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 coming ice 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 in cattle 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

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.

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.

Missing in Action or Counting Sheep

Friends, Romans, Countrymen......
SpoiledCharlotte is currently out of range.  She was last spotted swearing behind some sheep and kicking the 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

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.

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.

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............

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 throws her lithe limbs around  rapes you. Right here. Right now!

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.

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 the town   globe.  So I'm practically famous.

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.

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.