A short love letter to you who have endured my ramblings for the past couple of years.
Thanks for the encouragement and kind words - they kept me going during times of crippling self-doubt and spell-check failure.
La Carlotta is now moving on to bigger and (hopefully) brighter things and hopefully, sometime before her 97th birthday, she may actually finish her law degree.
La Carlotta will always linger and possibly demand blog time but she will have to wait (until 2019) her turn.
Humphrey and the Things will always be number one(s) along with my new marriage to textbooks.
Spoiled Charlotte will remain in the blogisphere for the time being, but will be dismantled sometime in the future.
Wishing you all the best and utmost contentment.
Charlotte.XXX
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Sunday, December 18, 2011
A Letter For Humphrey or A Kiss Before Dying
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)