, is that person in the green top a man or a woman?"
"Woman," replied Thing One.
"Gahd. Looks like a man," said I.
"YOU look like a man," Thing One proclaimed.
"WHAaaaa?"
"You do."
Needless to say he is getting a new school uniform for Christmas.
On another occasion I was snuggling up to Thing Two on the couch:
"Are you going to look after Mummy when she gets old and demented?" I asked giving him a smooch.
"No," he replied.
I repeated the question thinking he must have surely misunderstood.
"No Mum," he said again.
"Why not?"
"Because you're not going to get old."
Ah bless. He is getting six Trash Packs for Christmas.
In other news The Madness is set to continue well into the next year. Actually, I will probably not see anyone except my Things and Humphrey (sometimes) for the next four years. (Great, does that mean I can grow my whiskers and live on Fruchocs?)
La Charlotta is going to Law School as of February. Yes, insane, I know.
I'm terrified, excited and feeling utterly ill about it all at the same time. Excited because I love a mental challenge, terrified because the workload is insane and ill because I'm wondering how I can continue being The Bestest Mother In All Christendom whilst learning about torts and contracts and terrified because, well, I don't like failing. So, I'm going to give it a crack or "suck it and see" as Humphrey so eloquently put it.
Wish me luck my lovelies. I'll be in an out and all around over the next couple of months and I want to wish all of you the Very Best Christmas In The History of The World. XXXXXXXXXXXX
The Things have been high on candy canes for about, oh, a month now. I'm waiting for the insulin downer. Should happen any day from December 26. I'm thinking of enroling them into the local methadone program with all the other three to nine-year-olds.
The Return of the Zombie Housewives has returned to all Kmarts and Big W's near you. In the toy aisles it's a total moshpit of body-odour, pram riding sugar junkies and the possible homicides (who knows WHAT could happen if you reach for the last Battle Blade or Trash Pack).
This is the time of the year when parents around the western hemisphere share many WTF moments. For example, what is with Trash Packs? It's kind of like a smurf renaissance but uglier. Hideous little plastic monsters in their own lime green bin. That's it. But the kids LOVE them and if you have any chance of being "with it" you've got to "have it". If Thing One doesn't get a Trash Pack for Christmas he will advertise for a new family. Landfill, that's the only word that springs to mind.
Speaking of new families, that is exactly what Thing One suggested we get Thing Two for Christmas. Nice.
A little spat over who gets the TV remote results in sibling trafficking.
Yes, I've got real charmers in this household.
Watching tele the other night (one of those classy neighbourhood dispute/hidden camera/thank-god-it's-not-me programs) and I said "Hey, is that person in the green top a man or a woman?"
"Woman," replied Thing One.
"Gahd. Looks like a man," said I.
"YOU look like a man," Thing One proclaimed.
"WHAaaaa?"
"You do."
Needless to say he is getting a new school uniform for Christmas.
On another occasion I was snuggling up to Thing Two on the couch:
"Are you going to look after Mummy when she gets old and demented?" I asked giving him a smooch.
"No," he replied.
I repeated the question thinking he must have surely misunderstood.
"No Mum," he said again.
"Why not?"
"Because you're not going to get old."
Ah bless. He is getting six Trash Packs for Christmas.
In other news The Madness is set to continue well into the next year. Actually, I will probably not see anyone except my Things and Humphrey (sometimes) for the next four years. (Great, does that mean I can grow my whiskers and live on Fruchocs?)
La Charlotta is going to Law School as of February. Yes, insane, I know.
I'm terrified, excited and feeling utterly ill about it all at the same time. Excited because I love a mental challenge, terrified because the workload is insane and ill because I'm wondering how I can continue being The Bestest Mother In All Christendom whilst learning about torts and contracts and terrified because, well, I don't like failing. So, I'm going to give it a crack or "suck it and see" as Humphrey so eloquently put it.
Wish me luck my lovelies. I'll be in an out and all around over the next couple of months and I want to wish all of you the Very Best Christmas In The History of The World. XXXXXXXXXXXX
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Apple Noses and A Fable
This Morning.
Me: "Bratley (aka Thing 2) why did you not eat your apple at school yesterday?"
Bratley: "I couldn't. It had a NOSE."
(Upon inspection said apple did indeed have a little wart thing on it. Thing 1 has it in his lunchbox today).
Last Night:
After at least an hour of asking, begging, pleading and then downright screaming like a banchee the Things finally decided that in the interests of living to see another day, they would go to bed.
After five minutes, from behind their bedroom door, I hear a screech and growl by Thing 1, followed by peals of laughter and hiccoughy giggles by Thing 2. This went on for a couple of minutes - so being nosey I decided to creep up to their door tocheck that they were ok eavesdrop - yeah, you know what they say about eavesdropping......
It went like this:
Thing 1: "No wait, wait. She goes like this; GROWWWWWWWLGETINTABEDRIGHTNOOOOOOWWWWYOUTWOOO" (gnashing of teeth for sound effects).
Thing2: (giggling) "Yeah, yeah, that's what she does" (guffaw).
Thing1: "No wait. It's more like BRATLEEEEYANDGRUNTLEEEEYGETYOURBUTTSINTOBEDNOW!HAVEYOUBRUSHEDYOURTEETH?????" (snorts with laughter at own fabulous sense of humour).
Thing 2: (obviously rolling around with mirth) "Butt. You just said BUTT!" (more giggling).
Thing 1: (sounds like he's doing an Incredible Hulk impression) "ROOOOOOOOOOOARRRRRGETINTOBEDGROWLLLL." Then in normal voice,
"Oh, what about when she talks to Dad, it's like (insert galah screech) "HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUMPPPHREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECOMEANDDEALWITHYOURKIDS!"
Thing 2: (choking with laughter) "Yeah, and BUTT CHEEKS."
So, it's official, my children think I'm a fishwife.
I'm still giggling though.
(And no, Bratley and Gruntley are definitely not the names bestowed upon Things 1 and 2, their real names are much worse).
Me: "Bratley (aka Thing 2) why did you not eat your apple at school yesterday?"
Bratley: "I couldn't. It had a NOSE."
(Upon inspection said apple did indeed have a little wart thing on it. Thing 1 has it in his lunchbox today).
Last Night:
After at least an hour of asking, begging, pleading and then downright screaming like a banchee the Things finally decided that in the interests of living to see another day, they would go to bed.
After five minutes, from behind their bedroom door, I hear a screech and growl by Thing 1, followed by peals of laughter and hiccoughy giggles by Thing 2. This went on for a couple of minutes - so being nosey I decided to creep up to their door to
It went like this:
Thing 1: "No wait, wait. She goes like this; GROWWWWWWWLGETINTABEDRIGHTNOOOOOOWWWWYOUTWOOO" (gnashing of teeth for sound effects).
Thing2: (giggling) "Yeah, yeah, that's what she does" (guffaw).
Thing1: "No wait. It's more like BRATLEEEEYANDGRUNTLEEEEYGETYOURBUTTSINTOBEDNOW!HAVEYOUBRUSHEDYOURTEETH?????" (snorts with laughter at own fabulous sense of humour).
Thing 2: (obviously rolling around with mirth) "Butt. You just said BUTT!" (more giggling).
Thing 1: (sounds like he's doing an Incredible Hulk impression) "ROOOOOOOOOOOARRRRRGETINTOBEDGROWLLLL." Then in normal voice,
"Oh, what about when she talks to Dad, it's like (insert galah screech) "HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUMPPPHREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECOMEANDDEALWITHYOURKIDS!"
Thing 2: (choking with laughter) "Yeah, and BUTT CHEEKS."
So, it's official, my children think I'm a fishwife.
I'm still giggling though.
(And no, Bratley and Gruntley are definitely not the names bestowed upon Things 1 and 2, their real names are much worse).
The First....In So Many Ways
My eldest son has been incredibly upbeat of late, kind of freakishly so. He comes home in the afternoon, flicks on the ipod and grinds, hip swivels and thrusts his way through all manner of music. Today was no different.... music on, grind, thrust, swivel, air punch.....
Then he sits down and looks kind of pensive.
"Mum?"
"Yes."
"I've got something to tell you....." Right about now all SORTS of things begin to run amok in my brain.
"Yes Gruntley, what is it."
"I'm in looove."
"Oh. That's nice dear. I'm sure she's a lovely girl."
"Oh man, she's HOT."
"No, hot is not a nice word. You say she is great fun and pretty."
"Nup. She's HOT."
sigh. "That's nice dear."
"Mum?"
"Yes."
"Do you think she'll fit in?"
"Pardon?"
"With the family I mean. Do you think she'll fit in, when we get married?"
*blink*
He is 9 years old.
Then he sits down and looks kind of pensive.
"Mum?"
"Yes."
"I've got something to tell you....." Right about now all SORTS of things begin to run amok in my brain.
"Yes Gruntley, what is it."
"I'm in looove."
"Oh. That's nice dear. I'm sure she's a lovely girl."
"Oh man, she's HOT."
"No, hot is not a nice word. You say she is great fun and pretty."
"Nup. She's HOT."
sigh. "That's nice dear."
"Mum?"
"Yes."
"Do you think she'll fit in?"
"Pardon?"
"With the family I mean. Do you think she'll fit in, when we get married?"
*blink*
He is 9 years old.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
I Once Had a Nightmare.....
Sometimes....no, wait...MOST of the time it would be prudent for me to keep my mouth shut....except:
When I think "Oh, it would be bad to have a flat tyre all the way out here..." - BANG! dead tyre - a bazillion miles from anywhere, in temperatures that would melt lead, I'm wearing white linen and the wheel nuts are welded on.
or
When I'm driving way too fast through thick scrub and I think "Mmmm, possibly shouldn't be driving this fast in case a kangaroo jumps ou......" - BANG! - a very unhappy/possibly mortally wounded furry animal who may have to be assisted into the hereafter by a furry-animal-loving-pacifist.
However, if I actually verbalise these thoughts to Humphrey or whoever else may be white-knuckling it with me they DON'T HAPPEN!
Except today.
One of our jillaroos drove into town, oestensibly for a medical check of her infected wisdom teeth. It is shearing time at Casa Humphrica, so of course jackaroos, musterers, yard staff and working dogs put their orders in whenever someone goes to town. Whether its beer, tinned spaghetti, kibble or pipeline parts, there is always a list as long as your arm.
This jillaroo is a lovely soul. Intelligent, kind and a real worker, so I said "When you finish your doctor's appointment just come back here (to The Squat) and put your feet up - I'll do the shopping and fetching for the men," (God, I NEVER say that - ordinarily).
A couple of hours later my car's back axels are spraying sparks all over the road - but I've done the job. Now all we have to do is load the cargo into her ute (or the pick-up for you northern Americans).
She backs up my slightly inclined driveway, hauls on the handbrake and jumps out to help me, talking about some person she knew in a former life whose car ended up on the other side of the road doing just this thing.
I laughed, thought "I hope those brakes work" and turned around saying "Yeah, worst nightmare if the brakes let go....."
I pick up a heavy box, turn around and .............where's the....
The ute is speeding down the drive, Jillaroo's legs are scissoring out of the passenger door and she's letting out little peeping screams....like a baby bird.
My hand flies to my mouth (I'm good in a crisis) as I watch the car cross the busy road and head straight for my neighbour's garage door. Jillaroo deftly turns the steering wheel, turns the ute onto the side walk and it continues careening towards a stobie pole. Her hand-pumping the brake pedal finally works and the ute comes to a halt.
I burst out laughing (I'm so good in a crisis). The poor girl giggles hysterically in return and stutters...." I couldn't......get....a dent....in Todd's ....ute...."
Me: "That was the funniest thing I've ever seen!!!" ('cause I'm great and tactful in a crisis).
How that ute didn't plough straight into another car - or the neighbour's garage - is a miracle.
We thought it best to celebrate -
with a stiff tequila.
When I think "Oh, it would be bad to have a flat tyre all the way out here..." - BANG! dead tyre - a bazillion miles from anywhere, in temperatures that would melt lead, I'm wearing white linen and the wheel nuts are welded on.
or
When I'm driving way too fast through thick scrub and I think "Mmmm, possibly shouldn't be driving this fast in case a kangaroo jumps ou......" - BANG! - a very unhappy/possibly mortally wounded furry animal who may have to be assisted into the hereafter by a furry-animal-loving-pacifist.
However, if I actually verbalise these thoughts to Humphrey or whoever else may be white-knuckling it with me they DON'T HAPPEN!
Except today.
One of our jillaroos drove into town, oestensibly for a medical check of her infected wisdom teeth. It is shearing time at Casa Humphrica, so of course jackaroos, musterers, yard staff and working dogs put their orders in whenever someone goes to town. Whether its beer, tinned spaghetti, kibble or pipeline parts, there is always a list as long as your arm.
This jillaroo is a lovely soul. Intelligent, kind and a real worker, so I said "When you finish your doctor's appointment just come back here (to The Squat) and put your feet up - I'll do the shopping and fetching for the men," (God, I NEVER say that - ordinarily).
A couple of hours later my car's back axels are spraying sparks all over the road - but I've done the job. Now all we have to do is load the cargo into her ute (or the pick-up for you northern Americans).
She backs up my slightly inclined driveway, hauls on the handbrake and jumps out to help me, talking about some person she knew in a former life whose car ended up on the other side of the road doing just this thing.
I laughed, thought "I hope those brakes work" and turned around saying "Yeah, worst nightmare if the brakes let go....."
I pick up a heavy box, turn around and .............where's the....
The ute is speeding down the drive, Jillaroo's legs are scissoring out of the passenger door and she's letting out little peeping screams....like a baby bird.
My hand flies to my mouth (I'm good in a crisis) as I watch the car cross the busy road and head straight for my neighbour's garage door. Jillaroo deftly turns the steering wheel, turns the ute onto the side walk and it continues careening towards a stobie pole. Her hand-pumping the brake pedal finally works and the ute comes to a halt.
I burst out laughing (I'm so good in a crisis). The poor girl giggles hysterically in return and stutters...." I couldn't......get....a dent....in Todd's ....ute...."
Me: "That was the funniest thing I've ever seen!!!" ('cause I'm great and tactful in a crisis).
How that ute didn't plough straight into another car - or the neighbour's garage - is a miracle.
We thought it best to celebrate -
with a stiff tequila.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
GroundhogDayGroundhogDayGroundhogDayGroundhogDayGroundHogDay
Sunday means pack up and haul ourselves back into town after a weekend of fun on the farm.
Meh.
For those of you not intimately acquainted, my husband Humphrey is a shepherd.
He lives on a bit of a plot about ninety hundred miles from everywhere and tends his sheep. The Things and I lived out there too until our youngest was diagnosed with autism and we decided that in the best interests of him not turning into a strange hermit during his teens it would be prudent to get him into school - where he can learn more bad habits and anti social behaviours from other children.
The plot is too far out of town to commute daily so we squat in a derelict cottage during the week and hitch rides home on any passing camel trains each Friday.
Ninety percent of the time this arrangement works perfectly well. The Things and I get to spend a bit of time with Humphrey, and Humphrey gets his bathrooms cleaned, his laundry done and enough mutton roasted to keep him in sandwiches for a week. Most of the time I don't mind slapping around a bit of Jaysol and using a chisel to remove soap scum and man grease from the shower cubicle, but filthy toilets just. make. me. yeeeeesh.
How in the name of Sweet Baby Jesus this man manages to crud up two toilets in one week is a mystery and horror worthy of Hitchcock. What to Expect When You're Expecting, the Post Toddler Years did not inform me that owning boys would make it necessary to don a hazchem suit in order to hose out the toilet every two days.
It has also come to my attention that since I moved out all manner of mammal and insect has moved in.
The back verandah has been chewed to the rafters by termites and mice are nesting in the ceiling insulation, behind the fridge, in the wall cavity and the laundry basket. Poison and traps are terribly effective, but Humphrey needs to remember to remove the bloated carcasses (and no Humphrey, plugging in the AmbiPur an hour before I'm due home does not mask the odour of slimey, decomposing mouse corpse).
The timbers on the back verandah are lurching precariously into next week and the guttering is guttering in name only. Humphrey doesn't seem to notice. Men just don't rate things like...oh I don't know....creative decor, secondary colours and having a rain-proof roof.
In fact if I suggested we leave the homestead and pitch a tent he would probably be perfectly happy, provided he could bring the satellite dish in order to watch the AFL grandfinals.
God love him.
Meh.
For those of you not intimately acquainted, my husband Humphrey is a shepherd.
He lives on a bit of a plot about ninety hundred miles from everywhere and tends his sheep. The Things and I lived out there too until our youngest was diagnosed with autism and we decided that in the best interests of him not turning into a strange hermit during his teens it would be prudent to get him into school - where he can learn more bad habits and anti social behaviours from other children.
The plot is too far out of town to commute daily so we squat in a derelict cottage during the week and hitch rides home on any passing camel trains each Friday.
Ninety percent of the time this arrangement works perfectly well. The Things and I get to spend a bit of time with Humphrey, and Humphrey gets his bathrooms cleaned, his laundry done and enough mutton roasted to keep him in sandwiches for a week. Most of the time I don't mind slapping around a bit of Jaysol and using a chisel to remove soap scum and man grease from the shower cubicle, but filthy toilets just. make. me. yeeeeesh.
How in the name of Sweet Baby Jesus this man manages to crud up two toilets in one week is a mystery and horror worthy of Hitchcock. What to Expect When You're Expecting, the Post Toddler Years did not inform me that owning boys would make it necessary to don a hazchem suit in order to hose out the toilet every two days.
It has also come to my attention that since I moved out all manner of mammal and insect has moved in.
The back verandah has been chewed to the rafters by termites and mice are nesting in the ceiling insulation, behind the fridge, in the wall cavity and the laundry basket. Poison and traps are terribly effective, but Humphrey needs to remember to remove the bloated carcasses (and no Humphrey, plugging in the AmbiPur an hour before I'm due home does not mask the odour of slimey, decomposing mouse corpse).
The timbers on the back verandah are lurching precariously into next week and the guttering is guttering in name only. Humphrey doesn't seem to notice. Men just don't rate things like...oh I don't know....creative decor, secondary colours and having a rain-proof roof.
In fact if I suggested we leave the homestead and pitch a tent he would probably be perfectly happy, provided he could bring the satellite dish in order to watch the AFL grandfinals.
God love him.
Child Discipline From The Book of Revelations
Today the Five Horsemen of the Apocalypse rode into the lives of my children.
The Gates of Hell unleashed all kinds of ugly from about 8.30am - coincidentally the same time that I fell over a cricket bat artfully tossed across a family thoroughfare and impaled my knee on a Transformer.
Whilst I truly do want to be a Mum who makes their home into one great Montessori experience .... pffft!
You know that saying ... the one where boys always grow up to marry someone who reminds them of their Mother? Well, if that's the case my boys are each going to bring home Big Hal the army drill sergeant.
Lately most exchanges between good self and progeny have been prefixed with;
"If I have to say it ONE MORE TIME....."
"ONNNE....TWOOOO......THR....THR....." (because by this time I've dived into a vat of moonshine and can't count past thr...)
"Where do dirty dishes live? No....not on the floor of the TV room...." (or under your bed, or next to the dog's bowl, or under the couch...)
or suffixed with....
"....right THAT'S IT!" (and they're thinking "oh yeah...that's WHAT???")
"...I'm telling your Father." (because I'm ineffectual).
"......Gahd...you kids drive me...CRAZYYYYYYY". (because I'm ineffectual and I like a bit of emotional blackmail).
or
"....you'll be the death of me." (because I like conjuring my long dead Irish ancestors, and a bit of emotional blackmail).
All the while I'm actually fantasizing about lobbying for legal suffocation.
The fact is, sigh, I'm just sick to the gills with having to remind the Things to do/or not do the same things each and every day of the year.....
Just last week, cleaning under Thing One's bed, I found a dust bunny the size of a dugong, petrified chop bones and a quivering Viet Cong.
Each morning:
"Gruntley, have you done your homework?"
"Bratley, where are your shoes?"
"Have you made your beds yet?"
"Eat your breakfast..."
"Gruntley, have you done your homework?"
"Bratley, where are your shoes?"
"Have you made your beds yet?
"Eat your breakfast..."
Eventually this discourse degenerates into...
"Gruntley...HOMEWORK."
"Bratley...SHOES."
"BEDS!"
"BREAKFAST!"
And ultimately......
"HOMEWORKSHOESBEDSBREEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAKKKKKKKKFAAAAAAAAAST!!!
By this time I am quite dextrously banging my head on the kitchen wall and setting up an intravenous drip of vodka.
After I drop them at school I head to the post office, for stamps.
I think one to each forehead and no return address will do the trick.
Then I reconsider.....
Later in the evening, after I've tripped over more Lego and stubbed my toe on Thomas The Tank Engine I quickly browse through ebay....then type:
"Two boys....aged...."
The Gates of Hell unleashed all kinds of ugly from about 8.30am - coincidentally the same time that I fell over a cricket bat artfully tossed across a family thoroughfare and impaled my knee on a Transformer.
Whilst I truly do want to be a Mum who makes their home into one great Montessori experience .... pffft!
You know that saying ... the one where boys always grow up to marry someone who reminds them of their Mother? Well, if that's the case my boys are each going to bring home Big Hal the army drill sergeant.
Lately most exchanges between good self and progeny have been prefixed with;
"If I have to say it ONE MORE TIME....."
"ONNNE....TWOOOO......THR....THR....." (because by this time I've dived into a vat of moonshine and can't count past thr...)
"Where do dirty dishes live? No....not on the floor of the TV room...." (or under your bed, or next to the dog's bowl, or under the couch...)
or suffixed with....
"....right THAT'S IT!" (and they're thinking "oh yeah...that's WHAT???")
"...I'm telling your Father." (because I'm ineffectual).
"......Gahd...you kids drive me...CRAZYYYYYYY". (because I'm ineffectual and I like a bit of emotional blackmail).
or
"....you'll be the death of me." (because I like conjuring my long dead Irish ancestors, and a bit of emotional blackmail).
All the while I'm actually fantasizing about lobbying for legal suffocation.
The fact is, sigh, I'm just sick to the gills with having to remind the Things to do/or not do the same things each and every day of the year.....
Just last week, cleaning under Thing One's bed, I found a dust bunny the size of a dugong, petrified chop bones and a quivering Viet Cong.
Each morning:
"Gruntley, have you done your homework?"
"Bratley, where are your shoes?"
"Have you made your beds yet?"
"Eat your breakfast..."
"Gruntley, have you done your homework?"
"Bratley, where are your shoes?"
"Have you made your beds yet?
"Eat your breakfast..."
Eventually this discourse degenerates into...
"Gruntley...HOMEWORK."
"Bratley...SHOES."
"BEDS!"
"BREAKFAST!"
And ultimately......
"HOMEWORKSHOESBEDSBREEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAKKKKKKKKFAAAAAAAAAST!!!
By this time I am quite dextrously banging my head on the kitchen wall and setting up an intravenous drip of vodka.
After I drop them at school I head to the post office, for stamps.
I think one to each forehead and no return address will do the trick.
Then I reconsider.....
Later in the evening, after I've tripped over more Lego and stubbed my toe on Thomas The Tank Engine I quickly browse through ebay....then type:
"Two boys....aged...."
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Could You Give Me A Hand With The Spike In My Buttocks?
You know those big round cacti that look like spikey pumpkins? Yeah, well Humphrey adopted one. He calls it our "naughty" chair. That's where I'm sitting. Right now. For Conduct Unbecoming. You know, about my last post....the Smurfs and their reproductive organs
The words "juvenile", "delinquent", "oh-my-God-what-if-Mum-reads-it", "limited-vocabulary", "humour-of-a-six-year-old-boy" and "lack of commonsense" made up most ofour his most recent exchange monologue, so I stand sit chastised chastened.
Apparently I'm a questionable role model to the Things and I need to "reconsider" my vernacular degeneration. Obviously I'm at risk of reverting back to my pond-slime type. (Damn O'Callaghan genes).
So I now kneel here before you....begging forgiveness and promising to never again use profane language gratuitously and/or in the same sentence as animated characters.
Before you start sending sympathy cards to my long-suffering husband......I know where you live.
"Whatwilltherelativesthink????"
The words "juvenile", "delinquent", "oh-my-God-what-if-Mum-reads-it", "limited-vocabulary", "humour-of-a-six-year-old-boy" and "lack of commonsense" made up most of
Apparently I'm a questionable role model to the Things and I need to "reconsider" my vernacular degeneration. Obviously I'm at risk of reverting back to my pond-slime type. (Damn O'Callaghan genes).
So I now kneel here before you....begging forgiveness and promising to never again use profane language gratuitously and/or in the same sentence as animated characters.
Before you start sending sympathy cards to my long-suffering husband......I know where you live.
"Whatwilltherelativesthink????"
Bet You've Never Been In a Smurf Vagina
It would seem that some of us (me) are destined never to grow up....to be Real Ladies. I do try to have some decorum just like The Muminator taught me, at least in public, but unfortunately at the best of times my mental and emotional age is somewhere around, oh, I don't know.... about twelve. Mix me with alcohol and there is a whole lot of three-year-old happening. This might be amusing, if I was three. Of course I find myself hugely amusing, especially if I'm holding my third glass of champagne and drunken strawberries. Others? Well, maybe not so much.
Case in point: Had a bit of a girlie Christmas get-together a couple of nights ago at a lovely local establishment (their crispy-skinned salmon is to DIE for). We had just quaffed the first in a long line of beverages and were making our way back to the dining room with the female owner of the establishment. This journey involves a stroll down a hallway that takes the term wall-to-wall carpeting to a new and literal level. Bright red carpet blankets the floors and runs halfway up the walls. The walls and (possibly) the ceiling are covered in electric blue carpet.
"Oh my God,' I exclaimed in my drunken extremely loud stage whisper, "This is like being in a giant VAGINA!"
My friend, who is equally as inept at speaking quietly, replied, "Yeah, a big SMURF vagina!!"
We fell about laughing - almost high-fiving our comedic genius.......until we saw the disapproval of our host. Ahem.
Friend (lets call her Gladys) and I were the first to arrive. In the intimate dining room a long table festooned with Christmas decorations awaited us.
It was then that I saw them.....
There, tucked away in the only remaining space was a tiny table, flanked by two diners.....two MALE diners. These two poor innocents had now idea that their worst dining nightmare was about to descend upon them.....a room stuffed to the gills with drunken women. What do you call a group of women.....is it a "gaggle", no, that's geese......a flock? No. Oh, I know....a BITCH ....a bitch of women.....hell yeah! But to these two man diners I'm sure we were simply a "nightmare" of women.
Following the air-kissing (because we are so VERY Continental), and making approving clucking sounds about outfits (that shade of cerise just REALLY suits you) and so on the table began to fill. I needed to bring out my ear trumpet because I just couldn't hear anything above the babble. The man-diners, with expressions of abject terror, scurried away with their plates to eat....oh, I don't know, under the stairs or something....anything to be away from the squawks, squeals, snorts and gaggling of our private barnyard.
For me, an evening of lip-reading ensued and cemented my plans to learn sign language.
Conversation began intelligently enough....with politics: "Oh no, I just don't trust him, his eyes are too close together," and quickly degenerated to potty-mouth "Male flatulence is scientifically proven to be more olfactorily toxic because.....because....."
By the end of the night the quiet girl sitting next to me had left - because I think she was sick of my snorting and had to find an after-hours chiropractor due to my back-slapping her everytime I heard something funny. We had solved the Global Financial Crisis with muffins (don't ask, I can't remember) and solved the mystery of Lady Gaga's popularity (haven't a CLUE).
Was kindly dropped home by Gladys' lovely husband at a terribly reasonable hour, only to find Humphrey in one of his coma-sleeps (from which he is usually only roused with an air-horn at three paces). Fifteen minutes of me hammering the door-bell and swearing at the potplant finally woke the sleeping bear and had me sober enough to ...... I don't know.....embroider or something.
So that, my cherubs, is a typical night-out with the gals! (Not ladies).
Case in point: Had a bit of a girlie Christmas get-together a couple of nights ago at a lovely local establishment (their crispy-skinned salmon is to DIE for). We had just quaffed the first in a long line of beverages and were making our way back to the dining room with the female owner of the establishment. This journey involves a stroll down a hallway that takes the term wall-to-wall carpeting to a new and literal level. Bright red carpet blankets the floors and runs halfway up the walls. The walls and (possibly) the ceiling are covered in electric blue carpet.
"Oh my God,' I exclaimed in my drunken extremely loud stage whisper, "This is like being in a giant VAGINA!"
My friend, who is equally as inept at speaking quietly, replied, "Yeah, a big SMURF vagina!!"
We fell about laughing - almost high-fiving our comedic genius.......until we saw the disapproval of our host. Ahem.
Friend (lets call her Gladys) and I were the first to arrive. In the intimate dining room a long table festooned with Christmas decorations awaited us.
It was then that I saw them.....
There, tucked away in the only remaining space was a tiny table, flanked by two diners.....two MALE diners. These two poor innocents had now idea that their worst dining nightmare was about to descend upon them.....a room stuffed to the gills with drunken women. What do you call a group of women.....is it a "gaggle", no, that's geese......a flock? No. Oh, I know....a BITCH ....a bitch of women.....hell yeah! But to these two man diners I'm sure we were simply a "nightmare" of women.
Following the air-kissing (because we are so VERY Continental), and making approving clucking sounds about outfits (that shade of cerise just REALLY suits you) and so on the table began to fill. I needed to bring out my ear trumpet because I just couldn't hear anything above the babble. The man-diners, with expressions of abject terror, scurried away with their plates to eat....oh, I don't know, under the stairs or something....anything to be away from the squawks, squeals, snorts and gaggling of our private barnyard.
For me, an evening of lip-reading ensued and cemented my plans to learn sign language.
Conversation began intelligently enough....with politics: "Oh no, I just don't trust him, his eyes are too close together," and quickly degenerated to potty-mouth "Male flatulence is scientifically proven to be more olfactorily toxic because.....because....."
By the end of the night the quiet girl sitting next to me had left - because I think she was sick of my snorting and had to find an after-hours chiropractor due to my back-slapping her everytime I heard something funny. We had solved the Global Financial Crisis with muffins (don't ask, I can't remember) and solved the mystery of Lady Gaga's popularity (haven't a CLUE).
Was kindly dropped home by Gladys' lovely husband at a terribly reasonable hour, only to find Humphrey in one of his coma-sleeps (from which he is usually only roused with an air-horn at three paces). Fifteen minutes of me hammering the door-bell and swearing at the potplant finally woke the sleeping bear and had me sober enough to ...... I don't know.....embroider or something.
So that, my cherubs, is a typical night-out with the gals! (Not ladies).
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
The Calling
In the wee hours this morning I was brutally torn from my slumber by......The Calling....
"Muuuuuuuuuummmmmmm!"
I reach over to George Clooney's shirt and.......
"Muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuum!"
rip it open....buttons fly across the room..............
"MUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUM!"
Oh my God, my child is being murdered!!!
Awake now....."What? Whatwhatwhatwhat?"
(this better be good 'cause I probably won't be able to channel George when I go back to sleep).
"Bratley is being sick......." (no, that's not his real name - except at three o'clock in the morning).
"Oh gross. Muuuuum, Bratley is being sick ALL OVER THE BEDROOM!!"
I stumble into the lair whereThing 1 and Thing 2 nest and am promptly slapped in the face with the acrid odour of vomit. I switch on the light and then proceed to slip on masticated lamb chop and chocolate pudding. Poor kid tried to make it to the bathroom, but got as far as swinging his legs over the edge of his bed. It was a real Power Vomit. We're talking splash marks on four walls and the window blinds. I trapse into the kitchen to get the paper towel and an adequate vomit recepticle....leaving a trail of slimey germesticated vomitty footprints.
"It's ok baby," I coo, "You can't help being sick. Did you get it on your sheets?" (please god, not the sheets, I only changed them yesterday morning...nothing like having to change sheets at three in the morning with a shivery sick child forlornly watching.)
Sheets are clear, God bless the considerate invalid.
With lavender and eucalyptus oil liberally sprayed, mopped and high-pressure hosed throughout the room and Bratley proclaiming he felt "all better now" I shuffle back to bed to sleep. With one eye open and ear tuned to flea farts. George has vacated for the evening.
Perhaps he'll come back tomorrow.
"Muuuuuuuuuummmmmmm!"
I reach over to George Clooney's shirt and.......
"Muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuum!"
rip it open....buttons fly across the room..............
"MUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUM!"
Oh my God, my child is being murdered!!!
Awake now....."What? Whatwhatwhatwhat?"
(this better be good 'cause I probably won't be able to channel George when I go back to sleep).
"Bratley is being sick......." (no, that's not his real name - except at three o'clock in the morning).
"Oh gross. Muuuuum, Bratley is being sick ALL OVER THE BEDROOM!!"
I stumble into the lair whereThing 1 and Thing 2 nest and am promptly slapped in the face with the acrid odour of vomit. I switch on the light and then proceed to slip on masticated lamb chop and chocolate pudding. Poor kid tried to make it to the bathroom, but got as far as swinging his legs over the edge of his bed. It was a real Power Vomit. We're talking splash marks on four walls and the window blinds. I trapse into the kitchen to get the paper towel and an adequate vomit recepticle....leaving a trail of slimey germesticated vomitty footprints.
"It's ok baby," I coo, "You can't help being sick. Did you get it on your sheets?" (please god, not the sheets, I only changed them yesterday morning...nothing like having to change sheets at three in the morning with a shivery sick child forlornly watching.)
Sheets are clear, God bless the considerate invalid.
With lavender and eucalyptus oil liberally sprayed, mopped and high-pressure hosed throughout the room and Bratley proclaiming he felt "all better now" I shuffle back to bed to sleep. With one eye open and ear tuned to flea farts. George has vacated for the evening.
Perhaps he'll come back tomorrow.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Diamonds, Fat Farms and Financial Armageddon
For my up-and-coming 26th birthday (ahem) I've asked Humphrey to send me to a fat farm. (No, nothing so altruistic as rendering tallow so that children in third world countries can have lamps by which to study at night) just a simple wire-the-jaw-shut-bootcamp type fat farm. (Actually, whilst I was thinking along the lines of a tropical getaway full of well-oiled Norsemen and Bircher Museli Masterchefs, Humphrey was thinking more of the one-way-ticket-to-a-Pacific-atoll accompanied by a packet of protein bars).
Ah bless the Humphster he is a fiscally responsible individual (goddam tightarse). Many of you more prudent readers are probably nodding in agreeance that Humphrey sensible surgically sewed his wallet shut (years ago) in preparation for the financial Armageddon I intend to wreak on it in the coming weeks.... coming up to Christmas and all.
Sitting at the dinner table the other day we were discussing what would be a good present for Things One and Two. In their minds anything that doesn't involve books or underpants or education in any way shape or form is a good present. In fact anything that is plastic, has lights, sabres, lasers, is able to fly, shoot or do homework is a good present. So here lies my dilemma. I pretty much leave my kids to their own devices throughout the year. I might half-heartedly throw a cricket/basket/foot ball everyday now and then or even pretend to be the Fat Controller to Thing Two's Thomas The Tank Engine regularly once or twice (actually I'm sure the boys secretly call me the Fat Controller all the time).....and I think I need to be more, you know, involved. Two girlfriends of mine are probably the (angels singing and trumpetting fanfare) BEST MOTHERS OF ALL TIME - and I feel hopelessly inadequate in their immaculate homes watching them gently deal with whiney kids and set up face-painting and personal discos for their cherubs. I just can't be fagged. If my kids whine I snap at them and threaten to leave them in their room until cockroaches start to look appetising; if they say they're bored I tell them I'll give you bored now get your arses outside and kick a ball, catch a butterfly or something. So I'm a bad Mum. Social services are probably on their way over right now.
(Actually I do feel slightly better since I met Sandra over at Absolutely Narcissism. She is possibly my twin - apart from the fact she has ripped abs and is possibly the best blogger in all Christendom. Sandra and I have similar attitudes to everything, except exercise, but that's another story.....head on over and give her a visit, http://www.absolutelynarcissism.co/ she pays the shyte out of her husband....just like me!).
Anyway ADHD girl, back on track.....oooh shiny thing....stop it!! Ok, Christmas presents. The Responsible Parent in me wants to give them e.d.u.c.a.t.i.o.n.a.l. toys...you know things that will stimulate the correct hemispheres and have them chatting about quantum mechanics. The Imbecile Parent wants to give them fun things that have lights, sabres, guns and shiny bits - because I'm such a shyte mother 90% of the time and get really impatient when they're reading and can't sound out the word r.a.b.b.i.t. after reading it six times on previous pages. I think we'll compromise and get them something like a ping-pong table - you know, sport, coordination blah blah.
So I asked Humphrey what he wanted, thinking he would look at me with a glint in his eye and say..."Just you baby, with a big satin ribbon around (what was) your waist". But no. I received the same reply as last year, and the year before that, and the year before that;
"Oh, just something chromey and tooley that has the word SnapOn embossed on it."
Oh.........silence.......I'm waiting for him to say "What do you want for Christmas my gorgeous love goddess?"....but instead I get.......silence......
I hate silence during conversations.....it forces me to blurt out things just to, you know, fill the void.......
"OK, what do I want for Christmas? Why thanks for asking Humphrey....."
Before I get to finish Humphrey sighs and in a completely defeated tone says, "I know, I know.....you want something I just can't afford..."
"We'll don't you want to know what it is?"
He just looks at me with huge puppy eyes like I'm about to beat him with my studded truncheon (again).
I just don't have the heart to do it to him so I just sigh and say, "Well, I guess I'm going to buy my own present again this year."
For crying out loud it's not like I unwrap a new house every Christmas, or even a new car......I would like that little forlorn boat that I see when I cross the bridge each morning.....not that I can sail.
I never claimed to be sensible.
Perhaps just a little trinket....a shiny little something....that rhymes with "triamond"
Ah bless the Humphster he is a fiscally responsible individual (goddam tightarse). Many of you more prudent readers are probably nodding in agreeance that Humphrey sensible surgically sewed his wallet shut (years ago) in preparation for the financial Armageddon I intend to wreak on it in the coming weeks.... coming up to Christmas and all.
Sitting at the dinner table the other day we were discussing what would be a good present for Things One and Two. In their minds anything that doesn't involve books or underpants or education in any way shape or form is a good present. In fact anything that is plastic, has lights, sabres, lasers, is able to fly, shoot or do homework is a good present. So here lies my dilemma. I pretty much leave my kids to their own devices throughout the year. I might half-heartedly throw a cricket/basket/foot ball every
(Actually I do feel slightly better since I met Sandra over at Absolutely Narcissism. She is possibly my twin - apart from the fact she has ripped abs and is possibly the best blogger in all Christendom. Sandra and I have similar attitudes to everything, except exercise, but that's another story.....head on over and give her a visit, http://www.absolutelynarcissism.co/ she pays the shyte out of her husband....just like me!).
Anyway ADHD girl, back on track.....oooh shiny thing....stop it!! Ok, Christmas presents. The Responsible Parent in me wants to give them e.d.u.c.a.t.i.o.n.a.l. toys...you know things that will stimulate the correct hemispheres and have them chatting about quantum mechanics. The Imbecile Parent wants to give them fun things that have lights, sabres, guns and shiny bits - because I'm such a shyte mother 90% of the time and get really impatient when they're reading and can't sound out the word r.a.b.b.i.t. after reading it six times on previous pages. I think we'll compromise and get them something like a ping-pong table - you know, sport, coordination blah blah.
So I asked Humphrey what he wanted, thinking he would look at me with a glint in his eye and say..."Just you baby, with a big satin ribbon around (what was) your waist". But no. I received the same reply as last year, and the year before that, and the year before that;
"Oh, just something chromey and tooley that has the word SnapOn embossed on it."
Oh.........silence.......I'm waiting for him to say "What do you want for Christmas my gorgeous love goddess?"....but instead I get.......silence......
I hate silence during conversations.....it forces me to blurt out things just to, you know, fill the void.......
"OK, what do I want for Christmas? Why thanks for asking Humphrey....."
Before I get to finish Humphrey sighs and in a completely defeated tone says, "I know, I know.....you want something I just can't afford..."
"We'll don't you want to know what it is?"
He just looks at me with huge puppy eyes like I'm about to beat him with my studded truncheon (again).
I just don't have the heart to do it to him so I just sigh and say, "Well, I guess I'm going to buy my own present again this year."
For crying out loud it's not like I unwrap a new house every Christmas, or even a new car......I would like that little forlorn boat that I see when I cross the bridge each morning.....not that I can sail.
I never claimed to be sensible.
Perhaps just a little trinket....a shiny little something....that rhymes with "triamond"
Friday, November 18, 2011
A Story of The Night
I spend an extraordinary amount of time staring at the ceiling - at two o'clock in the morning.
Falling over my eye bags every morning reminds me that this nocturnal activity is possibly not healthy. There appears to be no antecedent to this behaviour as even the street louts who like to drink cans of bourbon on my front fence are usually in bed by two, or have stumbled onto someone else's front lawn for a bit of shut-eye. The hoons in their lowered suped-up nitro-fuelled muscled-up penis substitutes have gone from doing circlework at the intersection outside to laying rubber on the highway, or smoking crack. The residual trash have taken their domestic disputes from the street to behind their trailer doors. So all is quiet. And yet, I'm awake, watching shadows ebb and flow across the ceiling rose.
I rise to check the children as I'm certain that my wakefullness must be because my sleeping children have been spirited away by kidnappers. Or perhaps one of them has stopped breathing. I must get some perverse kick out of frightening myself. Humphrey just thinks I'm weird.
All is well. Their room is quiet and close. They sleep, open-mouthed, with their limbs flung asunder and bedclothes hither and thither. I kiss their warm little faces and wonder if it is possible to infuse them with a sense of love and well-being with each dry little peck. I also become acutely aware that these precious little people are only mine for a short time and I don't want to miss a minute of their lives. This makes me want to cry. Instead I shuffle into the kitchen and flick on the kettle. My eyes scunch up in protest at the bright fluorescent lights. I look like Gollum's mother.
Stirring the decaf I wait for the computer to boot. At least ebay is awake at this hour of the morning. I check emails and half-heartedly spy on facebook. I shuffle back to my bed. One side of it remains unrumpled. I realise I am lonely, missing that great warm lump of Humphrey - who should be in my bed each night, but for reasons beyond our control is not. It could be worse, I say to myself. Yes, it could be much worse. I pick up my cheap supermarket reading glasses. One long-broken arm waggles uselessly, but I deftly flick it up over my ear. We have an understanding. I won't sit on them again, provided the arm doesn't completely separate from the rest of the frame. Settling back into a pile of pillows I smooth open a tattered page of David Copperfield. It has been read many times, but still the characters can be conjured into my bedroom - the dumpy, apple-cheeked Peggotty, ominous Murdstone and pathetic Clara whom I'd like to pummel with a steak tenderiser. It is 3am. Should I make school sandwiches or should I try to sleep? Perhaps I should go and clean behind the washing machine. Have been meaning to do that for some time. I decide instead to settle David Copperfield on the bedside table, switch off the light and roll over. I run my hands over the cool smooth sheets that should be warm with Humphrey....and wait for sleep.
Falling over my eye bags every morning reminds me that this nocturnal activity is possibly not healthy. There appears to be no antecedent to this behaviour as even the street louts who like to drink cans of bourbon on my front fence are usually in bed by two, or have stumbled onto someone else's front lawn for a bit of shut-eye. The hoons in their lowered suped-up nitro-fuelled muscled-up penis substitutes have gone from doing circlework at the intersection outside to laying rubber on the highway, or smoking crack. The residual trash have taken their domestic disputes from the street to behind their trailer doors. So all is quiet. And yet, I'm awake, watching shadows ebb and flow across the ceiling rose.
I rise to check the children as I'm certain that my wakefullness must be because my sleeping children have been spirited away by kidnappers. Or perhaps one of them has stopped breathing. I must get some perverse kick out of frightening myself. Humphrey just thinks I'm weird.
All is well. Their room is quiet and close. They sleep, open-mouthed, with their limbs flung asunder and bedclothes hither and thither. I kiss their warm little faces and wonder if it is possible to infuse them with a sense of love and well-being with each dry little peck. I also become acutely aware that these precious little people are only mine for a short time and I don't want to miss a minute of their lives. This makes me want to cry. Instead I shuffle into the kitchen and flick on the kettle. My eyes scunch up in protest at the bright fluorescent lights. I look like Gollum's mother.
Stirring the decaf I wait for the computer to boot. At least ebay is awake at this hour of the morning. I check emails and half-heartedly spy on facebook. I shuffle back to my bed. One side of it remains unrumpled. I realise I am lonely, missing that great warm lump of Humphrey - who should be in my bed each night, but for reasons beyond our control is not. It could be worse, I say to myself. Yes, it could be much worse. I pick up my cheap supermarket reading glasses. One long-broken arm waggles uselessly, but I deftly flick it up over my ear. We have an understanding. I won't sit on them again, provided the arm doesn't completely separate from the rest of the frame. Settling back into a pile of pillows I smooth open a tattered page of David Copperfield. It has been read many times, but still the characters can be conjured into my bedroom - the dumpy, apple-cheeked Peggotty, ominous Murdstone and pathetic Clara whom I'd like to pummel with a steak tenderiser. It is 3am. Should I make school sandwiches or should I try to sleep? Perhaps I should go and clean behind the washing machine. Have been meaning to do that for some time. I decide instead to settle David Copperfield on the bedside table, switch off the light and roll over. I run my hands over the cool smooth sheets that should be warm with Humphrey....and wait for sleep.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Queen of Blurgh
Urgh. Blocked nose, sore throat, thumping head and tired. No, it's not conjugal duty time, its my man cold. I don't get the sniffles, I get full-blown ebola-flu. It is always worse when its hot outside. Why is it that nasty little biological warfare bombs explode during summer? It's so damn hot up here that even cockroaches curl up their creepy little raspy legs, but not our friendly neighbourhood ebola-flu. It lurks on library door handles and shopping trolleys waiting to make your mucous membranes its cosy new home. To make matters even more inconvenient the Charlotta sat an exam today. sigh. wish. me. luck.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Kim Kardashian, Seventy Angry Lawyers Weilding Seventy Breached Contracts and The Starving Children in Africa.
Sometimes after reading the news headlines I fold myself into the foetal position and weep.
No, I'm not talking about the impending financial collapse of the European Union and the fact that by 2014 we will all be living in dumpsters and selling our children as spare parts. My latest news-induced physical and emotional implosion happened after I heard the tragic news of Kim Kardashian's impending divorce.
On my knees arms beseeching the heavens I wailed "Where, oh where did the love go?"
All that effort...... THREE wedding dresses (because when you're really in love one is not enough)....three hundred and seventy six carat diamond rings (again, he loved her three hundred and seventy six times more than the average guy), .eleventy million dollars for photographic rights and the blinding, radiant all encompassing LOVE....gone....just...gone.
I ...just.....can't....believe....sob.. i...it's.....over....blub...sniffle.
How our Armenian princess gets through the day after this personal armageddon is beyond me How she drags herself out of her swag each morning to administer food and medicine to the starving Sudanese....How she squares up and pokes her finger into collective chest of the UN about war crimes in Sri Lanka....How she works in soup kitchens on Hollywood Boulevard....How she personally oversees the health and wellbeing of disabled Romanian orphans. All of this.....and her marriage has crumbled.....it was all just. too. much.
Huh?
What's that? She actually doesn't do anything? ANYTHING?
Well what's she doing splashed all over the media all the time? Of course it's a bloody good question.....
She sells handbags? Handbags? And clothes? Oh.
You are kidding......she actually charged people who had already bought her handbags $160 to get an autograph......in Australia? She wasn't mobbed or spattered with rotten tomatoes?
But what about the starvi......
Nevermind.
Humans are stupid. I want to be a dog.
No, I'm not talking about the impending financial collapse of the European Union and the fact that by 2014 we will all be living in dumpsters and selling our children as spare parts. My latest news-induced physical and emotional implosion happened after I heard the tragic news of Kim Kardashian's impending divorce.
On my knees arms beseeching the heavens I wailed "Where, oh where did the love go?"
All that effort...... THREE wedding dresses (because when you're really in love one is not enough)....three hundred and seventy six carat diamond rings (again, he loved her three hundred and seventy six times more than the average guy), .
I ...just.....can't....believe....sob.. i...it's.....over....blub...sniffle.
How our Armenian princess gets through the day after this personal armageddon is beyond me How she drags herself out of her swag each morning to administer food and medicine to the starving Sudanese....How she squares up and pokes her finger into collective chest of the UN about war crimes in Sri Lanka....How she works in soup kitchens on Hollywood Boulevard....How she personally oversees the health and wellbeing of disabled Romanian orphans. All of this.....and her marriage has crumbled.....it was all just. too. much.
Huh?
What's that? She actually doesn't do anything? ANYTHING?
Well what's she doing splashed all over the media all the time? Of course it's a bloody good question.....
She sells handbags? Handbags? And clothes? Oh.
You are kidding......she actually charged people who had already bought her handbags $160 to get an autograph......in Australia? She wasn't mobbed or spattered with rotten tomatoes?
But what about the starvi......
Nevermind.
Humans are stupid. I want to be a dog.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
When a Red Ribbon is Just a Red Ribbon and Not a Metaphor for Psycho-sexual Mind Games
Hell-oooooooooo! Phew, I'm finally back after being whisked away by George Clooney for three months in Sodom and Gommorah. (Don't even know if I spelled tha' proper-loike).
Or I could have had my head stuffed so far up a criminalistics textbook that when I emerged I found my children have left home, I've three grandchildren, my husband has run off with a one-legged rastafarian mandolin player and I live within a fortress of newspapers - and ninety seven cats. Which is most likely? Nevermind.
There is much to be said for hitting a certain age and discovering that your neurons fire about as fast as Telstra's internet dial up network. I can run faster than the connection at my Mum's place. Anyway, what I'm trying to say in my typically verbose fashion is .... I've been studying to the exclusion of everything....(except Thing 1 and Thing 2). The way I hit the books you would think I would've actually sewn up string theory, or at least next year's Nobel Prize. sigh.
Unlike some, I can't learn via osmosis. As much as I'd love to place my faith-healer hands on a textbook and feel all that knowledge stream into the draughty cavern that is my craniobrainio bit. My brother-in-law learns like that. He's a super dooper mergers and acquisitions lawyer who studies for his masters by just THINKING about blowing the cobwebs from his textbook - while he surfs. My sister is the same....the memory of a steel trap, although admittedly it is generally confined to irrelevancies such as the fact that I borrowed $15 from her in 1982 (she's working out the interest as I write) and my plethora of other crimes and misdemeanours dating back to her birth in 1974.
Dreamt of exams the other day. Usually it's me walking into a gymnasium looking at the eleventy million desks lined up for an english exam and ...*lightbulb*.... "Oh. I forgot to read the book". Actually that wasn't a dream, that was true. Almost. For practically all of my year 12 exams.
Modern European History: Medici's, yeah, weren't they hairdressers from Milan?
Religious Studies: Exodus, I'm sure that's an English boy-band.
Legal Studies: the snail in the bottle....the snail....in. the. bottle. Yep, that set a precedent that resulted in Schweppes always making sure there were never. any. more. snails. in. bottles.
English: A red ribbon always means a loss of viginity (Tess of the Durbervilles) and seagulls flying into a sunset means new life (Fly Away Peter). God help me! When can a story just be a damn good yarn and not sneakily woven with symbolic trickery?
I failed.
The latest exam anxiety dream was loaded with obvious neuroses.....my subconscious knows it needs to s.p.e.l.l things out for me otherwise I will meander in blissful ignorance into the next disastrous quagmire.
Sometimes a red ribbon is just a red ribbon.
(Coming up: The Kardashians (good grief) and Living the High Life).
Or I could have had my head stuffed so far up a criminalistics textbook that when I emerged I found my children have left home, I've three grandchildren, my husband has run off with a one-legged rastafarian mandolin player and I live within a fortress of newspapers - and ninety seven cats. Which is most likely? Nevermind.
There is much to be said for hitting a certain age and discovering that your neurons fire about as fast as Telstra's internet dial up network. I can run faster than the connection at my Mum's place. Anyway, what I'm trying to say in my typically verbose fashion is .... I've been studying to the exclusion of everything....(except Thing 1 and Thing 2). The way I hit the books you would think I would've actually sewn up string theory, or at least next year's Nobel Prize. sigh.
Unlike some, I can't learn via osmosis. As much as I'd love to place my faith-healer hands on a textbook and feel all that knowledge stream into the draughty cavern that is my craniobrainio bit. My brother-in-law learns like that. He's a super dooper mergers and acquisitions lawyer who studies for his masters by just THINKING about blowing the cobwebs from his textbook - while he surfs. My sister is the same....the memory of a steel trap, although admittedly it is generally confined to irrelevancies such as the fact that I borrowed $15 from her in 1982 (she's working out the interest as I write) and my plethora of other crimes and misdemeanours dating back to her birth in 1974.
Dreamt of exams the other day. Usually it's me walking into a gymnasium looking at the eleventy million desks lined up for an english exam and ...*lightbulb*.... "Oh. I forgot to read the book". Actually that wasn't a dream, that was true. Almost. For practically all of my year 12 exams.
Modern European History: Medici's, yeah, weren't they hairdressers from Milan?
Religious Studies: Exodus, I'm sure that's an English boy-band.
Legal Studies: the snail in the bottle....the snail....in. the. bottle. Yep, that set a precedent that resulted in Schweppes always making sure there were never. any. more. snails. in. bottles.
English: A red ribbon always means a loss of viginity (Tess of the Durbervilles) and seagulls flying into a sunset means new life (Fly Away Peter). God help me! When can a story just be a damn good yarn and not sneakily woven with symbolic trickery?
I failed.
The latest exam anxiety dream was loaded with obvious neuroses.....my subconscious knows it needs to s.p.e.l.l things out for me otherwise I will meander in blissful ignorance into the next disastrous quagmire.
Sometimes a red ribbon is just a red ribbon.
(Coming up: The Kardashians (good grief) and Living the High Life).
Thursday, June 23, 2011
It's My Funeral and I'll Laugh If I Want To.
Occasionally I've been known to muse on my own demise and subsequent funeral.
Eidelweiss thinks this makes me weird. (At least I don't make lampshades out of baby skins).
(Should I dieexpectedly unexpectely tonight from being stabbed by Humphrey an aneurism I expect my loyal Blogsters will ensure my final wishes are granted or I. Shall. Haunt. You. Humphrey already has an Exorcist on speed dial).
So, this is how I would like my funeral to proceed:
There will be: A ferris wheel, face-painting, a bouncy castle, a sushi bar, Italian baristas, George Clooney (my God, he's single again...I may just holiday on Lake Como this year....), naked wrestling in chocolate mudcake, a fountain of any New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc and me in a coffin in the likeness of Barbie.
For music I think a Mexican with a big sombrero and a ukelele (?) and a stout Italian man with a handlebar moustache and a piano accordian. There must be much dancing in circles.
Guests will dress in floral kaftans (the women can wear togas). Marshmallows shall be toasted over athe funeral pyre bonfire. Much gayness and frolicsomeness will be had by all.
Of course, being a realist, I know that something will go wrong. Hopefully it won't be my putrifying corpse busting the hinges off Barbie. No I think it will be something all the more....gossip-worthy. Oh, I know!!!
The birds are singing, the sun is shining and Aunty Helen is bouncing on the rubber castle....all are enjoying the flabulicious funeral......until....
The eulogy.
During the eulogy - given by George Clooney who is heartbroken thathe the world has lost his only love a truly fabulous chick -- Humphrey pales and looks aghast. It is not the sobbing of George that shocks our hero H, but the arrival of a Fed Ex van.
The driver of said van struggles with a large cardboard box punctured with multiple holes.
"Parcel for Mr Humphrey from Mr H Hefner?" puffs the van driver swaggering with his clipboard toward the bazillions of eye-dabbing mourners.
"You're a day EARLY," hisses Humphrey.
And that, dear friends, was how Humphrey's friends, and my own, were introduced Candy - his new bride. I say "new" because" this 20-year-old model had been discarded by Hugh. Candy had been superceded by the 16-year-old Lola version that the octogenarian had just moved into his Mansion. Candy was found in the bargain bin of the online catalogue.
Ok. So I may have been pushing the boundaries with the whole bouncy castle thing. It is more than likely that my funeral - with no intervention from my Blog Buddies - will end up like this:
Humphrey, a man of simple tastes and understated elegance (emphasis on understated), would probably prefer me to be wrapped in a linen shroud and buried under a bluebush. The bush would be adjacent to the homestead orange tree because we all know how orange trees love a corpse (don't ask - it's a whole other post). Whilst understated elegance is an admirable attribute, Humphrey would actually be more concerned about the understated impact a shroud-in-hole funeral would have on his malnourished wallet. Floral arrangements will be supplied by Nature....in the form of naturally occuring bluebush, saltbush, mulga and cabbage trees, carelessly arranged as God intended. This understatedly elegant affair would likely be BYO (beer and snags), oh and don't forget a cushion because the lid of your esky may get a bit hard to sit on during the service.
The most moving tribute will be the handing-out, post interrment, of hot pink fly swats, the heads of which would be embossed with my smiling face (ala Alessi's Dr Skud). Perhaps a fitting reminder (to Humphrey) of his dearly departed maggot life-partner.
Then the Fed Ex van will arrive....
Eidelweiss thinks this makes me weird. (At least I don't make lampshades out of baby skins).
(Should I die
So, this is how I would like my funeral to proceed:
There will be: A ferris wheel, face-painting, a bouncy castle, a sushi bar, Italian baristas, George Clooney (my God, he's single again...I may just holiday on Lake Como this year....), naked wrestling in chocolate mudcake, a fountain of any New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc and me in a coffin in the likeness of Barbie.
For music I think a Mexican with a big sombrero and a ukelele (?) and a stout Italian man with a handlebar moustache and a piano accordian. There must be much dancing in circles.
Guests will dress in floral kaftans (the women can wear togas). Marshmallows shall be toasted over a
Of course, being a realist, I know that something will go wrong. Hopefully it won't be my putrifying corpse busting the hinges off Barbie. No I think it will be something all the more....gossip-worthy. Oh, I know!!!
The birds are singing, the sun is shining and Aunty Helen is bouncing on the rubber castle....all are enjoying the flabulicious funeral......until....
The eulogy.
During the eulogy - given by George Clooney who is heartbroken that
The driver of said van struggles with a large cardboard box punctured with multiple holes.
"Parcel for Mr Humphrey from Mr H Hefner?" puffs the van driver swaggering with his clipboard toward the bazillions of eye-dabbing mourners.
"You're a day EARLY," hisses Humphrey.
And that, dear friends, was how Humphrey's friends, and my own, were introduced Candy - his new bride. I say "new" because" this 20-year-old model had been discarded by Hugh. Candy had been superceded by the 16-year-old Lola version that the octogenarian had just moved into his Mansion. Candy was found in the bargain bin of the online catalogue.
Ok. So I may have been pushing the boundaries with the whole bouncy castle thing. It is more than likely that my funeral - with no intervention from my Blog Buddies - will end up like this:
Humphrey, a man of simple tastes and understated elegance (emphasis on understated), would probably prefer me to be wrapped in a linen shroud and buried under a bluebush. The bush would be adjacent to the homestead orange tree because we all know how orange trees love a corpse (don't ask - it's a whole other post). Whilst understated elegance is an admirable attribute, Humphrey would actually be more concerned about the understated impact a shroud-in-hole funeral would have on his malnourished wallet. Floral arrangements will be supplied by Nature....in the form of naturally occuring bluebush, saltbush, mulga and cabbage trees, carelessly arranged as God intended. This understatedly elegant affair would likely be BYO (beer and snags), oh and don't forget a cushion because the lid of your esky may get a bit hard to sit on during the service.
The most moving tribute will be the handing-out, post interrment, of hot pink fly swats, the heads of which would be embossed with my smiling face (ala Alessi's Dr Skud). Perhaps a fitting reminder (to Humphrey) of his dearly departed
Then the Fed Ex van will arrive....
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Sheeeeee's Baaaaaaaaack!
I owe you a sincere, most grovelsome apology. If any of you are still out there that is, my Preshuses. You may, or may not, have been aware that Charlotte has been MIA. The reasons for this may be many and varied and could be any one of the following:
A)Kidnapped by dwarf violinists and secreted in a former war bunker near Kiev where I was bludgeoned with wet teatowels.
B)Suffered a bout of amnesia an forgot who I....who....whooo....what was I saying?
C) Was whisked away by Humphrey on a three month cruise to Antarctica where we became ice-locked. Humphrey selflessly offered himself......and was eaten.
D)Decided to take part in a walking pilgrimage to Mecca and took a wrong turn somewhere near Turkmeninistan.
E)In a fit of pique I sold my house, children and husband and bought a shack in Marble Bar where I now live with 47 cats and a squirrel.
F)Have been in a coma....on my loungeroom floor....for three months.....and the kids didn't even notice while they hunted for the remote.
G)Humphrey decided to act upon my whining and sent me to a fat farm...or his version of it.....chained in the shed cellar for three months. Much to his amazement I actually came out fatter. My ancestors thrived during ice-ages and famines due to the ability to get fat on thinking about roast mammoth ears. I have taken this ability to a new level. The rats helped.
H) I roamed the wilderness (south of the homestead) for forty days and forty nights in search of enlightenment and found frostbite and a couple of hundred straggler sheep.
I) I have been languishing at Her Majesty's pleasure after being arrested for trying to hide under the bishop's robes at Will's and Kate's wedding (but that's another post).
J)I was abducted by aliens and now speak *^^_+ fluently. I can also spot a worm hole at 545 light-years.
H) I'm basically a lazy F*ck and have been so damn busy studying and caring for my Bratlings that my future famosity as a Blog Queen took a back seat to mediocrity in a backwater.
So there you have it. Take your pick. Personally I go for "E" - it has a kind of appeal. Or maybe "E" blended with "C" because I've alwayswondered what Humphrey would taste like sauteed wanted to go to Antarctica.
A)Kidnapped by dwarf violinists and secreted in a former war bunker near Kiev where I was bludgeoned with wet teatowels.
B)Suffered a bout of amnesia an forgot who I....who....whooo....what was I saying?
C) Was whisked away by Humphrey on a three month cruise to Antarctica where we became ice-locked. Humphrey selflessly offered himself......and was eaten.
D)Decided to take part in a walking pilgrimage to Mecca and took a wrong turn somewhere near Turkmeninistan.
E)In a fit of pique I sold my house, children and husband and bought a shack in Marble Bar where I now live with 47 cats and a squirrel.
F)Have been in a coma....on my loungeroom floor....for three months.....and the kids didn't even notice while they hunted for the remote.
G)Humphrey decided to act upon my whining and sent me to a fat farm...or his version of it.....chained in the shed cellar for three months. Much to his amazement I actually came out fatter. My ancestors thrived during ice-ages and famines due to the ability to get fat on thinking about roast mammoth ears. I have taken this ability to a new level. The rats helped.
H) I roamed the wilderness (south of the homestead) for forty days and forty nights in search of enlightenment and found frostbite and a couple of hundred straggler sheep.
I) I have been languishing at Her Majesty's pleasure after being arrested for trying to hide under the bishop's robes at Will's and Kate's wedding (but that's another post).
J)I was abducted by aliens and now speak *^^_+ fluently. I can also spot a worm hole at 545 light-years.
H) I'm basically a lazy F*ck and have been so damn busy studying and caring for my Bratlings that my future famosity as a Blog Queen took a back seat to mediocrity in a backwater.
So there you have it. Take your pick. Personally I go for "E" - it has a kind of appeal. Or maybe "E" blended with "C" because I've always
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Curtsies and Foie Gras - Part One
Forgive the following fluster, but One is a tad jet lagged and muzzy-headed from The Wedding festivities.
At nigh on the eleventh hour The Invite did arrive via a short sweaty FedEx man full of profuse apologies. I did lady slap him after I snatched away The Envelope bearing the Royal Seal -- because you just can't get good help these days.
This was followed by a quick email to the Lord Chamberlain (or LoChas to his friends) to let him know I was on my way and to secure my place on the number 2 table at the reception - which I envisaged would have me sitting cosily between Elton and Becks.
Humphrey was an apology (as he is often wont to be) because he was still shearing (so we might have warm coats for the comingice age winter).
It was fortunate that One already had One's luggage packed and I again had to slap the help when the little swarthy taxi driver whinged at my insistance that he carry the YSL trunk on his back from the taxi to the airport check-in counter. He didn't seem to understand that a trunk made from 345 hand-tanned pelts of albino Mongolian mountain gnats commanded a little deference. My ostrich skin handbag was well up to the task of vigorously and repetitively meeting the swarthy man's black head with no ill effect (to the bag).
If that little vignette wasn't enough the little minx at the check-in counter kept insisting that I was in fact booked incattle class economy ecommony. Humphrey economising yet again, damn him! And no, there was no chance of an upgrade, despite the fact that the minx could see my Cartier and Bulgari accessories most certainly did not belong amongst the great unwashed. She then looked disapprovingly at my luggage (some of which was still on the back of the taxi driver).
"There is going to be a charge for excess," she said scowling at me.
The little swarthy man started to whine about not being able to feel his legs, so I beat him.
"What do you mean EXCESS?" I was getting a little frayed at this stage.
"You are able to take 23 kilos, which is usually one large suitcase, plus hand luggage. That lot will set you back several hundred dollars," she snapped.
"Well, the trunk goes into the undercarriage," I said sweetly, "and the rest is hand luggage."
"You can't take fifteen pieces of hand luggage. Just one."
"And WHAT, pray, do you suggest I do with the rest of my luggage?"
"Not my problem."
Quivering with rage I turned to the little swarthy taxi driver, who was almost bent double under my trunk, and beat him, again. The ensuing minutes were so traumatic that I am unable, right now, to recount them. Lets just say there is a happy little Indian family somewhere in the suburbs enjoying my Hermes scarves, La Perla lingerie and La Prairie concoctions (which we all know are made from tinctures of diamond, gold and pearls and essence of Dodo bird.).
Of course, Lady Charlotte often attracts attention wherever she goes. She likes to think it is because of her desirable physical features, flamboyant personality and philanthropic nature. Not that those endearing traits meant much to the knuckle draggers who manned the security x-rays at the airport. Charlotte was convinced the security man was eyeing her fetching outfit as she gently placed her Kelly bag on the conveyor belt.
"Madam, step over here please," the man indicated with a little white stick thingy.
.
"What do you mean weapon, you ridiculous creature," I was aghast.
"You must remove it madam or you may not board the aircraft."
"The osprey feather stays on my hat! Do you know how much it cost? What else would I use it for? To clean my nails? Poke someone's eye out? A bit of in-flight surgery?"
Unfortunately security in the form of black suits and wrist radios convinced me that it would be a good idea to leave the hat behind, unless I would prefer a cavity search, for all the other weapons that I might hide, in my lower bowel or vagina.
Thankfully boarding the plane was uneventful. I do suspect that I was perhaps the only person in ecommony attending The Wedding. My seat left a little to be desired - the middle of the middle row.
Oh God help me.
A very smelling looking man with dreadlocks is slowing down and looking at .... oh dear....sitting...next...to ..me.....
Stay tuned for the next exciting episode oooofffffff......Charlotte at the Palace
At nigh on the eleventh hour The Invite did arrive via a short sweaty FedEx man full of profuse apologies. I did lady slap him after I snatched away The Envelope bearing the Royal Seal -- because you just can't get good help these days.
This was followed by a quick email to the Lord Chamberlain (or LoChas to his friends) to let him know I was on my way and to secure my place on the number 2 table at the reception - which I envisaged would have me sitting cosily between Elton and Becks.
Humphrey was an apology (as he is often wont to be) because he was still shearing (so we might have warm coats for the coming
It was fortunate that One already had One's luggage packed and I again had to slap the help when the little swarthy taxi driver whinged at my insistance that he carry the YSL trunk on his back from the taxi to the airport check-in counter. He didn't seem to understand that a trunk made from 345 hand-tanned pelts of albino Mongolian mountain gnats commanded a little deference. My ostrich skin handbag was well up to the task of vigorously and repetitively meeting the swarthy man's black head with no ill effect (to the bag).
If that little vignette wasn't enough the little minx at the check-in counter kept insisting that I was in fact booked in
"There is going to be a charge for excess," she said scowling at me.
The little swarthy man started to whine about not being able to feel his legs, so I beat him.
"What do you mean EXCESS?" I was getting a little frayed at this stage.
"You are able to take 23 kilos, which is usually one large suitcase, plus hand luggage. That lot will set you back several hundred dollars," she snapped.
"Well, the trunk goes into the undercarriage," I said sweetly, "and the rest is hand luggage."
"You can't take fifteen pieces of hand luggage. Just one."
"And WHAT, pray, do you suggest I do with the rest of my luggage?"
"Not my problem."
Quivering with rage I turned to the little swarthy taxi driver, who was almost bent double under my trunk, and beat him, again. The ensuing minutes were so traumatic that I am unable, right now, to recount them. Lets just say there is a happy little Indian family somewhere in the suburbs enjoying my Hermes scarves, La Perla lingerie and La Prairie concoctions (which we all know are made from tinctures of diamond, gold and pearls and essence of Dodo bird.).
Of course, Lady Charlotte often attracts attention wherever she goes. She likes to think it is because of her desirable physical features, flamboyant personality and philanthropic nature. Not that those endearing traits meant much to the knuckle draggers who manned the security x-rays at the airport. Charlotte was convinced the security man was eyeing her fetching outfit as she gently placed her Kelly bag on the conveyor belt.
"Madam, step over here please," the man indicated with a little white stick thingy.
.
"What do you mean weapon, you ridiculous creature," I was aghast.
"You must remove it madam or you may not board the aircraft."
"The osprey feather stays on my hat! Do you know how much it cost? What else would I use it for? To clean my nails? Poke someone's eye out? A bit of in-flight surgery?"
Unfortunately security in the form of black suits and wrist radios convinced me that it would be a good idea to leave the hat behind, unless I would prefer a cavity search, for all the other weapons that I might hide, in my lower bowel or vagina.
Thankfully boarding the plane was uneventful. I do suspect that I was perhaps the only person in ecommony attending The Wedding. My seat left a little to be desired - the middle of the middle row.
Oh God help me.
A very smelling looking man with dreadlocks is slowing down and looking at .... oh dear....sitting...next...to ..me.....
Stay tuned for the next exciting episode oooofffffff......Charlotte at the Palace
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Taffeta and Tiaras
Oh goody goody clap clap I Love a Royal Wedding! The last time I was this excited about nuptials Lady Diana was tripping up the aisle in a fabulous imitation of a dolly toilet roll holder. But didn't we think she was GORGEOUS? I remember Mum ooohing and aahhh-ing over that dress, despite the fact that she thought I should be the one wearing it. Sorry Mum. Unfortunately having me blugeoned with Debrett's Book of Modern Manners didn't make me any more appealing to Charles. Admittedly it would have helped if he knew I was alive.....and perhaps if I were a little older than ten.
Whilst my invitation from Kate and Wills has obviously been waylaid, the set of steak knives and fondue kit are on their way to Buckingham Palace as I type. No doubt the fondue party invite will be forthcoming shortly after the gift's arrival.
Tomorrow I shall shake the mothballs from my vintage aqua-taffeta-drop-waisted-confection with leg-o-mutton sleeves and matching cocktail hat. Months of culinary preparation will culminate in fizzing champagne and orange juice washing down the devils-on-horseback and the Jatz n' Coon with kabbana platters.
The more cerebral amongst us will be debating more serious issues.......will Kate wear her hair up or down?? Did Posh design the dress? Will Camilla look less equine? Will Chelsy dance on the tables at the reception? Will Prince Phillip come out? God, the possibilities are endless. Perhaps the Edwinas, Arabellas, Isabellas and Rebels will throw themselves upon William during the vows begging him to reconsider - ripping out their hair in anguish - faces slick with snot and tears.
The most fabulous thing of course is the fact that Katie gets the guy.
Did you know she was bullied by EdwinaArabellaIsabellaRebels? It's true. Revenge is sweet you snotty turds. Bet you are all falling over yourselves to win favor with the future Queen of England now aren't you?Mwa ha ha ha hahaaaaa! This truly is the geek getting the last laugh, except this geek is better looking and nicer than all of you double-barrelled-surnames from a shallow gene pool.
Ah yes. I must be Australian.
Hand over the remote and pass the Cheezels.
Whilst my invitation from Kate and Wills has obviously been waylaid, the set of steak knives and fondue kit are on their way to Buckingham Palace as I type. No doubt the fondue party invite will be forthcoming shortly after the gift's arrival.
Tomorrow I shall shake the mothballs from my vintage aqua-taffeta-drop-waisted-confection with leg-o-mutton sleeves and matching cocktail hat. Months of culinary preparation will culminate in fizzing champagne and orange juice washing down the devils-on-horseback and the Jatz n' Coon with kabbana platters.
The more cerebral amongst us will be debating more serious issues.......will Kate wear her hair up or down?? Did Posh design the dress? Will Camilla look less equine? Will Chelsy dance on the tables at the reception? Will Prince Phillip come out? God, the possibilities are endless. Perhaps the Edwinas, Arabellas, Isabellas and Rebels will throw themselves upon William during the vows begging him to reconsider - ripping out their hair in anguish - faces slick with snot and tears.
The most fabulous thing of course is the fact that Katie gets the guy.
Did you know she was bullied by EdwinaArabellaIsabellaRebels? It's true. Revenge is sweet you snotty turds. Bet you are all falling over yourselves to win favor with the future Queen of England now aren't you?Mwa ha ha ha hahaaaaa! This truly is the geek getting the last laugh, except this geek is better looking and nicer than all of you double-barrelled-surnames from a shallow gene pool.
Ah yes. I must be Australian.
Hand over the remote and pass the Cheezels.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
If I See Another Easter Egg I'm Gonna......
The cup runneth over. Or in my case, the waistband cutteth me in half.
I joined CA today. It had to be done. My children were getting tired of finding me hiding under my bed surrounded by easter egg foil and mouth smeared with chocolatey goodness.
My name is Charlotte and I abuse chocolate. Now shaddup and pass me the insulin.
I full sick.
I joined CA today. It had to be done. My children were getting tired of finding me hiding under my bed surrounded by easter egg foil and mouth smeared with chocolatey goodness.
My name is Charlotte and I abuse chocolate. Now shaddup and pass me the insulin.
I full sick.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Missing in Action or Counting Sheep
Friends, Romans, Countrymen......
SpoiledCharlotte is currently out of range. She was last spotted swearing behind some sheep and kickingthe dog stones. Humphrey is shearing so that his family may have warm coats for the winter. Charlotte is also believed to be chained to the homestead stove cooking for hardworking shepherds, and we all know how adept Charlotte is at cooking. Thing One and Thing Two are making themselves useful by running up and down the sheep race barking like Jack Russells. Charlotte tends to get in the way. Humphrey doesn't tell her this because he is afraid she will smother him in his sleep. Humphrey humours Charlotte and then kicks the dog stones.
Many happy overindulegences for Easter my Preciousess.
XXXXX
SpoiledCharlotte is currently out of range. She was last spotted swearing behind some sheep and kicking
Many happy overindulegences for Easter my Preciousess.
XXXXX
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Sewer Rats, Gucci Pumps and the Art of Happiness
Met up with a neighbour I haven't seen for years the other day. Her daughter recently spent some time in mountain villages somewhere in deepest south America. She lived with the villagers with the aim of helping them to move beyond subsistance farming. These villagers were apparently so poor they barely had enough to eat, let alone buy Prada frocks and Gucci pumps. These villagers were apparently also extremely happy. There was a strong sense of community and a communal responsibility toward children.
This story reminded me of a trip I took to India back in the pre-Cambrian period. I went over there to save the world and left with culture-shock and yellow poo. After the long plane flight the first thing that struck me on landing was the air - it was warm and thick and putrid. There was a man sitting by a fire on the side of the road, two pieces of corrugated iron sheltered him .... and a colour television. People relieved themselves (ones and twos) right in front of you....on the footpath. I once saw a man pop up (through a man-hole) in the middle of the road. He was saturated and remained squatting above the hole, shivering. A "sewer rat" I was told. Someone who helped clean the sewers.
The power was on for at least two hours each day and if you wanted hot water for a bath you had to get Pranti downstairs to heat it and negotiate the stairs to bring it to you. Guilt meant I had many cold baths. These Indians also appeared happy. Amidst the stench, the poverty and the ridiculous triplicate mentality there was music and festivity. I swore I'd never take running water for granted again.
But I do.
I get cranky if I'm put on the Telstra carousel. I get cranky at drivers who are too slow or too stupid. I get cranky if my favorite tv show is axed. I get cranky with myself for getting cranky about such completely unimportant crap.
What does it really take to elicit change? How do we banish malaise? How did we become so damn comfortable when so much around us is WRONG?
I swear I was sober when I wrote that.
This story reminded me of a trip I took to India back in the pre-Cambrian period. I went over there to save the world and left with culture-shock and yellow poo. After the long plane flight the first thing that struck me on landing was the air - it was warm and thick and putrid. There was a man sitting by a fire on the side of the road, two pieces of corrugated iron sheltered him .... and a colour television. People relieved themselves (ones and twos) right in front of you....on the footpath. I once saw a man pop up (through a man-hole) in the middle of the road. He was saturated and remained squatting above the hole, shivering. A "sewer rat" I was told. Someone who helped clean the sewers.
The power was on for at least two hours each day and if you wanted hot water for a bath you had to get Pranti downstairs to heat it and negotiate the stairs to bring it to you. Guilt meant I had many cold baths. These Indians also appeared happy. Amidst the stench, the poverty and the ridiculous triplicate mentality there was music and festivity. I swore I'd never take running water for granted again.
But I do.
I get cranky if I'm put on the Telstra carousel. I get cranky at drivers who are too slow or too stupid. I get cranky if my favorite tv show is axed. I get cranky with myself for getting cranky about such completely unimportant crap.
What does it really take to elicit change? How do we banish malaise? How did we become so damn comfortable when so much around us is WRONG?
I swear I was sober when I wrote that.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
War Has Been Averted.
Last night I smelt the approach of the Huns.
Wet finger to the air....yes....they were coming from the east.
Due to the fact that I am a vindictive sadist, bloodlust began to course through my veins.
If Facebook placed SpoiledCharlotte in exile then there was only one thing to be done.
Go viral.
(Apparently that's what all reallly good blogs do).
I could see it in my minds eye......(*camera zoomed in for a close-up of my twitching eye*).
Yes, it would have to be them and us - CYBERWAR!!!!
Because all good warmongers prepare a strategy I immediately set to work, a bit like Winston Churchill.
"Now, there are mmmmm.....about 3 billion of them and .....lets count, one, two, three.....fifteen of us. Hang on, let me check that...3 billion to......mmmm fifteen."
Any good Messiah would possibly look at that battle ratio and think "lambs to the slaughter" - or possibly lose bladder control.
BUT.....
Nobody said Spoiledcharlotte was good. Good is dull. Good is predictable.
GOOD IS MEDIOCRITY WITH A BOW ON IT!!!! MWAH HAA HA HA HA HA HAAAAAA!
"We stand united. We will beat them with sheer cunning - those nasty Facebook Fascists chiseling away at our precious civil liberties!"
Oh wait. Facebook Huns can sense the coming slaughter.....they have surrendered!!!! (cheering)
Charlotte is now back in the loving Facebook fold.
Facebook tugs forelock in Charlotte's presence.
I should think so.
We're back in business.
Wet finger to the air....yes....they were coming from the east.
Due to the fact that I am a vindictive sadist, bloodlust began to course through my veins.
If Facebook placed SpoiledCharlotte in exile then there was only one thing to be done.
Go viral.
(Apparently that's what all reallly good blogs do).
I could see it in my minds eye......(*camera zoomed in for a close-up of my twitching eye*).
Yes, it would have to be them and us - CYBERWAR!!!!
Because all good warmongers prepare a strategy I immediately set to work, a bit like Winston Churchill.
"Now, there are mmmmm.....about 3 billion of them and .....lets count, one, two, three.....fifteen of us. Hang on, let me check that...3 billion to......mmmm fifteen."
Any good Messiah would possibly look at that battle ratio and think "lambs to the slaughter" - or possibly lose bladder control.
BUT.....
Nobody said Spoiledcharlotte was good. Good is dull. Good is predictable.
GOOD IS MEDIOCRITY WITH A BOW ON IT!!!! MWAH HAA HA HA HA HA HAAAAAA!
"We stand united. We will beat them with sheer cunning - those nasty Facebook Fascists chiseling away at our precious civil liberties!"
Oh wait. Facebook Huns can sense the coming slaughter.....they have surrendered!!!! (cheering)
Charlotte is now back in the loving Facebook fold.
Facebook tugs forelock in Charlotte's presence.
I should think so.
We're back in business.
Abusive? Moi?
I'm trying to post a missive and Facebook is trying to tell me my blog posts are flagged as abusive?
I know, can you believe it?
So I'm just checking if this one goes through............
I know, can you believe it?
So I'm just checking if this one goes through............
A Man's Step-by-Step Guide to Sex on Tap.
This guide is dedicated to all the men out there who went to the same Swiss finishing school as my husband.
Secret Women's Business: From the Inside.
Remember that book, the Secret? The one where some Shaz from the Gold Coast decided to put a DaVinci Code spin on positive thinking and made gazillions and is now living with a harem of gorgeous Norsemen on her private island in the Caribbean? Yeah, well my secret is better. I'm giving you relationship bliss on a platter and sex on tap. Like Humphrey says "Happy Wife, Happy Life".
No, no, don't throw money at me yet.....I'll give you the bank details of a special charity (Help-Charlotte-Buy-A-Caribbean-Island-and-a-Harem-of-Norsemen) later.
You blokes are so Goddamn lucky to have me - I tell Humphrey that all the time, right after I tell him how much he loves me.
Lesson One ..... Learn to Lie
And no, I don't mean telling wifey or girlfriend you're going to the hardware store when you're really going off to shag your slutty little secretary in the back of her Mini. That's called Being A Bastard . White lies on the other hand are perfectly acceptable. Let me give you some scenarios:
You are getting ready to go out. Wifey has spent hours squeezing herself into a dress she adores, but it makes her butt look like it's big enough to generate it's own weather systems.
Wifey: Does my bum look big in this?
Truthful You: Yes.
Result: Divorce, or if she's feeling charitable, no sex for six months whilst she starves herself into a hairy waif.
There is, however a Good Hubby alternative (provided wifey isn't going to completely embarrass herself by wearing said dress).
Wifey: Does my bum look big in this?
Liar you: Don't be ridiculous. Anyhow it doesn't matter what size your bum is, you're a sex goddess and I want to take you. Right here. Right now!
Result: It is highly likely that Wifey won't mind messing her coif as she
Scenario Two
Wifey: "What do you think of my artichoke and black truffle soup, served with a layered brioche with mushrooms and truffle butter?"
Truthful You: "It's um...not bad."
Result: Back to the Gulag for you Dufus! Your culinary repertoire will now extend no further than the baked beans on toast you will be served for the rest of your life (or worse, you will be told to cook for yourself).
Good Hubby Alternative:
Wifey: "What do you think of my Dish-I've-Slaved-Over-For-Three-Weeks-and-Killed-Orphaned-Ukrainian-Truffle-Hunters-For"?
Liar You: "My God! You MADE this? It's incredible. My tastebuds have died and gone to heaven. C'm here you sexy love goddess master chef and let me show you just how much I appreciate your culinary skills."
Result: Possible multiple orgasms and no baked beans.
Who knows how many world wars and natural disasters could have been averted if men understood the "white lie concept". When it gets down to the tin tacks we just want you to think we are your personal Goddess and you are rendered powerless in the presence of our resplendent beauty. And your credit card.
Lesson Two - Buy Gifts.
There is no need to go overboard, but there are a few essential events that warrant a gift to your beloved.... they be: Valentines Day, Her Birthday, Your Wedding Anniversary, First Kiss Anniversary, First Date Anniversary, First Make Up After Fight Anniversary, First Time You Ate Popcorn In Front of The Tele Together Anniversary, First Copulation Anniversary and especially important is the First Time We Bought A Dog Together Anniversary .
Don't go buying flowers unexpectedly though. She'll think they're Guilt Flowers because you've been shagging your slutty secretary.
Lesson Three - Bigger is Better.
With diamonds. Jewels are a very good measure of what you really think of your loved one.
According to the internationally recognised Antwerpian Scale it goes like this:
Small = you're not worth much, but you're an ok shag (or, "I'm a tightwad").
Big = you are the Love of My Life and I will sell my soul to the Devil in order to give you the Hope Diamond's big sister.
Don't even think about buying jewellery with "faux", "created" or "lab" in its name. Any diamond less than a carat ought to be sniffed at. If it's big and expensive enough to cause you physical pain, that's good enough for us. (I often have to remind Humphrey that the pain is really exquisite, because I'm worth it). Make sure you show one of Wifey's girlfriends before you pay for said (insert annual house payment here) enormous jewels because swirls and filigree are not on the shopping list. Even more romantic would be if you went to a Columbian emerald mine and personally whipped a malnourished Indian into finding a fist-sized boulder for your beloved's finger. I've heard you can also do this in Africa, with diamonds.
Lesson Four - The Etiquette of Flatulence.
Dutch ovens are not funny. Farting is perhaps the most unsexy thing a man can do, followed closely by beer burps and not putting toenail clippings in the bin.
Just don't do it.
Lesson Five - Shopping
Shopping makes Wifey Happy.
Never complain about credit card bills. This makes Wifey Sad.
If Wifey suggests going shopping, you don't say in a whiney voice:
"Groan. We can't afford it and I was going to meet my mates down at the pub today."
You DO say; "Great. Here's my credit card. Go to town. Take you time. I'll have bathed and fed the kids by the time you get home so we can go out to dinner."
Result: See above. No Emotional Siberia for you Sonny!
Lesson Six - Jobs about the Home.
Wifey: "Have you fixed the dripping tap in the bathroom I've been telling you about for the last six months?"
You: "Stop nagging."
Result: "What do you mean nagging? I'LL FUCKEN' GIVE YOU NAG, YOU PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE TWIRP! I'VE BEEN ASKING YOU TO DO THAT ONE TINY JOB FOR MONTHS AND YOU CAN'T EVEN DO THAT? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? I'M FED UP WITH THIS. IT'S JUST LIKE THAT TIME BEFORE WE WERE MARRIED AND YOU ....(INSERT CRIME HERE). DON'T THINK YOU'RE COMING NEAR ME TONIGHT. BASTARD!"
Alternative:
"Sure baby, I'll do it right now as soon as I've finished repainting the kitchen.. To make you happy. The only reason I haven't done it before was because I was working on gene splicing rice so it can grow without water in the Sahara to feed the starving masses in Africa."
Result: "I love you, MacGyver."
You're welcome.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
I Was Accosted By Jim Henson
Yesterday my blessed bestie chirpily announced that my photo was to appear in the next edition of the local haemorroid tabloid's so-shall pay-jes. This came as no surprise of course, because I'm a socialite who attends openings, gala performances, balls and miscellaneous charity functions on a regular basis. Or maybe just the odd barbecue. Anyway, I was pointed in the direction of disc and computer and told to take a browse at the photos from the latest gala event (mentioned in a recent post). This was cause for much excitements because prior to said event Charlotte was rather chuffed that she scrubbed up rather better than expected. In fact all that was missing was my tiara and the paparazzi.
Then I saw the photo.
There were three people in the photo.
To the left a rather handsome ex-football star, to the right Eidelweiss The Ethereal, resplendent in her diaphanous Grecian creation and in the middle was......was......a Muppet.
Somewhere between home and the gala event of the year I had been accosted by the spirit of Jim Henson.
Man, I could really give Doris Stokes a run for her money, because I was channelling Miss Piggy in some kind of SCARY big way. Not only that.....Miss Piggy also had a fruit bat tangled in her hair! And there I was thinking it was a rather comely 1940s style silk bow.
My shriek of horror was met with a "What? I thought it was a really good photo of you. It's so cute."
(And that, incidentally, is why you may sometimes see a short woman wandering the streets of ******* with a paper bag over her head).
"Cute," I reminded her "is Pugsley Addams. I thought I had more of a Angelina Jolie thing happening."
(I then muttered, because I'm a snark, something about it being alright for her....she who looks like Courtney Cox Arquette on a really good day).
Of course, always the eternal optimist, every cloud has a silver lining. That photo is sure to make some Sesame Street fans very happy. I'll probably be cut and pasted on kinder and school projects across thetown globe. So I'm practically famous.
Then I saw the photo.
There were three people in the photo.
To the left a rather handsome ex-football star, to the right Eidelweiss The Ethereal, resplendent in her diaphanous Grecian creation and in the middle was......was......a Muppet.
Somewhere between home and the gala event of the year I had been accosted by the spirit of Jim Henson.
Man, I could really give Doris Stokes a run for her money, because I was channelling Miss Piggy in some kind of SCARY big way. Not only that.....Miss Piggy also had a fruit bat tangled in her hair! And there I was thinking it was a rather comely 1940s style silk bow.
My shriek of horror was met with a "What? I thought it was a really good photo of you. It's so cute."
(And that, incidentally, is why you may sometimes see a short woman wandering the streets of ******* with a paper bag over her head).
"Cute," I reminded her "is Pugsley Addams. I thought I had more of a Angelina Jolie thing happening."
(I then muttered, because I'm a snark, something about it being alright for her....she who looks like Courtney Cox Arquette on a really good day).
Of course, always the eternal optimist, every cloud has a silver lining. That photo is sure to make some Sesame Street fans very happy. I'll probably be cut and pasted on kinder and school projects across the
Monday, April 4, 2011
MUTHA-GILT!
Motherguilt. Admit it. If you have pushed out offspring chances are you contracted Motherguilt soon afterwards. I'm led to believe it is terminal, or was that eternal? Whatever. I just know that I'm buckling under the weight of this affliction.
Todays self flagellation was over a packet of Grain Waves chips.
Thing One, who has large limpid eyes not unlike a Jersey cow, asked if he could "go over to the shop".
"No," I replied whilst opening the mail.
"Buuuut yooouuuu saaaaiiiiidd we could gooooo yesterdaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay," big fat tears are welling in those huge brown eyes. Anyone would think I'd just eaten his guinea pig.
"I said no. I mean no. End of story," because I am Hitler's granddaughter.
*Sob*
"FORCRYINGOUTLOUD!"
*Louder sob*
"What sort of mother would I be if I let you eat sugary salty fatty nutrient deficient foods everytime you asked huh? HUH?"
*stifling sob*
"I have RESPONSIBILITIES. If I let you eat those chips, well, you could end up with diabetes at the age of 13!"
*sniff* "What's diabedes?"
"It's when your legs go rotten and they chop them off, after you've gone blind!"
Thing One is quiet and I continue to read the Radio Rentals catalogue.
Motherguilt begins in my throat and moves south.
"Do you want.....ahhh....strawberry.....milk?"
"No thanks."
My child is going to need therapy now. He'll probably never go to another birthday party. He will recoil in horror at cupcakes and banana bread.
Motherguilt.
Todays self flagellation was over a packet of Grain Waves chips.
Thing One, who has large limpid eyes not unlike a Jersey cow, asked if he could "go over to the shop".
"No," I replied whilst opening the mail.
"Buuuut yooouuuu saaaaiiiiidd we could gooooo yesterdaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay," big fat tears are welling in those huge brown eyes. Anyone would think I'd just eaten his guinea pig.
"I said no. I mean no. End of story," because I am Hitler's granddaughter.
*Sob*
"FORCRYINGOUTLOUD!"
*Louder sob*
"What sort of mother would I be if I let you eat sugary salty fatty nutrient deficient foods everytime you asked huh? HUH?"
*stifling sob*
"I have RESPONSIBILITIES. If I let you eat those chips, well, you could end up with diabetes at the age of 13!"
*sniff* "What's diabedes?"
"It's when your legs go rotten and they chop them off, after you've gone blind!"
Thing One is quiet and I continue to read the Radio Rentals catalogue.
Motherguilt begins in my throat and moves south.
"Do you want.....ahhh....strawberry.....milk?"
"No thanks."
My child is going to need therapy now. He'll probably never go to another birthday party. He will recoil in horror at cupcakes and banana bread.
Motherguilt.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Bacchanalian Adventures or God, Did I Really Say That?
I think Pavlov's feted research (ie: action-consequence) is fatally flawed.
We had a Big Night Out last night. It was the first time Humphrey and self have frocked up together in approximately four years so naturally it had to end up involving way too much alcohol and trivia about my vagina.
After a good twenty-something years of imbibing the fermented grape (allowing unfiltered, possibly probably inappropriate and offensive musings gush from loose lips, gyrating on dancefloors like I think I'm a Pussy Cat Doll and hugging strange balding men) you would think I would know better.
But no. I'm a recidivist. A Bacchante. And now here I sit chewing on Panadol like they are jelly beans and wondering what happens to dead brain cells. Do we pee them out?
I'm also hoping that the people with whom I gushed and/or gyrated (including minor television celebrities, former sports stars, my doctor, Members of Parliament, used car salesmen and miscellaneous women in baroque pearls) were as inebriated as yours truly. Or deaf. Yes, perhaps each time I opened my organ of verbosity they were striken with deafness. Or instant amnesia.
I feel better already.
Unfortunately these poor souls can't un-see what I inflicted upon them by way of bare-foot dirty dancing, but never mind.
Humphrey was singularly unimpressed with what I saw as my glittering social butterfly-edness, fluttering from one table to the next engaging in witty banter and generally blinding people with my interpersonal megawattage.
He knitted his brow at me over the chilli prawn entree. "What?" I asked him as I sat down for a bite before heading to Table 6. "Just slow down," he said nodding at my emptying glass, "Remember the taxi, Dequetteville roundabout, and sparkling burgundy?" (I'm saving that story for later). He should have known better. Humphrey and I operate exclusively on reverse psychology. He had slipped up. Red rags and bulls sprang to mind. So I drank his glass of red. And flounced off.
It all climaxed post dessert. Or degenerated if you're of the glass-half-empty ilk. My doctor gave a rather good speech about rural mental health and was receiving a rousing round of applause when I blurted "That man has seen my vagina!" Now what kind of response did I expect from a statement like that? I mean really. Not the sort of statement one would expect from a woman who wears Alice bands and pearls. And why would I even think of my vagina when I looked at him anyway? I believe there may have been some cosmic interference. My shrink is going to have a field day and a new beach house with that one.
Humphrey, praying for anaesthesia, rolled his eyes and swigged more wine. Two male companions told me they'd like to see my vagina too and Bootcamp Bitch had an post apocalyptic vision and dragged me to the dancefloor......where I morphed into Jennifer Beals. Which is all very well.......when you're 18.......and don't have crows feet and multiple chins.
This morning I was musing on the fabulous entertainment when Humphrey said:
"Of course you liked the entertainment....you were the entertainment."
Pass me the ice pack.
We had a Big Night Out last night. It was the first time Humphrey and self have frocked up together in approximately four years so naturally it had to end up involving way too much alcohol and trivia about my vagina.
After a good twenty-something years of imbibing the fermented grape (allowing unfiltered,
But no. I'm a recidivist. A Bacchante. And now here I sit chewing on Panadol like they are jelly beans and wondering what happens to dead brain cells. Do we pee them out?
I'm also hoping that the people with whom I gushed and/or gyrated (including minor television celebrities, former sports stars, my doctor, Members of Parliament, used car salesmen and miscellaneous women in baroque pearls) were as inebriated as yours truly. Or deaf. Yes, perhaps each time I opened my organ of verbosity they were striken with deafness. Or instant amnesia.
I feel better already.
Unfortunately these poor souls can't un-see what I inflicted upon them by way of bare-foot dirty dancing, but never mind.
Humphrey was singularly unimpressed with what I saw as my glittering social butterfly-edness, fluttering from one table to the next engaging in witty banter and generally blinding people with my interpersonal megawattage.
He knitted his brow at me over the chilli prawn entree. "What?" I asked him as I sat down for a bite before heading to Table 6. "Just slow down," he said nodding at my emptying glass, "Remember the taxi, Dequetteville roundabout, and sparkling burgundy?" (I'm saving that story for later). He should have known better. Humphrey and I operate exclusively on reverse psychology. He had slipped up. Red rags and bulls sprang to mind. So I drank his glass of red. And flounced off.
It all climaxed post dessert. Or degenerated if you're of the glass-half-empty ilk. My doctor gave a rather good speech about rural mental health and was receiving a rousing round of applause when I blurted "That man has seen my vagina!" Now what kind of response did I expect from a statement like that? I mean really. Not the sort of statement one would expect from a woman who wears Alice bands and pearls. And why would I even think of my vagina when I looked at him anyway? I believe there may have been some cosmic interference. My shrink is going to have a field day and a new beach house with that one.
Humphrey, praying for anaesthesia, rolled his eyes and swigged more wine. Two male companions told me they'd like to see my vagina too and Bootcamp Bitch had an post apocalyptic vision and dragged me to the dancefloor......where I morphed into Jennifer Beals. Which is all very well.......when you're 18.......and don't have crows feet and multiple chins.
This morning I was musing on the fabulous entertainment when Humphrey said:
"Of course you liked the entertainment....you were the entertainment."
Pass me the ice pack.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Bless You My Chickens
The grey clouds have parted and the sun shines once more on Charlotteland.
The nymphs are a gallivanting and the whores are a trolloping
The cherubs are a coo-ing, the angels are a chorusing and the trumpeters a trumpeting.
My dear sweet reader......you spoke to me!
(and if you take so long to respond next time I shall endlessly impose my appalling prose upon you. But for now, One is happy and wants to kiss you).
The nymphs are a gallivanting and the whores are a trolloping
The cherubs are a coo-ing, the angels are a chorusing and the trumpeters a trumpeting.
My dear sweet reader......you spoke to me!
(and if you take so long to respond next time I shall endlessly impose my appalling prose upon you. But for now, One is happy and wants to kiss you).
"?"
I have absolutely and utterly nothing to write about.
My mind is a blank (but you already knew that didn't you?)
Whilst my life does involve more than contemplating my navel and giving Humphrey pedicures - really do you want to hear about it?
Perhaps you'd like to know that I saw my pubic bone for the first time in a few years the other day (it wasn't for long, but I got a glimpse)?
How about my poor mother in law dredging the floor of my sons' room to see if anything of value can be salvaged before she brings in a skip?
Or how my poor mother in law dredged my tongue after the indelicacies that flew from it burned her eyelashes? (It wasn't directed at her mind, it was directed at The System).
Nah, didn't think so.
(Charlotte is partaking of a bit of study at the moment. Her head is full of words. Big words. Words that are generally not used in conversation. Words that need dictionaries. Words that need thesauruseseeseesses.
So many words whirling around up there in the space that should hold grey matter that said Charlotte feels her head might explode into alphabet bits)!
Don't ask what I'm studying. It is irrelevant due to the fact that I rarely finish anything I start - although I'm still married and my children haven't faded away from malnutrition. I am also still making my OUTRAGEOUSLYGOREOUSJEWELLERY! However study is now an important part of my life. I no longer prop up bars on a Saturday night or contribute to the purchase of Dino-the-night-club-owner's Porche every Thursday night. So why not put that time that would now usually be spent watching The Bill (I'm still plotting my revenge against those who axed that show) into studying? I can always cuddle my velour Sergeant Kryer pillow when I go to bed.
Early onset dementia is catching I've heard. I'm sure I've already got it. Today I lost a cheque walking from the house to the car! How is that possible? It is a rare talent.
A woman of my advanced years still needs to use her noodle in a cerebral context, hence the study. Hell, I might even end up with a job that pays well at the end of it - so I'm thinking neurosurgery or astrophysics.
I'm also a tad put-out dear reader. You refuse to leave me little love notes after you have read my missives.....or even hate mail for that matter.
Just a word mon cherie, will drag me from this fug.
My mind is a blank (but you already knew that didn't you?)
Whilst my life does involve more than contemplating my navel and giving Humphrey pedicures - really do you want to hear about it?
Perhaps you'd like to know that I saw my pubic bone for the first time in a few years the other day (it wasn't for long, but I got a glimpse)?
How about my poor mother in law dredging the floor of my sons' room to see if anything of value can be salvaged before she brings in a skip?
Or how my poor mother in law dredged my tongue after the indelicacies that flew from it burned her eyelashes? (It wasn't directed at her mind, it was directed at The System).
Nah, didn't think so.
(Charlotte is partaking of a bit of study at the moment. Her head is full of words. Big words. Words that are generally not used in conversation. Words that need dictionaries. Words that need thesauruseseeseesses.
So many words whirling around up there in the space that should hold grey matter that said Charlotte feels her head might explode into alphabet bits)!
Don't ask what I'm studying. It is irrelevant due to the fact that I rarely finish anything I start - although I'm still married and my children haven't faded away from malnutrition. I am also still making my OUTRAGEOUSLYGOREOUSJEWELLERY! However study is now an important part of my life. I no longer prop up bars on a Saturday night or contribute to the purchase of Dino-the-night-club-owner's Porche every Thursday night. So why not put that time that would now usually be spent watching The Bill (I'm still plotting my revenge against those who axed that show) into studying? I can always cuddle my velour Sergeant Kryer pillow when I go to bed.
Early onset dementia is catching I've heard. I'm sure I've already got it. Today I lost a cheque walking from the house to the car! How is that possible? It is a rare talent.
A woman of my advanced years still needs to use her noodle in a cerebral context, hence the study. Hell, I might even end up with a job that pays well at the end of it - so I'm thinking neurosurgery or astrophysics.
I'm also a tad put-out dear reader. You refuse to leave me little love notes after you have read my missives.....or even hate mail for that matter.
Just a word mon cherie, will drag me from this fug.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Supermarkets, the Illiterati and The Rage.
Supermarket: n 1. a giant petridish of communicable diseases. 2. common habitat of mullets, moccasins and bad manners. 3. meeting place of the Illiterati.
A trip to the supermarket generally brings on a bout of hippy-ism. You know, the I'm-growing-dreads-and-will-live-in-a-rainforest-eat-beans-and-protest-at-G20-summits type of hippy-ism? And that's on a good day. On a bad day shopping just brings on a bout of The Rage.
Rage precursors may include :
Over to you dear reader. I would love to know what invokes YOUR rage. Do tell.....share with Aunty Charlotte.
A trip to the supermarket generally brings on a bout of hippy-ism. You know, the I'm-growing-dreads-and-will-live-in-a-rainforest-eat-beans-and-protest-at-G20-summits type of hippy-ism? And that's on a good day. On a bad day shopping just brings on a bout of The Rage.
Rage precursors may include :
- Always,always, always getting the poltergeist trolley, the one that steers itself into stacks of canned soup, other people and other peoples cars.
- Lady in aisle 1, do not scream at your child and use profanities. It is not only cruel, it make us all wonder what you do to that poor child behind closed doors.
- Man in aisle 3: Wash. How you can bear being around yourself is mystifying.
- Pod of surly adolescents in aisle 7: Move on or at least part when other shoppers approach. You are not intimidating, you just look like a group of shoplifters into whom Ragers would love to ram with their shopping trolleys.
- To my children: Do not leave my side. As far as I'm concerned everyone in here is a predator just waiting to snatch you away to their pedophile ring. Also, do not approach this trolley with anything wrapped in shiny paper or anything that has wheels, makes noises or contains trans fats. Do not request anything, except apples. Please don't treat the aisles as your personal skating rink or bowling alley. Old ladies quake at your approach. Thing One your brother is not a bowling ball. Thing Two, stop behaving like a bowling ball.
- Regular checkout: Are you pushing in? Yes, I was next. Just because I don't have my trolley pushed up the arse of the person in front of me doesn't mean I'm not in line.
- And finally the Express Checkout, haven of the Illiterati. Yes, that sign does say 12 items or less, not twelve groups of eight items or 12 cartons of coke and miscellaneous items. Twelve INDIVIDUAL ITEMS.
- And to the man standing behind me, yes you mullet-head. Brush your teeth.
Over to you dear reader. I would love to know what invokes YOUR rage. Do tell.....share with Aunty Charlotte.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Payback
Oh. Indulging in a bit of payback are we....hey GOD?
After yesterdays rant I found a new tussocky growth on previously virgin chin real estate.
It's almost time to invest in a Mach 3. How very sexy.
Fuck.
After yesterdays rant I found a new tussocky growth on previously virgin chin real estate.
It's almost time to invest in a Mach 3. How very sexy.
Fuck.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Blame It On Eve.
There is but one great thing about ageing.
The older you get the less likely you are to give a toss what other people think.
That's it. End of story.
Everything else is just one step closer to the grave.
Humphrey scoffs every time I tell him it's time to trade me in for a newer model.
"It just wouldn't be worth it," he says, "I'd never see a return on my investment and I can't afford a later model."
He's right of course. I am a very expensive accessory, but of course I am, as I constantly remind him, worth every cent. He doesn't reply because he's too busy looking at vintage motorcycle magazines.
Cheese, wine and vintage motorbikes are desirable when they have weathered a few years because they become more rare and thus more interesting.
People become more rare, because they die, and sometimes less interesting because their world contracts around them. It is something I'm fighting. So God help me I will not lose my curiosity!
Unfortunately I'm more or less doomed to lose everything else (like my dazzling good looks?)
Well, my is duco is looking a little shabby and a bit of the shine has gone. There is a bit of rust on the chassis and the motor runs a little warm - at the wrong times. I don't start well in the mornings and can be temperamental in the evenings and warming me up can be touch-and-go.
OhforGodsakesImreadyforthescrapheap!
For you girls nipping at my heels in the age stakes....I'll let you in on a few little home truths. When Helen Mirren and Charlotte tRampling waffle on about being unafraid of ageing, how the best is yet to come and they feel sexier than ever. It's crap. Or oestrogen patches.
Maybe it's the cocaine, but they're lying through their veneered teeth.
In their spotlight you can afford highlights and lowlights and backlights and soft lights and vaseline on the camera lense. The rest of us will just have to get extra Berli scaffolding ..... and nothing short of an industrial vacuum is going to help those thighs.
The day I hit a certain birthday milestone two tussocky grows sprouted from my chin.
Yes, a beard.
There I was, minding my own business at the traffic lights and BAM!
God gave me a beard.
It's his little practical joke. Blame it on Eve.
Now, when I have my little glazed-eyed-goodbye-i'm-in-theta moments my fingers immediately fly to my chin and fossick....for tussocks. I can spend hours hunting down hairs and delight in strangling them before I yank them out. I don't keep them though. The memory is enough. The bastards come back as surely as the sun rises anyway.
Speaking of keeping odd things...allow me a meander. We humans are decidedly odd. Not only do we find American sit-coms funny, we also have a tendency to collect things. Remember that episode of Collectors where the girl collected pubic hair? What about that woman who kept nail clippings? There was another who collected navel lint? FORTHELOVEOFGOD! I'm sure there is a medical diagnosis for these pastimes.
I recently met a girl who used to sit in front of the tele and pick her toenails. Her mother had a tiny soapstone urn, probably like the ones you can buy in fair trade shops, on their coffee table. Into that little urn went the toenail clippings. This girl went overseas for a time. After a while her parents received a package. With great excitement Mum and Dad opened their parcel.....only to find a little packet of toenail clippings. The note said "Please put in little urn." When Mum opened little urn, which she considered to be purely decorative and not particularly useful, she found years of carefully pruned toenails - and a chunk of skin.
The girl had kept her plantar wart as well.
True story.
Back to Eve. Actually, when you think about it we should really be burning her effigy every International Women's Day.
We women have been blessed with periods, PMT, childbirth, the glass ceiling, menopause, and then general mental and physical degeneration.
Did I mention menopause? That's right MEN-o-pause. We turn into men. Any time from about 45 onward generally.
It starts with tussocks of hair, on your face. The hair on your head gets kind of wiry. Your skin gets sort of leathery and you lose....um....things....down there.
Don't get me wrong. I love the me that is me right now. My mind, that is. The way I'm more confident than ever and actually value my own opinion (whether other people do is debatable). That's maturity. But physically, ageing sucks. Why else would my girlfriends and I suddenly turn into gym junkies and health-food freaks? It's because we've noticed a groaning in the joints, a sprain that doesn't heal as quickly as they used to and it's just getting too damn hard to chase the kids.
Currently I'm in Ageing Phase One, which I outlined above, and as the Devil is my witness I shall go down fighting the rest.
The older you get the less likely you are to give a toss what other people think.
That's it. End of story.
Everything else is just one step closer to the grave.
Humphrey scoffs every time I tell him it's time to trade me in for a newer model.
"It just wouldn't be worth it," he says, "I'd never see a return on my investment and I can't afford a later model."
He's right of course. I am a very expensive accessory, but of course I am, as I constantly remind him, worth every cent. He doesn't reply because he's too busy looking at vintage motorcycle magazines.
Cheese, wine and vintage motorbikes are desirable when they have weathered a few years because they become more rare and thus more interesting.
People become more rare, because they die, and sometimes less interesting because their world contracts around them. It is something I'm fighting. So God help me I will not lose my curiosity!
Unfortunately I'm more or less doomed to lose everything else (like my dazzling good looks?)
Well, my is duco is looking a little shabby and a bit of the shine has gone. There is a bit of rust on the chassis and the motor runs a little warm - at the wrong times. I don't start well in the mornings and can be temperamental in the evenings and warming me up can be touch-and-go.
OhforGodsakesImreadyforthescrapheap!
For you girls nipping at my heels in the age stakes....I'll let you in on a few little home truths. When Helen Mirren and Charlotte tRampling waffle on about being unafraid of ageing, how the best is yet to come and they feel sexier than ever. It's crap. Or oestrogen patches.
Maybe it's the cocaine, but they're lying through their veneered teeth.
In their spotlight you can afford highlights and lowlights and backlights and soft lights and vaseline on the camera lense. The rest of us will just have to get extra Berli scaffolding ..... and nothing short of an industrial vacuum is going to help those thighs.
The day I hit a certain birthday milestone two tussocky grows sprouted from my chin.
Yes, a beard.
There I was, minding my own business at the traffic lights and BAM!
God gave me a beard.
It's his little practical joke. Blame it on Eve.
Now, when I have my little glazed-eyed-goodbye-i'm-in-theta moments my fingers immediately fly to my chin and fossick....for tussocks. I can spend hours hunting down hairs and delight in strangling them before I yank them out. I don't keep them though. The memory is enough. The bastards come back as surely as the sun rises anyway.
Speaking of keeping odd things...allow me a meander. We humans are decidedly odd. Not only do we find American sit-coms funny, we also have a tendency to collect things. Remember that episode of Collectors where the girl collected pubic hair? What about that woman who kept nail clippings? There was another who collected navel lint? FORTHELOVEOFGOD! I'm sure there is a medical diagnosis for these pastimes.
I recently met a girl who used to sit in front of the tele and pick her toenails. Her mother had a tiny soapstone urn, probably like the ones you can buy in fair trade shops, on their coffee table. Into that little urn went the toenail clippings. This girl went overseas for a time. After a while her parents received a package. With great excitement Mum and Dad opened their parcel.....only to find a little packet of toenail clippings. The note said "Please put in little urn." When Mum opened little urn, which she considered to be purely decorative and not particularly useful, she found years of carefully pruned toenails - and a chunk of skin.
The girl had kept her plantar wart as well.
True story.
Back to Eve. Actually, when you think about it we should really be burning her effigy every International Women's Day.
We women have been blessed with periods, PMT, childbirth, the glass ceiling, menopause, and then general mental and physical degeneration.
Did I mention menopause? That's right MEN-o-pause. We turn into men. Any time from about 45 onward generally.
It starts with tussocks of hair, on your face. The hair on your head gets kind of wiry. Your skin gets sort of leathery and you lose....um....things....down there.
Don't get me wrong. I love the me that is me right now. My mind, that is. The way I'm more confident than ever and actually value my own opinion (whether other people do is debatable). That's maturity. But physically, ageing sucks. Why else would my girlfriends and I suddenly turn into gym junkies and health-food freaks? It's because we've noticed a groaning in the joints, a sprain that doesn't heal as quickly as they used to and it's just getting too damn hard to chase the kids.
Currently I'm in Ageing Phase One, which I outlined above, and as the Devil is my witness I shall go down fighting the rest.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Till Death Do Us Part or Texting in Silly Places
Text conversation.
Humphrey to Charlotte: "Have a great day."
Charlotte: "What?"
Charlotte: "Did you just send that to me?"
Charlotte: "Are you ill?"
Charlotte: "Have you crashed the plane?"
Humphrey: "I'm allowed to be nice."
Charlotte: "Don't send me nice texts. It makes me nervous."
Charlotte: "I do love you, by the way."
Humphrey: "I love you too."
Humphrey: "It's hard to text when I'm flying the plane."
Charlotte: "Don't text. Fly the fucking plane!!!"
And I haven't heard from him since.
Humphrey to Charlotte: "Have a great day."
Charlotte: "What?"
Charlotte: "Did you just send that to me?"
Charlotte: "Are you ill?"
Charlotte: "Have you crashed the plane?"
Humphrey: "I'm allowed to be nice."
Charlotte: "Don't send me nice texts. It makes me nervous."
Charlotte: "I do love you, by the way."
Humphrey: "I love you too."
Humphrey: "It's hard to text when I'm flying the plane."
Charlotte: "Don't text. Fly the fucking plane!!!"
And I haven't heard from him since.
Monday, March 14, 2011
International Friends?
Mmmmmm. Something is just not sitting right at the moment...... I'm unsure what it is......just a vague niggling.
I'm wondering whether some of my "readers" may actually be members of the Russian Mafia who are planning to gun me down in a blaze of spam.
Or am I just being paranoid?
I'm wondering whether some of my "readers" may actually be members of the Russian Mafia who are planning to gun me down in a blaze of spam.
Or am I just being paranoid?
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Future Criminals - in a Classroom Near You
Dear Parents of the Future Soccer Hooligan in my son's class,
Forgive me for being old-fashioned, but in my day kindness, respect and consideration were taught in the home. These qualities are the foundation of friendship and balanced relationships throughout life.
My son has autism. This means that the very task of getting through the day can be harrowing for him. Just getting him to school in a relaxed frame of mind takes a Herculean effort. Excessive noise and rapid movement can sometimes throw him into a meltdown - which is unpleasant for him and his teacher. Making friends does not come easily to my son, however he would dearly love to have friends. Your child poking and teasing my son for entertainment is not only unacceptable, it is cruel. This behaviour makes my son feels isolated and confused, although he is unable to articulate this.
I trust that you will speak to your child about this behaviour and ensure it doesn't happen again. I can't help but think that if this behaviour isn't stopped your son will become famous one day - probably on Australia's Most Wanted. Perhaps if he doesn't attain national notoriety he will simply be like others of his ilk and live quietly on a park bench surrounded by a family of needles.
Thank you for your understanding. I know you too understand that if this bullying continues I will be forced to stab your little fucker in the eye.
Charlotte.
Forgive me for being old-fashioned, but in my day kindness, respect and consideration were taught in the home. These qualities are the foundation of friendship and balanced relationships throughout life.
My son has autism. This means that the very task of getting through the day can be harrowing for him. Just getting him to school in a relaxed frame of mind takes a Herculean effort. Excessive noise and rapid movement can sometimes throw him into a meltdown - which is unpleasant for him and his teacher. Making friends does not come easily to my son, however he would dearly love to have friends. Your child poking and teasing my son for entertainment is not only unacceptable, it is cruel. This behaviour makes my son feels isolated and confused, although he is unable to articulate this.
I trust that you will speak to your child about this behaviour and ensure it doesn't happen again. I can't help but think that if this behaviour isn't stopped your son will become famous one day - probably on Australia's Most Wanted. Perhaps if he doesn't attain national notoriety he will simply be like others of his ilk and live quietly on a park bench surrounded by a family of needles.
Thank you for your understanding. I know you too understand that if this bullying continues I will be forced to stab your little fucker in the eye.
Charlotte.
Word of the Day - from our friend the Macquarie Dictionary
Spile: n. 1. a peg or plug of wood, esp. one used as a spigot. 2. US. a spout for conducting sap from the sugar maple.
Context:
Humphrey: "Just think of the money we could save. If I put this spile into your abdomen we will be able to harvest enough tallow to make soap for a year!"
or
Charlotte: "Humphrey, put a spile in it before I do it for you."
Context:
Humphrey: "Just think of the money we could save. If I put this spile into your abdomen we will be able to harvest enough tallow to make soap for a year!"
or
Charlotte: "Humphrey, put a spile in it before I do it for you."
Holy Spiflication Batman!
Just a quickie.
I've noticed that we have readers from China, Japan, Hungary, Malaysia, the US, Canada, Ireland, UK (other bits) Belarus and Denmark.
This is news of much excitements!!!!!
Would love to hear from these readers.....spin me a yarn......share a story.......share some laughs.
Here's to you my international friends!
To my friend in Japan......our thoughts are with you.
Love Charlotte.
I've noticed that we have readers from China, Japan, Hungary, Malaysia, the US, Canada, Ireland, UK (other bits) Belarus and Denmark.
This is news of much excitements!!!!!
Would love to hear from these readers.....spin me a yarn......share a story.......share some laughs.
Here's to you my international friends!
To my friend in Japan......our thoughts are with you.
Love Charlotte.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Just call me Dory.
Having the attention span of a flea and the memory of a goldfish makes life perpetually interesting. You're always trying new things and meeting new people even though you've tried those things and met those people before.
Having a life that is constantly new and exciting is a good thing, however losing interest half-way through cleaning out the office is not. As I speak a veritable Kilimanjaro of scrap paper is groaning at what was once the door to my office. It now looks like something you would see on A Current Affair.
Reporter: "It is believed the woman, only known as Charlotte, may in fact have become the victim of a paper avalanche....."
Cut to footage of hard-hatted rescue crews using bob-cats and graders to clear a path to the base of the paper mountain - legions of fans and family members are wailing and gnashing their teeth in grief.
Reporter: "Canadian mounties are en-route to the scene, but emergency services say it is unlikely Ms Charlotte has survived."
(Humphrey, meanwhile, has sold the children and is spending my life insurance at the TAB).
My Bootcamp Bitch friend, Sal, has diagnosed me as having autism. Since she did the autism workshop last Thursday she has diagnosed at least three friends, her son, her butcher, the lady who cleans the classrooms and herself as having autism, or at the very least, Aspergers. Sal is a generous soul and kindly gives her diagnoses free of charge - in fact you don't even have to ask her for a consult - she'll just tell you wherever you may be. (I was at a party in the middle of watching another friend do an interpretive dance whilst singing Sexual Healing with a speech impediment).
Anyway this ADHD/Autism/Premature Dementia does mean that somtimes one is interpreted as being a rude person.
Example A:
Lady with big hair and red fingernails is gesticulating wildly at Charlotte whilst going through Checkout 2.
Charlotte waves back, a little self consciously, after checking that the lady isn't in fact waving to someone behind her.
Big-haired lady enthusiastically bounds over to Charlotte.
"Hiiii yah Charlotte. Fancy seeing you here!"
Charlotte smiles "Hiiiiiiiiiiiiii" (mentally rifling through files, not a school teacher, not at gym, not at the dress shop......who? who? who? dammit!)
"So, have you thought about what we talked about the other day.....you still keen?"
"Um yeah, sure." (Scintillating conversationalist that Charlotte is).
"Great, well I'll give you a call and perhaps we can meet for lunch to talk some more."
And with that big hair lady pats Charlotte's arm and flounces off to the car park.
Charlotte thinks to herself "whoever the frig that was must think I'm a flippin' mouth-breather."
There was no phone call. That actually didn't bother me, because by the time I'd unloaded my groceries I'd forgotten about meeting big haired lady.....until there was a knock at the door.
"Hey Charlotte!" It's the big-haired lady.
"Heeeeeyyyyy."
"Mind if I come in, probably best we do this at the kitchen table....." and big-haired lady pushes past me on a cloud of Red Door and plonks herself on a chair and what looks like contracts (?) on the table.
"Um, would you like a cup of tea? Coffee?" (Mum taught me to always be hospitable to visitors, be they the postman or a highway robber).
"No thanks Luv. I've actually got another client in 15 minutes so if it's all the same to you we'll just get this finalised and I'll be off." Big haired lady smiles and I notice she has thick white veneers on her teeth making her look less human and more equine.
My eyes widen in recognition.....oh fuck. fucketty fuck fuck fuck!
It's Mora....or Moira...the "We'll save you thousands on energy bills if you let us paint your roof with this rubbery tar sun deflector stuff" lady.
I didn't sign the contracts and I've forgotten exactly how I extricated myself from the situation, but I do remember Mora or Moira pursed her red lips and flounced a bit more. Mora probably thought I was less rude and more dumber than a hammer.
More than once I've reacted to a happy greeting with a glazed nay, blank, expression and then discovered that I sat next to the person during a week-long conference or our children have had X number of play dates.
Perhaps I am rude.
Perhaps I just have a single digit IQ.
But if I do ever greet you blankly I apologise. Please be as kind to me as you would any dumb animal.
I'm truly harmless.
Now, where was I?
Having a life that is constantly new and exciting is a good thing, however losing interest half-way through cleaning out the office is not. As I speak a veritable Kilimanjaro of scrap paper is groaning at what was once the door to my office. It now looks like something you would see on A Current Affair.
Reporter: "It is believed the woman, only known as Charlotte, may in fact have become the victim of a paper avalanche....."
Cut to footage of hard-hatted rescue crews using bob-cats and graders to clear a path to the base of the paper mountain - legions of fans and family members are wailing and gnashing their teeth in grief.
Reporter: "Canadian mounties are en-route to the scene, but emergency services say it is unlikely Ms Charlotte has survived."
(Humphrey, meanwhile, has sold the children and is spending my life insurance at the TAB).
My Bootcamp Bitch friend, Sal, has diagnosed me as having autism. Since she did the autism workshop last Thursday she has diagnosed at least three friends, her son, her butcher, the lady who cleans the classrooms and herself as having autism, or at the very least, Aspergers. Sal is a generous soul and kindly gives her diagnoses free of charge - in fact you don't even have to ask her for a consult - she'll just tell you wherever you may be. (I was at a party in the middle of watching another friend do an interpretive dance whilst singing Sexual Healing with a speech impediment).
Anyway this ADHD/Autism/Premature Dementia does mean that somtimes one is interpreted as being a rude person.
Example A:
Lady with big hair and red fingernails is gesticulating wildly at Charlotte whilst going through Checkout 2.
Charlotte waves back, a little self consciously, after checking that the lady isn't in fact waving to someone behind her.
Big-haired lady enthusiastically bounds over to Charlotte.
"Hiiii yah Charlotte. Fancy seeing you here!"
Charlotte smiles "Hiiiiiiiiiiiiii" (mentally rifling through files, not a school teacher, not at gym, not at the dress shop......who? who? who? dammit!)
"So, have you thought about what we talked about the other day.....you still keen?"
"Um yeah, sure." (Scintillating conversationalist that Charlotte is).
"Great, well I'll give you a call and perhaps we can meet for lunch to talk some more."
And with that big hair lady pats Charlotte's arm and flounces off to the car park.
Charlotte thinks to herself "whoever the frig that was must think I'm a flippin' mouth-breather."
There was no phone call. That actually didn't bother me, because by the time I'd unloaded my groceries I'd forgotten about meeting big haired lady.....until there was a knock at the door.
"Hey Charlotte!" It's the big-haired lady.
"Heeeeeyyyyy."
"Mind if I come in, probably best we do this at the kitchen table....." and big-haired lady pushes past me on a cloud of Red Door and plonks herself on a chair and what looks like contracts (?) on the table.
"Um, would you like a cup of tea? Coffee?" (Mum taught me to always be hospitable to visitors, be they the postman or a highway robber).
"No thanks Luv. I've actually got another client in 15 minutes so if it's all the same to you we'll just get this finalised and I'll be off." Big haired lady smiles and I notice she has thick white veneers on her teeth making her look less human and more equine.
My eyes widen in recognition.....oh fuck. fucketty fuck fuck fuck!
It's Mora....or Moira...the "We'll save you thousands on energy bills if you let us paint your roof with this rubbery tar sun deflector stuff" lady.
I didn't sign the contracts and I've forgotten exactly how I extricated myself from the situation, but I do remember Mora or Moira pursed her red lips and flounced a bit more. Mora probably thought I was less rude and more dumber than a hammer.
More than once I've reacted to a happy greeting with a glazed nay, blank, expression and then discovered that I sat next to the person during a week-long conference or our children have had X number of play dates.
Perhaps I am rude.
Perhaps I just have a single digit IQ.
But if I do ever greet you blankly I apologise. Please be as kind to me as you would any dumb animal.
I'm truly harmless.
Now, where was I?
Friday, March 11, 2011
The Latest in Self Diagnosis from Google University
The following diagnostic tool was formulated for the updated DSMVMA IV* (University of Google - 2009).
Please, feel free to print and use this tool if you are in anyway concerned for the mental wellbeing of someone you know, someone you know a little bit, someone you don't know, but looks odd; someone you don't know, but is definitely odd or someone who knows someone who knows one of your friends. In no way does it replace the recommended individual consultation with a mental health professional.
Please, feel free to print and use this tool if you are in anyway concerned for the mental wellbeing of someone you know, someone you know a little bit, someone you don't know, but looks odd; someone you don't know, but is definitely odd or someone who knows someone who knows one of your friends. In no way does it replace the recommended individual consultation with a mental health professional.
DSMVMA IV 2009
The following are a list of common causes of stress.
Tick next to the statements/situations that most apply to you.
10 Recently married.
4 Lost job.
4 Changed job.
5 Got a crap job
6 No job.
10 Work as a telemarketer.
3 Sold home
4 Bought new home
5 Shifted home
6 Thrown out of home.
10 Home is a park bench.
5 Given birth.
10 Given birth to twins
16 + Given birth to kittens.
4 Diagnosed with an illness.
7 Diagonsed with a serious illness.
15 Self-diagnosed with serious, life-threatening illness and will die within hours.
9 Death of a spouse.
10 Responsible for death of spouse.
15 Discover supposedly dead spouse still alive.
3 Brush with the law.
4 Very close brush with law.
12 Sentenced to six months detention in the special care of Brian and his truncheon, BigHal.
4Prangedyourcar.
6 Pranged your Dad's car.
9 Pranged your neighbour's car after you forgot to ask them if you could borrow it.
0 Divorced - YOU WIN!!
To score add the numbers next to your ticked statements.
0 - 5
You are annoyingly happy. Go away.
6 - 10
You are about to break out in shingles.
11 - 15
Put the gun down and step away from the razor blades.
16 +
You haven't been taking your meds have you?
We've called 000 and someone is coming to lasso the dragon you say is hiding in your closet.
DSMVOMA IV 2009 (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Veterinary and Medical Anomalies)
Dr Virgil Hammergodsom (Dean of Languages)
Dr Gail Guano (Pursor)
University of Google.
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