Please don’t judge me but I have,
on occasion, put my bag on the floor in
a public loo. This is only ever when the hook on the back of the door is broken
though. I am not a complete scuzz
bucket. I often shout at my kids. Once they got chocolate Kimberly’s and some
other chocolate concoction, badly disguised as a breakfast cereal for their tea.
I earned serious brownie points that time, I can reveal. The fact that the chocolate break outs happen
on the days that I have roared at them is no coincidence. I don’t think I need to give a reason here,
do I? Doesn’t shouting at your offspring
come with the territory? I once answered
that question on a parenting website.
“Do you shout at your kids?” I
was the first to reply with “Do you mean on an hourly or a daily basis?” and
sat back waiting for the backlash. None
came. It seems we are all in the same
crowded boat and shouting at our kids is a regular event in most of our busy,
stressful lives. Of course, (disclaimer
alert), there is no excuse for raising our voices to anyone. We should all be more disciplined and strive
for excellence. We might be human,
people, but that doesn’t mean we cannot be perfect! Dammit!
And, shock, horror, I use the television as an unpaid
babysitter sometimes. Years ago when a friend spoke about Ceebeebies, I thought
it was a computer game. Now I know it is
the best invention. Ever! It keeps my Screecher Creatures quiet for up
to half an hour at a time so I can tidy up, put on a wash, hang out a wash,
change some bed linen or even, on occasion, finish a sandwich and a cup of tea
without interruption!
I know we are all supposed to look at the mess and see
it as our kids creating memories, but fek that!
You are more than welcome to visit our place and check out the crayoned walls
any time you like. And anyway, in the television's defense, it’s a hell of a
lot more educational today than it ever was when I was growing up. My kids are fluent in American-ese and even
have the odd word in Spanish or whatever language it is Dora speaks. Moving on, I couldn’t tell you the first
thing about a tracker mortgage. I should
be the wan on the top of that bus. I now
live in slight fear of Mister Husband taking it upon himself to explain it to
me which, I can guarantee, will only serve to make me even more confused and
none the wiser. (He knows everything!) A culinary confession now;
I can’t make gravy. There is a special
stick with a big nail in it, kept behind the door in my mother’s kitchen. This comes out if they see me within five
feet of the cooker, even glancing in the general direction of the gravy
saucepan. So easy to make. Yes? You’d think!
A bit of corn flour mixed in with Bisto stuff, some meat juices and a
whisk. Not for me. The only thing I end up making is lumps. So I
am banned from the gravy making in my mother’s house. I don’t even try in my own! Right, now that I’ve admitted to plonking my
kids down in front of the television let me divulge that I don’t watch too much
of it myself. I’ve never seen an episode
of Greys Anatomy. I don’t watch any of
those reality shows, my guilty pleasure is Home and Away. I like the odd cookery programme and watched
the last two series of Raw, but that’s it.
Brace yourselves now, even though I refuse to think I am the only female
of this opinion. I’m not gone on David Beckham; in fact I think he’s a bit
funny looking. He’s like a Gary Barlow
and a Ronan Keating hybrid. *shivers*
and that voice! Enough said! Now, I wouldn’t describe myself as an
advertisers dream. Not by a long
shot. I’ve never bought one of those
nappy bucket things, for example. Nor
have I ever been tempted by that Dettol hand wash thingy where you wave your
dirty paws in the vicinity of the nozzle and it squirts anti-bacterial soap
onto them. In fact, I do a lot of
scoffing at such things. (And the people
that get sucked in, it has to be said).
Every once in a while though, I am tempted by a product on a shiny page.
Sometimes I get it wrong and berate myself for getting bamboozled. Like this
one time with a massively popular beauty product claiming that one sells every
four seconds or something crazy like that. Elizabeth Arden’s notoriety is lost
on me. I just don’t get that 8 hour cream.
It’s mingin. Thick, greasy gloop
and the smell is only slightly worse than the taste. No, I wasn’t eating it but you’re supposed to
be able to use it on your lips as well. Thankfully it was a gift and I didn’t waste my
hard earned cash. Incidentally I was given a rather large pot of her
moisturising cream lately and my cheap and cheerful €2.99 stuff from Aldi
pisses all over it, thank you very much.
Ms. Arden is obviously adverse to nicely scented products. I am a big fan of Avon though. And right
now, at this very moment in time, (19.08 if you want to be anal about it) Mister
Husband and Screecher Creatures numbers one through to three are outside
standing around a bonfire. I think they
look like something from a halting site.
I’m sorry; I know that is incredibly politically incorrect of me. But they do.
You should see them. They are out there having the time of their lives. It is dark, I can see three little silhouette’s
dancing in a cloud of sparks and one of them has a stick. Doing very important things with it, no doubt. Mister Husband is keeping guard, letting them
have their fun. The time I mentioned is very important because
something strange happens to me at the witching hour; I get lazy and couldn’t
give a dam. If every clock in the house
was broken, I would still know it was getting close to bedtime because my body
starts to shut down. I have put in a 13
hour day by this stage. They will most likely
come in smelling like the bonfire and need a shower. I have nothing left to give at this time of
the night so unless Mister Husband takes it upon himself to do the needful, they
will retire for the night stinking of smoke.
(19.15) There is what sounds like a herd of elephants upstairs. They will go to bed smelling of Johnsons
shampoo after all. Thanks Mister Husband.
Wanna know another secret? I think
he’s great! My Awesome Foursome aren’t
half bad either.
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