i wanted breast

Well I'm kind of glad this week is over, it's really not gone according to plan. Nothing major, just the usual round of calamity that seems to follow me around.
I swear I can hear it laughing sometimes.
After all the hectic activity of getting my house straight at the weekend ready for the expected visit from the language school on Monday, I got an email from them in the middle of the afternoon asking if they could come on Thursday instead.

Grrr

Annoying.
But at the same time not so bad as I really didn't think it would look good to have them turn up and see an old sofa and other crap piled up at the front of the house, so at least I had time to arrange to have that taken away. I got on the phone and sorted it for Tuesday afternoon, which meant that I would be at work but hopefully Son would be in, so I told the fella I would check and call back to let him know.

"I have arranged for someone to come and collect the sofa and other stuff tomorrow between 11 and 1pm, are you going to be here ?"
"Yeah".
"Ok, I will leave the money for you to pay him."
"Cool".
(FIVE MINUTES LATER)
"I spoke to Grandad today and he wants some slippers and a CD for his birthday, so if you are going into town this week can you get them for me ?"
"Yeah sure, I can get them when I go to my appointment at the job agency."
"When is that ?"
"Tomorrow."
"What time ?"
"11.30."
"So you're not going to be here when the fella comes for the sofa ?"
"What fella . . . . "

Grrrr

Nothing unusual there though, he's been tuning me out for years. That doesn't make it any less annoying, and it even happens when he's the one who asked the question in the first place. The following day he wanted some paint stripper, we don't have any but I suggested trying the brush cleaner I use for acrylic nails. I told him where it was and described the size and colour of the bottle.
Brown glass, about three inches high and it says BRUSH CLEANER on the label.

Ten minutes later he comes downstairs with these. . .

. . and said "is it one of these ?"

CAN YOU SEE ANY BROWN GLASS ???

Grrrrrr

When I worked with kids a lot of the training we did revolved around listening skills. Psychologists believe that when we listen we only take in about 7% of what is being said through the actual words. Voice quality, that is the tone, accounts for 38% and the rest is all about the body language. When applied to difficult children one of the ways I used that knowledge was to make sure that in tricky situations, or when trying to make them understand something, that I remained still, relaxed and spoke in a calm even voice. By doing so you can lessen the impact of the non-verbal communication and increase the understanding of what is actually being said.

Even with some very challenging children that could work a treat.

What I can never understand is how those same techniques don't seem to work with Son. Probably because as little impact as the words might have if he doesn't actually hear them at all nothing registers. Next time he goes to find something in my room I'm going to draw him a diagram.

Mind you I'd need a sniffer dog and a safety helmet to find anything in his.

On Thursday I woke up late. If I'm a little bit late for work it's not normally a problem, I just stay a bit later. But yesterday my boss/friend was going out at 11 so I had to be there by then, and I also really needed to get away on time because the Langauge school were visiting at 6pm.
It takes me 10 minutes to walk to the train station and there's a train at 8 minutes past the hour, get that and get a cab when I get there I'll only be 30 minutes late. After I got dressed I checked the time and it was 9.45, I got my phone and my bag, put my coat on, checked again and it was 10.
Who the fuck stole ten minutes from me ?
(I wish I knew, because the sneaky bastard does it quite often. If I could find the fucker I might be able to steal it back. By my reckoning he's taken enough time in the last few months to equal at least an extra day on the week-end).
But anyway.
Never gonna make that train now unless I get a taxi from my house.
Which I do. And waste £3 because I got on the platform at 10.07.58 just in time to watch the train pull away. Every other day the fucking trains run late, and the day I'm the one that's late the fucker is not just on time it leaves the station a minute early.

Grrrrrrrrrrr

And then, because I used all my cash on the first taxi I have to make the one I took when I got off the train stop at the shop so I can get more out. And OF COURSE there's a queue a mile long and only one cashier.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

But I did manage to make it to work by 10.55, and as I am fortunate enough to work for a friend I was able to leave on time. I got a lift back to the station just as the train home was pulling in, put my ticket in the barrier and it refused to open. The guard came over and looked at it, and I had tried to use the out ticket not the return.
Which meant that when I bought it in the morning I had put the out ticket in my purse.
And thrown the return bit in the bin as I left the station.
FUCK FUCK FUCK
Luckily he believed me and let me through. Although by then that train had gone and I had to wait for the next one so I made it home just before 6.
And the bloody visitors from the Language school didn't turn up.
Grrrrr

One of my friends is a very spiritual person. She believes - I'm really not sure how to describe it properly but I guess the best way to explain it would be - in the power of the Universe. That we all draw things to ourselves and the Universe gives us what we need or deserve.
Personally I'm not too sure about that but I certainly believe in Karma.

Most of the little disasters that happen to me really don't amount to much on their own, but when I actually stop to think about how often they occur, and apply my friends ideas to them then I really just have to wonder what it was that I did to the Universe that makes it want to fuck me over on such a regular basis.

Even today it continues, I had the day off work so arranged for my shopping to be delivered late in the afternoon. Today is my Dads birthday and tomorrow I am cooking a meal for the family to celebrate, my plan was to make the curries tonight (we are having a Thai feast) but when I unpacked the shopping I had ordered the wrong chicken.
I wanted breast, I got breaded gougons.
I wonder if that's a sentence ever uttered by a disappointed man ?
In Thailand perhaps.

Luckily Son has his uses, and armed with a very detailed shopping list and a map of the route to the shop he was able to complete the mission to go and get the right kind for me.
I couldn't go because the lady from the Language school was due at 5pm, and this time she did turn up. Pictures were taken of my house (fucking good job I did the washing up) and hopefully I'll get a student soon.
The curries are now cooked and this . . .  is the dessert I made. . .

That is a chocolate and strawberry tart.
Just to prove that not everything I do is a total disaster.

Although I can't promise that it will still be in the fridge by the time my guests arrive tomorrow night.

Have a good week-end people !!

plain speaking

There's a lot of things about getting older maturing that I don't really appreciate but I find I can live with.

Even the mentalpause has been bothering me less since I got back from India. Well either that or I just chilled out so much that my anger issues are being kept at bay.
In which case who knows what will happen when that particular bubble bursts.
But there are ways and means to avoid the other signs of my impending pensioner status. Grey hairs can be dyed ( or waxed - don't ask. You get them everywhere). Diet and exercise can keep aches and pains at bay (or so I'm told) and wrinkles can be filled with botox. Not that I have any. . . yet.
Wrinkles that is, not botox.

And I accept that there may be some things I will be stuck with.
But the one thing I fucking hate is the deterioration of my eyesight. I asked an optician (who was about 25, thin and beautiful - fucking bitch) about having laser treatment and was informed that there was no point since the problem is caused by age. If I had it done I would need glasses again in a couple of years as they will continue to get worse.

Just. Great. Make me feel good about myself why don't you.

I don't actually mind wearing glasses as such.
Men seem to find them sexy for some reason.
I've had sordid fuck fests romances with two men who liked me to keep them on ALL the time. One actually found them more of a turn on then any sleazy get up classy outfit I wore.
What really pisses me off about glasses is having to continually take them on and off. Since I am long sighted I only need them for reading and watching TV so when I'm out and about they are in my bag, and it's a fucking pain getting them out to get a bus ticket or look at prices in the shop, taking them off to walk to the till (if I don't everything looks wonky), then on again to use my card.
In a two hour shopping trip they are on and off more frequently then a strippers pants.

Sometimes I just can't be arsed to get them out of my bag.
Especially as my bag is more like a small suitcase that contains a black hole into which any item I want to retrieve from it will disappear.
Which is why yesterday after Son had text me saying we needed toilet roll I went to the shop and came home with these. . .

It's an easy mistake to make.
They do look similar, especially when you can't see properly.

And I am easily confused.
Sometimes I think the English language is very confusing, I've been helping my friends four year old with her reading and there are some things about it that you just can't explain. How do you make a child whose learning phonetically understand that 'the' is not pronounced te-he-eh ?
Especially when the child asks 'why' about everyfuckingthing.
And why does the announcement on the train as it approaches the stop always have to say "please mind the gap when ALIGHTING from the train".

What's wrong with saying leaving, getting off or even departing ?
I hear that announcement every day and I imagine this,

I'm worried that one day I will spontaneously combust when I step onto the platform.
I have enough trouble getting to work on time.

And here's another thing I don't really get, why do so many restaurants now advertise themselves as having a salad bar. What fucking twat thought up that expression.
There's two words that should not be said in the same sentence, ever. I hear the word bar and I expect to see alcohol not tomatoes, lettuce and cold pasta.

Unless of course they're serving cocktails with fruit in, then it makes sense.

A friend of mine, Tina, is always getting her words confused, but the things she says are hilarious. Her favourite film ever is Blade Runner and one day she was round mine and we saw an advertisment for the directors cut coming on the TV at the weekend. She was annoyed because she had to go out and was going to miss it as her recorder was broken, I told her to remind me and I would record it for her.
Saturday afternoon she rings me,
"please don't forget Road Runner is on tonight"
"meep meep"
"what ?"
"meep meep"

Ridley Scotts finest work.

Another time we were out in Tinas car and another friend of ours had moved house. This other friend now lived just up the road from the local police station and as we drove past it I pointed out her new house,
"I could never live there"
"Why not ? It's a gorgeous house"
"It's far too close to the playstation".

In Tina's case she's just funny, and she laughs at herself when you point out her mistakes.
Kids, on the other hand can be quite embarassing.

When Son was about ten I got myself a Slendertone.
One of those devices with pads that you put on your muscles, the idea being that you can tone yourself up without having to move off the sofa whilst eating chocolate and cake.
Or maybe that's just me. Either way it didn't work.

Son got it stuck in his head that it was called a vibrator. At ten I wasn't going to explain to him exactly why that mistake was funny, I think he had probably heard the word somewhere, and since the thing did sort of vibrate it made sense to him. He found it hilarious watching me twitch when I used it too.
And I probably didn't help, because even though I corrected him every time I was always laughing as I did so.
Fine, until you are on the bus and your child says,
"Are you going to use your vibrator when we get home".
Or you are talking to your older posher neighbour over the garden wall and he says,
"Have you used your vibrator today".
Or you hear him saying to his friend,
"You should see my Mum using her vibrator, she goes all twitchy".

Luckily I don't think that child ever went home and said anything to his parents. . .
"and he said I could watch his Mum use her vibrator too"
. . .  because I never got a visit from Child Services.

because you lot are special . . .

. . . tonight I have a bit of a treat for you.

And a favour to ask in return.

You remember I told you about my friends son who wanted to steal a dog and smuggle it in a suitcase a few posts ago ?
Just before he and his Mum left for their holiday they came here for dinner, and Son and him made a video. It's been uploaded to youtube, and Son keeps checking to see how many hits it's had. There's been a few, but I want your help it getting it out there to the masses.

I realise that I may be slightly biased, it's my Son and my friends six year old who I have known since he was a day old. But it is VERY cute.
So anyway here it is, but please go to youtube to view it so they get a hit, give them a like, maybe leave a comment, and if you think it's worth it then please share it on any other media platforms you use.
(To get it on youtube click on it again once it is playing here).

Link Removed - ask me if you want it.

Why does my kitchen look like it's bright yellow ? It's not.

And if I'd known this was going to happen I would've done the washing up.

They made another video too, but Son says he's not going to upload it unless this one gets popular. I think the other one is even funnier (it's "Sexy and I know it"), and when Stanley and his Mum come home they are coming to stay with us for a while as she has rented her house out, so they will make some more.
My boy might be going viral.
In a way that doesn't involve a visit to any clinic.

Considering some of the things that get a following on the internet I think they both should be stars, but as I said, I'm biased.
It does make me wonder though, it's like the 'blog of note' thing we have on here, most of the time there is nothing special about them that I can see.
Well apart from A Beer For The Shower, and my blogger mate Gweenbrick who guest posted for me in December, he was made BON while I was away. Both of them deserved it, but I was already following them before they got the accolade.

When you consider how many blogs there must be I do find it strange that it's so rare to find one that has followers in the thousands, or even more then a few hundred, the problem it seems is getting your blog noticed because there are some amazing writers among us who certainly should have way more then they do.
And I know there is a 300 limit on the amount you can follow, but there are other ways. Not all of my regular readers appear on the gadget, I have weirdo stalkers and perverts more in reader and email subs, so it's not that limiting the numbers.

I think that most of us find others by checking out the followers, comments and blog rolls of those we read, but that is quite limiting, and I guess is why you seem to find groups of people around the more popular blogs.
And who really has time to check out everyone who also appears on the ones you follow.

The only reason I ever comply with conditions for awards is if I have a few blogs I think are going to send me money or written by fit single men worth sharing, but even then I don't think they drive much traffic over.
(Speaking of which I just got two more...yay me ! And no, not going to share. But thanks Violet, Shea and Lily. Love you girls.)

I have been giving some thought to this. I don't want to add a blog roll, I like my template how it is - and as they work by showing the most recently updated first you may never see the ones that are fucking lazy posters don't post too often on it, and some of them are amongst the ones I like the best.
But there are some I follow that deserve more readers, so I'm taking inspiration from something I've seen other bloggers do and I'm going to make my own 'blog of the month' page. That way I can tell you a bit about it and link direct to a couple of posts.
Actually I might put two or three on it at a time.

The other reason I don't want a blog roll is because every time I see it I think of bog roll.
(For non UK readers, bog = slang for toilet)

I know whose going to be first on the page, first person to deposit £500 in my paypal can be up next.
Any takers ?


Because that video is the actual wombfruit I am going to remove this post after a week, I don't want the pervs who come here looking for "autocunnilingus" "chode penis" and "male milking" (yup, actual keywords from the last week) stalking Sons youtube.


PS Why are none of you voting in my poll ? Englands future depends on it !!

PPS For some of the best/funniest responses to a post I have ever read take a look at this.
http://transformednonconformist.blogspot.com/2012/02/evidence-that-i-am-harmless.html

I'll expect a cheque in the mail Brett.

the cats whiskers

I am what some people call a "cat person".
One day I will be the crazy old bird who lives with thirty and is found dead having been consumed by her own pussy.

Having recently read a couple of pet related posts I thought I'd write one myself.

It's not that I don't like dogs, I would love to have a Jack Russell, but it's not fair to leave a dog alone all day.
I grew to love Jacks because my sister used to have one, she was a grumpy old thing (the dog not the sister) with a worse case of the mentalpause then me but such a character.
Should that be mentalpaws ?
When son was little we sometimes had her for the week-end, and she very quickly learnt the things he did that always caused me to shout at him. The end result being that as soon as she heard him kick his shoes down the stairs she would run out and bark at him before I had a chance to shout.
I learnt to watch the TV for any adverts that had the sound of a doorbell. Because if she heard one I would have to get up and pretend to open the front door to get her to stop barking.

My sister used to make matching hats for her boyfriend and the dog.
(I know what you're thinking, and yeah madness runs in the family).
One day I got chatting to a little old lady at a bus stop who had a Jack Russell and she told me that she had seen the funniest thing while walking her dog on the common. A man and a dog wearing the same hats.
I didn't tell her.

My Dad also has a Jack. Sometimes she wears my glasses.

Meet Daisy, I think she thinks it makes her look intelligent.

A cat doesn't care if you're out all day, in fact a cat prefers it when you are because then it doesn't have to share the bed / sofa / heating with you.
It only needs you to be there to feed it - in fact mine seem to be under the illusion that I only come home because they're hungry since as soon I get in the door I am expected to fill the food dish before I have taken my coat off.

Even if Son came home half an hour before and fed them.

Maybe I should show them this. As a threat.

I think those people who assume that their predisposition to perform tricks means that dogs are cleverer then cats are wrong.
I think it means they are smarter.

And don't feel the need to please or impress anyone, as the world revolves around them since they are the superior species.
Most cats think they are in fact the cats whiskers.
I have known cats that will fetch a favourite toy, and had cats that worked out how to open a door or window, and not just those that involve a push. The cat we had when I was a kid would stand on the bottom bolt of our back door and hook one paw through the handle whilst banging on the catch with the other one, at the same time he would kind of push his weight against the door until it opened.

For weeks my Mum was moaning at me and my sister for leaving the door open.
Until the day she heard it being banged and saw what the cat was doing.

When you want to teach your dog a trick it thinks "I best learn this because it makes my master happy", when a cat wants to learn something (and a cat learns a trick because it wants to - not because you want it to) it thinks "What's in it for me".
And if the answers nothing then forget it.
Who needs a cat treat when you can catch a mouse.
In fact often it's the cat that thinks the human needs a treat. You learnt to feed me so here, have a dead bird, you deserve it.

Of course just because your cat doesn't need you doesn't mean it's not going to make you pay if it feels you have let it down.
I used to have a little silver tortoise shell, her routine was to come on my bed in the morning while I was drinking my coffee for a fuss. Whether I wanted to fuss her or not.
Then I got a job that meant I was away a week at a time.
Eventually I had to put a lock on my bedroom door because her way of pissing me off showing her displeasure at me for going away was to leave a turd curled up in the middle of my bed.
The night before I came home.
Once I left that job all was fine and I no longer needed to lock the door, but when I went on holiday I came home to find a runny turd IN MY HANDBAG !!
It went straight in the bin - contents too. There might've been money in that bag but I wasn't going to look.

A couple of years ago, by which time I had another three male cats, it became very obvious that she was not happy. She hardly ate and started to look very ragged - even though the vet could find nothing wrong with her - so a friend said she would take her. Within a week she was looking happy and healthy again, obviously she wanted to be the only cat.
About a month later the same friend told me she had gone away for a week-end and came home to find a "present" on her bed.
I laughed and told her to check her bags.
Maybe I should've warned her. . .

I'm not one of those people who thinks her pets are children, but I do love them. I mentioned a few posts ago that we have recently lost one.
His name was Nelson.
Because he was a black cat Son had wanted to name him after a famous black person and I didn't want a cat called Tupac.

A few days ago Son informed me that he thought we should get another cat, as he had a dream and Nelson (he was very devoted to Son) had told him it was fine.
I said I would, but not just yet, and that when I did it would be a female.
"Ok, but we are going to call it Naomi"
"Why ?"
"Because that is Nelson Mandelas daughters name"
"Is it, how do you know that ?"
"Naomi Campbell, she's his daughter"

I'm sure I don't know where he gets his brains from.

My second favourite tshirt. 

My favourite one says "I'd like to fuck your brains out but you don't have any". A statement that is only backed up by the amount of men who read the first bit and get sleazy without bothering to read the rest.

When Son was about seven I adopted a black and white cat from a friend of a friend as it's owners were living in a third floor flat. What they failed to mention was that this cat was not neutered. The huge furry bollocks it possessed were a source of fascination to Son, who would lift up the cats tail and show his friends.
"Look, my cat has huge nuts ".
However the huge furry bollocks also meant that the cat was spraying in the house and so they had to come off.
I explained about this to Son, as he was certainly going to notice when they weren't there anymore, that the cat was going to have an operation to remove them.

The dogs bollocks ? Nah cat's are bigger.

A few weeks later Son went for a check up on his eye, he had been born with a slight squint and the treatment was to wear an eye patch for a couple of hours a day on the good eye to strengthen the other one. It was checked every month, the plan being that when there was no further improvement for three months he would have an operation to correct it.
As it turned out this appointment was the one where he reached that stage, and so after the usual eye tests we had to go and speak to the surgeon.

So there we are sat in this very posh mans office and he says,
"So young man I think it's time we brought you in for a little operation"
At which Son jumps up, grabs his crotch and says,
"You're not cutting my nuts off".

I had to explain about the cats operation.

If you really wanted to see a post about my actual cats then here's one I made earlier.

it's not right, but it's ok

And so Whitney becomes yet another person to enter that ever increasing group of musicians who lost their lives as a result of living the high life too hard.
Of course it's tragic, but given her well publicised descent into drug and alcohol dependancy can anyone really be that surprised ?

Apparently this now makes her a legend.
Why ?
If it was a random junkie found dead lying in a back alley in a pool of vomit everyone would say they deserved it, if they bothered to have an opinion at all. Just because you're rich and famous are you immune from the reactions the rest of us would get if we decided to push the self destruct button ?
There are many people who turn to drugs as a means of escape from whatever horrors life has thrown at them and nobody gives a fuck, other then to think they are bad people.

Hmmm.

What annoys me is the public mourning that seems to follow any of these deaths.
Why are all these idiots suddenly acting as if they lost a friend ?
Suddenly social networks are full of outpourings of grief from people who might not have even said they were a fan last week. It's like Diana syndrome all over again, everyone wants a piece of sympathy, everyone has a favourite Whitney song that they are going to torture the neighbours with play over and over, and of course once again lay the blame for her demise squarely at the feet of Bobby Brown.

Be sad for her and her family if you must, but it's not a time for more recriminations and unless you personally knew her why are you so upset ? It's true that she always had a good church girl reputation before they got together, but who really knows. And if any of these losers mourners really cared they would realise that right now Bobby is grieving and trying to help their child through the worst time of her life.
Same thing happened with Amy Whinehouse and her husband - even though she already had a bad girl rep when they got together, he still got vilified in the press for being responsible for her addictions.

That pisses me off too. Unless someone holds a gun to your head or physically forces you to take something then it's nobodies fault but your own, in fact it's not even a matter of fault, it's actually a question of choice.
Albeit a bad choice.
Snort or smoke ? Weed or crack ?
You decide.
When it comes to taking drugs for purely recreational reasons the only difference between celebrities and the rest of us is that they have enough money to afford better quality drugs and plenty of them.
More choice.
Which of course means stronger and therefore more likely to produce a dependancy far quicker.

When I first discovered the joys of getting off my face the only thing I could afford in any quantity was speed, but I bet the rich and famous can get anything they want.
I do know people who tried drugs and didn't like how they felt so never did it again.
I loved it, and during that period of my life I only had relationships with fellas who loved them too. Anyone who was concerned about my drug use could've easily looked at that and blamed the guys, but the truth was I WANTED to get smashed.
All the fucking time.
And when your life is going down that route chances are that the people you will meet and attract are on the same path. Imagine trying to have a relationship when one of you is permanently smashed and the other is stone cold sober, it would be like spending your life arriving at a party six hours late.

But mutual partying can all too easily turn into mutual destruction.
I've been there.

I think that often what causes the downfall of celebrities when it comes to drink and drugs is actually the lifestyle that enables it in the first place. There are a lot of people who like to get smashed and party but because they are ordinary folk who have responsibities like going to work and taking care of other aspects of their lives they can't be continually wasted. But when you don't have to do the mundane things that keep the rest of us grounded it must be very easy to just party all the time - and then it can all too easily become a dependency that isn't fun anymore.

I don't think there is anything wrong with the occasional joint, I used to smoke weed every day, even after I stopped everything else.
But the occasional crack pipe ? No such thing.

Personally I kind of liked bad Whitney better.
I could relate to her.
My Love is Your Love is the only CD of hers I own, far superior to all the sugary disco ballady crap she made before it.
Although I used THAT song (which I actually hate) as a child behaviour modification device.

You know how every parent has the thing they threaten their kids with to get them to stop whatever devilment they are getting up to ?
Well of course most times "The Look" is enough, but there’s always those times when parents are forced to resort to the Naughty Step or GO TO YOUR ROOM!

I had a better one.

Mine was STOP IT OR I’LL SING THAT SONG. The song in question being I Will Always Love You.
Seriously, I would just sing “iiiifff iiii ……”
And son would say,
“Alright alright I’ll stop just PLEASE DON’T SING”
Honestly, it worked. Every fucking time.

Even now he hates my singing, and I don't blame him it's truly awful, but one of the joys of parenthood is returning the embarrassment your little brat angel knowingly unwittingly forced upon you when they were small.
Has to be done.
And I've never been one to miss an opportunity for a spot of revenge.
So when Son went out and left his mobile at home I recorded myself singing the Whitney song all the way through. High screeches notes and all.

Then set it as the ringtone for when I called him.

And waited until he was round his mates a couple of days later then called him.

And for that I thank you Ms Houston. RIP.

byeeeee !!!

Well this is it.

This will be my last post for a month, and this time tomorrow I will be thousands of miles away in the sun.
To say I was a little bit excited is the understatement of the year.

Christmas on the beach is something I have always wanted to do, especially since Son grew up and I no longer had to pretend to enjoy it, and could freely admit that I actually hate this time of year.
However I do have a nativity story of my own that I love.
It was a long time ago (no, not that long, I'm not talking about Bethlehem) and Son was still mummy's special little boy. Ok, that was actually longer ago then I am prepared to admit, but he was three at the time and attending nursery school. He loved it there, all the other kids would cry when their parents left them in the morning, mine used to get upset when it was time to leave.
I went to get him and as it was one of the days when we had no lift this meant a walk to the bus stop. It wasn't that far, unless you were three years old and had just endured a long day of games, afternoon naps, making cakes, painting, story telling and generally enjoying yourself.
So he starts to complain.
Usually I would've carried him some of the way, but I had been Christmas shopping before I went to get him and had a few bags to carry. All he was carrying was his (now empty) lunchbox but apparently that was HEAVY.
He started to walk really slowly for a few minutes before stopping altogether, then puts his ghostbusters plastic lunchbox on the pavement, sits on it, folds his arms and says,
"That's it. I can't walk any more. I've got a baby in my tummy and it's coming out RIGHT NOW"

I spent the next few days wondering what on earth they were teaching him. But the next day he was there I got an invite to their nativity play and then it made sense.
Mummy's special boy had figured if it was a good enough excuse for Mary to stop and rest then it was good enough for him.

I realise it's going to be hard to cope quiet without me, but there are some guest posts appearing here over the coming month, and I do have almost a years worth of posts you could always read back through if you find yourself suffering from cowgirl withdrawl. In fact by the time I get back it will almost be LAWAFM's first birthday.
Thanks to all of you who have visited, followed, read, commented. I'm still blown away that so many of you take the time to read the nonsense and constant moaning interesting stuff that I write here.
I started blogging for me, but you all make it worthwhile :)

I love you guys.
See you next year !!!
XXX

I even made you all a Christmas Card. Well I adapted it from what was going to be a followers badge.

Don't expect too much effort I have packing to do.

 My printer's broke otherwise I would send some out, but if you really want you can copy and print it yourselves.

In the meantime. . .  here's some Christmas cheer I stole borrowed from the internet.

The night before Xmas throughout the house,
we were all fucked, even the mouse.
Dad at the brothel, mum with uncle Frank,
I'd settled down for a nice slow wank.
Outside the house I heard a right clatter,
I let go of my cock to see what was the matter.
Out on the lawn I saw a big dick,
I knew right away it was old St Nick.
He came down the chimney like a bat out of hell.
The big fat fucker, I think he fell.
He filled all our stockings with sweets and beer,
and a big rubber cock for my brother, the queer.
He rose up the chimney with a thunderous fart,
the big fat cunt blew the house apart.
He swore and he cursed as he rode out of sight,
Shouting I'll be back next year, have a hell of a night.

Joseph and Mary lived in a barn. Mary had just given birth to a baby boy, Joseph was a carpenter by trade but had no work.
On this particular day, after another unsuccessful day at the job centre, Joseph trudges back to the barn on his donkey. He then notices three men on camels carrying parcels and they take them into the barn.
Joseph gets off his donkey, storms into the barn and shouts, "For fuck's sake, Mary; we've just had a baby, I'm unemployed and you're ordering stuff off ebay."

Driving on ice is like having sex doggie style.
One slip and you can really fuck up someone's rear end.
Drive safely this Xmas

@guestposters - a friend of mine has admin just in case the scheduling doesn't work so she can publish them and any comments.
@Vee - I'll message you, I plan to get an Indian SIM for my phone so I'll let you have the number and hopefully meet you there :)


One last thing before I go.

I know it's a bit early to be saying this is my favourite christmas post as I won't be around to read all of them, but I have a feeling that even if I read loads this would still be my favourite.
http://howtohatemore.blogspot.com/2011/12/rudolph-red-nosed-leper.html

Byeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

trespassers should be shot

Today I left work just after 5pm and got home just before seven.
TWO FUCKING HOURS
For a journey that involves a five minute lift from work to the train station, 15/ 20 mins train journey then a ten minute walk to my house.
Why ?

Because, apparently, there were "trespassers on the line".
Of course the train didn't stop at an actual station, where I could've gotten off and got a bus. Oh no.
It stopped just before the fucking station so I, and all the other passengers, were trapped.
Held hostage on a train by what was no doubt a couple of kids thinking it was entertaining to get on the tracks.

People who mean to kill themselves tend to wait until the train is approaching then jump out at the last minute. They don't go for an afternoon stroll and a picnic down the track.
Yup, had to be kids.
Personally I wouldn't of stopped the trains.
The fucktards would no doubt get off the line pretty damn quick when they see a fucking great train heading towards them.

You can bet had they been injured their parents would've been looking for compensation from the train company. I have to wonder at the mentality of kids that think it's fun to do dangerously stupid stuff like that, and why ? But I've already written enough about my opinions of what causes a lot of the problems with young people in general so I'm not gonna get started on that again.
I'm home, I've eaten and calm has been restored.
Albeit two hours late.

However the calm, tidy, peaceful environment I call home is about to be royally shattered in about an hours time.
The progeny is coming home for a month.
Yeah it will be nice to see him, but by the time I get home from work tomorrow the drum kit will be reassembled, every cup in the house will be dirty (why does he need a clean cup EVERY time he gets a drink - I just rinse out the one already used), and my new table will be piled up with crap.
Tomorrow I might deliberately be late home.
In fact I might walk home. . . just follow the train tracks

Still every cloud and all that.
I now have someone to bully bribe to go up the shop and make me a coffee.

And his cat will stop yowling at me.
If you ever want a really peaceful life NEVER get a Siamese cat.
Actually it's quite bizarre, Son and his cat seem to have a psychic connection. When he first moved in April his cat disappeared for about a week, I wasn't too worried at first as I have another one that often does this - they do say all cats have at least one other home - and since I hadn't seen either I presumed they were together. But when it got to over a week I was concerned and messaged Son.
He said he'd "send him a message".
This was about 11pm, an hour later I went into the kitchen and both 'missing' cats were sat on the table.

He does look a bit like this. . . 

Until today I had not seen the cat again for about four days, I came home this evening - did I mention TWO HOURS LATE Grrrr - and he was sat on the doorstep waiting.
Right now he's sat on the back of the sofa and he hasn't taken his eyes off the front door.
He knows Son is coming home.

At least one of us is looking forward to the impending chaos.

I have to go - guess who has just text me and said he has no English money on him and so can I pay for the taxi from the station.
And you can bet no cunt is gonna jump out in front of his train and delay my emptying purse.
Looks like the Bank Of Mum is back in business.

Don't bother copying my details - the account will be empty by tomorrow.

Off to the cashpoint I go. . . .

Wish I'd seen this a few years ago. Might change the word teenager to twenty something's and print it off - just in case he stays too long.

Update : re missing cats.
The comment from Fraser reminded me of this http://www.27bslash6.com/missy.html

miss doolittle

One day, if I ever marry a old rich man win the lottery and get the huge house with a massive garden I plan to have a pet goat. I don't really know exactly why I like them so much but I do, especially the weird eyes.

When Son was a lot younger we used to spend a fair bit of time with my friend Carlene, she had a boy the same age as him so they could bugger off and do whatever ten year old boys do and she and I could gossip, smoke and drink brandy coffee.
We figured it wouldn't hurt if you put it in your coffee.
Well until you've had about six anyway.

One day I went round there and she had a goat at the end of her garden, I was straight out there making friends with it. For weeks every time I went to see her (which was a bit more often once she got the goat) I would take it food, it didn't take long for it to recognise me. Her garden was on two levels and the goat lived in the lower bit furthest from the house but as soon as it saw me it would stand by the fence waiting.

I was very fond of that animal.

Carlene was Jamaican, and an amazing cook so we would often go for dinner.
This particular Sunday there we are tucking in. . . .
"What have you done to the mutton Carlene it tastes really nice?"
"It's not mutton it's goat".

Yup. Bitch fed my friend to me.
I'M A CAPRICORN THAT'S FUCKING CANNABALISM.
I thought I was going to be sick.
And as I ran to the toilet, which was at the back of the house and meant going through the utility room, there was the remainder of it on the freezer waiting to be butchered.
I was very very sick.

Not goat . . . and I'm starving just looking at this.

Given a choice even before that I would not eat goat, the other thing I have no desire to ever try is rabbit. When I was a child my Dad kept rabbits, they were pets but he always used to tell me that we were going to eat them. We had two females and they were allowed to breed a couple of times a year but for some reason they would only ever have two, until one year my favourite produced six babies.
Dad insisted that these were going in the pot.

I wasn't having that.
My Dad worked shifts so he wasn't always home in the morning and when he wasn't there I used to feed the rabbits before I left for school.
So I decided (I think I was about 8 at the time) that I was going to find them new homes. I put the baby rabbits, who were a couple of weeks old at this point so tiny, in my bag (how my Mum didn't notice I don't know, I guess she was busy), took them to school and gave them to my friends.

How could anyone look at this and think . . . dinner.

When I got home from school I made sure it was me that fed the others so nobody else went and looked.

Later that evening there were a few knocks on the door.
Concerned parents returning the new pet their child had brought home from school.

I didn't get into trouble, but after that my Dad agreed that no rabbit would ever make it to the cooking pot. Actually I don't think any ever would've, he loved those rabbits as much as I did, I remember when one got injured and died and Dad cried more then me and the sister.

Although Dad has since shattered a few animal illusions I still had from my childhood.

When I was very little, maybe 5 or 6, we went on a family holiday to a big house on the coast in Devon. Dad and the uncles went fishing a few times and me and my cousins wanted to have a go, I remember how excited I was when I pulled (with a bit of help) my line out of the sea and there was a fish on the end of it.
Years later Dad and I are talking about fishing (well he's talking I'm pretending to be interested) and I said that I still remembered the only time I had ever fished, and that I had caught one.
"No you didn't, I bought that fish earlier and put it on the line for you"

Hmmm.
It get's worse.

We had this huge black cat called Bobby that was forever catching birds.
One day Bobby had caught a baby sparrow and trapped it behind a bush in the garden. I rescued the bird, it had a damaged wing but there was no blood so I knew it wasn't badly hurt. At the time Dad was decorating our front room so he let me keep the bird in a box in there. I used to feed it mashed up cereals and seeds on the end of a matchstick and for a wild bird it became really tame. I could get it to sit on my hand, and got it to start flying as well.

I knew I would have to set it free, and it was getting to the point when I knew that would be soon.
One day I came home from school and the bird was gone, Dad said that he had opened the window and it had flown away. I was a bit sad as I had wanted to be the one to let it go, but I was also really happy that I had saved this bird and got it back to health.

Again years later.
Somehow the bird came up in conversation.
"Do you remember the sparrow I saved Dad ?"
"No, don't think I do."
"Yeah you do, I had it in a box when you were decorating the front room"
"Oh that one, yes I do, the one that Bobby got in and killed."

I love my Dad very much but BASTARD !!
What the fuck.
And I thought I was a cunt.

I didn't mind finding out that Father Christmas and the Tooth Fairy were really him, in fact I had my suspicions long before I knew the truth but why did he have to tell me that ?

Which reminds me of another time illusions were shattered.
When son was little Dad used to take him to his works Christmas party for the kids of employees.
One year the man who normally acted as Father Christmas let them down at the last minute, so there they are with 60 kids and no Santa. Being rather short and rotund Dad volunteered to step in, but in case Son decided to look for him (highly unlikely when he was busy tucking into sausage rolls and cake - he's his mother's son) Dad told him what he was going to do.

So they have the big build up to Santa's grand entrance, you know the kind of thing . . . sleigh bells and HO HO HO heard in the background.
Some guy with a microphone is doing the whole "listen kids . . .guess whose coming"
IT'S FATHER CHRISTMAS !!!!!!!!!!!!

And a voice from the back shouted . . . .
"That's not Father Christmas, that's my Grandad".

Family trait or what ?

The inspiration for this came from reading one of Drone's rememberies posts, after you've left me a comment telling me how fucking amazing I am pop over there and have a read.

empty nest

Yesterday was a tough emotional day.

Son has officially moved out and is now living in a different country to me. Lucky bastard texted me last night to say he loves his room and was having a cigarette and enjoying the view on his balcony.
I’m waiting to see pictures.

I'm imagining this . . . .and me sat on it.

Meanwhile I was very upset.
On a positive note I clean when upset so at least I’ve been crying in a shiny tidy house. I haven’t spoke to anyone, other then by text, for fear of sobbing down the phone which will no doubt bring people round and that is the last thing I want at the moment.

When I’m sad I like to be left alone.
Much as I like to wallow in self pity, and I'm fucking good at it - it’s not a spectator sport.


Also it occurs to me that if any old friends were to come here now they’d look at the lack of clutter and dust in my house and probably think I’ve regressed to my youth and am back on speed.

Still not feeling great today, made shepherds pie earlier then realised I’d made enough for him as well and promptly started crying. From this day forwards it will be called emotional pie in my house.
I suppose it’s to be expected really, I miss him already and most kids that leave home stay close enough to come for food five times a week.


Is anyone hungry ?



Ah well - that’s dinner sorted for the next three days, and I’m a bit annoyed because if I’d thought about it before I cooked I could’ve put more chilli in it too.

At least he won’t be round borrowing a tenner every other day.

Every cloud and all that . . . .

Anyway I am very proud of him, it’s a brave thing to do for anyone and despite the fact that I will worry I know that he will be ok.

It’s all about perspective too.

As a parent you want the best for your children, and of course one day they're going to leave.

It's boys who are still living with mummy when they're forty that are worrying.

He’s gone away to do a safe job (he works in marketing for a Hotel company), in a beautiful city where he already has a few friends. I can call, text or talk online to him anytime, in fact he’s probably texted me more in the last 24 hours then he normally does in a week.
He’s only a two hour plane ride away - I’ve already looked at prices to go and see him on his birthday next month and it will only cost me £100.

And if for some reason things didn’t work out he can come home anytime.

Some people have to say goodbye to their children as they are going away to fight in war zones, where they have limited opportunities for contact, and where they cannot leave until their tour of duty ends.

How any parent copes with that I really don’t know.
My heart goes out to them.

what fucking wedding ?

Apparently on Friday there’s a wedding.

Like I give a fuck - don’t get me started on my opinions of the royal family.
I’ll keep it brief. Stuck up bunch of idiots who drain the countries resources and serve no useful purpose.

So anyway.
As I said in a previous post in my world Friday is the day Son leaves home.

Yeah don’t expect me to care about a fucking posh twat tying the proverbial knot - the one good thing about this is they made it a national holiday so I didn’t need to book a day off work in order to wave goodbye to my baby.

But my impending empty nest is the ONLY thing I’m thinking about.

Last night I had a conversation with a friend :

“Have you got any plans for Friday Cowgirl”
“Oh, you know, most likely I’ll just sit in my house and cry”
“Really ? It affects you that much”
“Well of course, I’m putting on a brave face but I’m only human so it’s gonna be emotional”
“I suppose, happy things affect me too but I don’t think I’ll be actually crying”
“Happy ? Yeah for him of course it is, but I will be upset”
“Why is the royal wedding gonna make you sad ?”

LOL.
Done that a few times, had conversations where me and the other person were talking about different things, but it did cheer me up.
For five minutes.
48 hours and he’ll be on the plane.

And Willy and Kate…..can go fuck themselves, the bridesmaids and the best man for all I care.
Fucking stuck up cunts - stealing my emotional thunder.

parental advisory

The sort out continues, found a few things today that made me remember things I’d forgot about - I love it when that happens.

In a box under Sons bed was the Ice T tape.

Not sure what the name of the album is but I remember this tape very well. It begins with Ice saying :
“If you are offended by words like bitch, fuck, ho…(insert a bunch of other swear words)…take the tape out now……
This is not a pop album…….
…Oh by the way suck my motherfucking dick”

Son discovered Hip-Hop when he was about 11, one of his friends older brothers gave him a Wu Tang CD. I don’t agree with a lot of censorship, educating your children about right and wrong is more important to me. So whilst it might’ve been considered inappropriate by some people I let him listen to whatever he wanted.
As long as he wasn’t gonna sing ‘Wu Tang aint nothing to fuck with’ in front of my mum or his teachers I trust him make his own choices.
He has been brought up to make the right ones.

I give credit to the Wu for enlightening Son to some parts of black history too.
He’s mixed race and as a white parent raising a black child it sometimes worried me that there were aspects of his culture I couldn’t give him. Although when he came home from school with his first self selected library book and it was a history of Martin Luther King, Abraham Lincoln and Malcom X I figured I done ok.

He’s very self aware.

So the Hip-Hop, and the language of some of it, wasn’t a problem.
Fuck it he’s my kid and he’s listened to me swearing all his life, so when a friend of mine on hearing that he was getting into that kind of music gave him the aforementioned Ice T tape it was fine. In fact Son, who was probably 12 or 13 couldn’t wait to play it to me - he thought it was hilarious.

A while after this Son started hanging around with a new friend called Fraser. The new mate was at our house most afternoons after school. I asked Son why they never went to Fraser’s house, he said
“his house is weird, his Mum says you got to ask if you want a glass of water and he‘s not allowed to play computer games”
If Fraser was in our house he would constantly ask me to check the time - he told me if he was ever late home he would be grounded for a week.

Strict parents then.
No wonder he liked our house so much. I would tell the kids to help themselves if they wanted anything and our little front room was actually Sons room for him and his friends so they could use the Playstation without bothering me.

But after about three weeks of being round every day Fraser was suddenly noticeably absent.
Son said he didn’t think he wanted to be his mate anymore because every day at school when he or the other lads asked him if he was coming round later he had ‘something’ to do. Boys being boys it didn’t really seem to bother them, there was about 8 of them in their little group anyway.

About a week went by and then this particular day I was in the house on my own and there was a knock at the door.
I opened it and there was Fraser.

“My Dad says I have to give this back”……and handed me the Ice T tape.

I've put the tape in the memory box.

it's a man thing

I have a friend who has just started living with her boyfriend. They’re both in their early forties so it’s not the first time either have lived with a partner, but from what she’s said it seems they've completely forgotten what it's like to live with a member of the opposite sex.
What is supposed to be a new phase in their relationship is starting to sound like a broken record.

I realise that the toilet seat is always going to be an issue between men and women.

I know it can be a bit of a shock if you get up for a wee in the middle of the night without putting the light on and sit on the always fucking freezing hard bowl, but it’s still preferable to sitting in drips.
I know, I live with someone who NEVER puts the fucking seat up.
Been a few times I’ve sat without checking and a quick wee turned into a shower.
As in me needing to take a shower - think I should clarify that.

She was moaning about him watching football on the telly the other day, he’s a man he’s bound to want to watch football - and there is no point trying to talk to one when he’s doing that.
Go and read a book or have some 'me' time.

At least he's not gone to the pub to watch it with his mates and return pissed four hours later. 

If she had any sense she’d realise that when a man is watching his team it’s actually a good time to get him to agree to things.

Ask him a question that requires a simple yes or no and he will probably say yes just to get you to shut up without really registering what the question was.

Actually I think being the mother of a male child has made me much more tolerant of men.

A long time ago, when he was about 15 I was out with a group of friends, all of whom were having a bitch about the ‘man things’ their boyfriends and husbands do and I realised that I could’ve joined in and talked about my son.

I’ve brought him up on my own, believe me if ever there was a man who had been raised not to do those annoying little things, and bearing in mind there’s been no man around for him to learn them from, then he is it.

But as soon as puberty hit and he had hairs on his chin all my careful programming went straight out the window.

He’s been doing his own washing since he was about 13 - entirely his choice.
I’m no domestic goddess, he got fed up with going to school in pink shirts and life skills are good to learn.
However eleven years later he still has to ask me what programme to use every fucking time he puts a wash on.

If he washes the dishes he will do it well, but he just washes the dishes - it doesn’t seem to register that you should also wash the worktops and put the rubbish out.
But then that would probably be classed as multitasking so obviously he can’t do that.

He can only screw things in an anti-clockwise direction which renders him incapable of replacing the lids on juice bottles and caps on the toothpaste, in time I’m sure this disability will be the cause of many DIY disasters.
Although he will of course blame whatever tools he’s using.

He doesn’t drive at the moment but will definitely need help when he does as like most men his sense of direction is clearly a bit broken.
I know this because he can find his way to the fridge to get things out, but he apparently gets lost when it’s time to put them back.

He never really listens to me. Even when I say 'are you listening' and I know he is, he still forgets what I've said 30 mins later.
He is forever losing his keys, but just inside our front door there is a shelf and we had a conversation about putting a hook on it for the keys, he said it was a good idea, helped me find a hook and was actually talking to me when I put the hook up.
The next day I tidied up and on finding his keys on the floor put them on the hook. I then went round to my sisters and while there I get a phone call,
"have you seen my keys mum ?"
"they're on the hook"
"what hook? "

What he has taught me is that although it might be a bit of a cliché to say ‘it’s because he’s a man’, for the most part that really is true.
So if you want to live with one you really need to resign yourself to those things then just get over it.

*Hilarious toilet picture courtesy of Acorn - check out his website here http://www.sevenoaksart.co.uk/
 Or you can read his blog http://milk-salesman.blogspot.com/

my future is secure

Sons been talking about changing his job for a better paid one.
I'm sat upstairs - he's downstairs killing zombies and shouting at people through his headset.

about 15 minutes ago - fyi it's 3 am here now

He comes running upstairs.....

" mum, mum only have a guess what, you just should be so proud of me "

Yes, this may not the best grammar but this is how he speaks, and when excited as he clearly was he's inclined to get a bit less coherent - still it's an improvement on the rest of the time when he tends to just grunt at me. Well unless there's a scrounge loan of a tenner involved.

" what ?"

"I've only gone and done it"

He's beaming, and I know he chats to real friends in blow - the - zombies - brains - out world.
I'm expecting at the very least he's got a date. But possibly this job he's been on about.

"What's happened ?"

"I'm actually now one of the top ranking players in the world at zombie call of black ops killers"

Well I don't rememeber what the fucking games called do I. But hey, good to know all them hours and hours sat up playing it until 5am weren't in vain.

"Oh great, and this is gonna help you get on in the world how....? "

"Uh huh...."

"How is this gonna help look after me in my old age.....?"

"Grunt...."

Back to the drawing board, actually I've been considering selling him adopting him out to Angelina, I don't think she's got a half Jamaican one yet.
Is 24 past the legal age ? He's not very tall, if I made him shave his beard off I reckon he'd pass for 16.