Monday, August 1, 2011

Stroller Tray Table of Hilarious Motherhood Memoir Art Update

A very nice, patient man at eBay - God knows how he coped with a drunken woman who could barely see the screen, let alone steer the mouse around it - helped me to unlist and relist my auction on eBay with a more realistic shipping fee. It is now $20 instead of $3000. Thanks to a friend for bidding on my ridiculous item previously. She even offered me her dog in lieu of the hefty shipping fee.

I think the $3000 fee was in violation of eBay's shipping policy anyway.  I have put a reserve of $20 on the tray table + $20 shipping. I am not calling that poor man again.

And, actually, I don't really want a dog, although the dog in question is a very nice one.

So the auction is here now. Get your bids in - only 6 days left.

Saturday, July 30, 2011

Stroller Tray Table of Motherhood Memoir Art

 I am wondering why nobody is bidding on my eBay auction item. Maybe it is because the shipping is $3000.00? Please read on to find out why.

Item Condition: Highly Used and Harassed by Children Just Like Seller

I am selling my most beloved piece of baby gear, a mother’s memoir, with reticence. Don’t all mums get desperate and turn to ebay when hubby says, “It’s time you went back to work.”?

Jimmy, my husband, came home from work yesterday evening and our conversation went,

“Have you got your period again? I thought you just had one.”

“No, I’ve got PMS, you insensitive moron.”

“Have you started looking for a job yet?”

For some strange reason, he does not think that looking after kids, blogging, and publishing an eBook constitutes a proper job.

"Why ever not darling?" I ask him.

Actually, I scream at him and swear. I tell him that I am going to get an evening and weekend job in a bar. He gets to put the kids to bed every night and have the entire weekend by himself in their company. On the other hand, I will be bought drinks by lots of men in the bar, because my boobs are bigger than those of the other barmaids.

And so I am preparing my resume or curriculum vitae, which is Latin for "course of life". Isn't everybody's course of life the same?

Dribbling and crapping, bullshitting to get a job / wiping up dribble and crap, dribbling and crapping.

(Come to think of it, this tray table has seen its fair share of those activities. It not only clips onto a Jeep umbrella stroller and, no doubt , other brands, but also onto the bassinettes on British Airways transatlantic flights back to the rainy U.K. This tray table has seen more turbulence and flatulence than your average tropical cyclone. But it is robust. It is a survivor!)

Power verbs are an essential part of any resume and indeed they have got me jobs in the past.

Bullet points are also important, but I have not quite mastered those on my new computer (which my husband bought me seven years ago).

My key achievements to date:

*Managed to get stuck in a lift (elevator) for two hours during a fire drill.

! Proved my team playing skills, by writing a bogus report for the director to present to our sister company in Hamburg. The rest of the sales team was coercedinto collaboration. The director, who did not speak much German, read our report, word for word, to our German colleagues and managed to call the manager there a garden gnome and a dysfunctional cocksucker. Apparently, German factory workers did have a great sense of humour (humor) that day.

. Minimized postage costs for the department by losing all of the names and addresses on the database.

# Liquidated my computer by throwing a cup of coffee at the keyboard when it lost my entire research project.

; Disproved the theory that German cars are superior by winning an off-roading race in my British company car in Germany.

@ Restructured that company car so that it was unrecognizable.

+ Administered a very painful blow to the groin of the taxi driver, who tried to grope me when he finally found me sitting by the smouldering remains of my company car.

? Fabricated a great story about what happened and why I needed to fly back from Germany and abandon the company car.

" Distinguished myself as the most reckless worker that the company had ever had the misfortune to employ.

007 Investigated the affair of my boss and the director and bridgedthe gap between being fired and obtaining an expensive, brand spanking new vehicle for my next trip to Germany.

I am currently studying for a Ph.D.

"What will you be a doctor of?" you may ask.

Why, Bullshit of course - what other kind of Ph.D. is there?

Now what sort of job would I like to apply for?

Nothing to do with kids or animals.

When I lived in rainy England, my ambition in life was to retire somewhere sunny (obviously not Britain) and sit on the beach drinking wine. That pretty much summarizes my current situation, so in that respect, I have been one of the most successful people I know. I have achieved my goal. The careers advisers and life coaches are not going to get any business from me. In fact, I am at the pinnacle of my career.

Like the course of life, my resume remains a work in progress.

And so I am going to try my hand at selling our discarded remnants to others in a last plea for freedom from evil employers, who can only be less oppressive than my current mini managers.

You may ask why the shipping on my objet d’aft is so high.

Isn’t that how all sellers make money on ebay?

Actually, I have a more poignant reason. I hate (“hate is a very strong word Mummy”) waiting in queues in post offices more than anything in the world except, perhaps, tarantulas. I would rather be carried, covered in curry by cannibals, through the Congo on a bad Ebola day than waste my life waiting for service from a tortoise in a fusty smelling, antiquated GPO.

And don’t get me wrong, this is not a racist slur on U.S. post offices. I despise these institutions on a global scale.

It is not so much the way I have to chat to old ladies, who have lost their pension book and are hopping around on their fifth hip replacement. Nor is it the way the postmaster has seemingly run out of stamps, which is tantamount to a winery running out of wine, but not quite as serious.

It is more the way I always seem to have my kids with me and they shout questions like,

“Why does that old woman smell of dirty nappies?” (“diapers” to you locals).

“Is that dog with the man with the white stick deaf too?”

And then when I get to the counter, I have forgotten what I was going to buy or send. My kids inherited most of my memory cells, the minute they were conceived, leaving me with fewer than a retarded barnacle.

International Shipping: This stroller tray table has already travelled all over the world. It is immune to vomit in many different countries. One more journey abroad probably won’t hurt it. Just don’t expect me to explain all the stains to the customs authorities.

If you are unfortunate enough to lose this exciting ebay auction and not get this precious piece of memoir art, then please purchase my eBook from Amazon. It is called “Laugh in the Face of PMS Diary.”

Happy bidding.

Love, hugs, and irreverence to all you super buyers and the cuddly staff at ebay.


And here is the advert itself, but hurry, only 8 days to go!

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

My Poor Sore Pussy

I woke up this morning with a huge scratch on my forehead and a hairdo that made me look like a crested eagle, according to Henry, who is studying birds at school.

"How did that get there?" I thought in my usual morning stupor.

That is the problem with drinking a glass of wine too many and thinking that your cat is your hairdresser. He started off quite gently but got a bit excitable when his claws got all tangled up.
Why haven't I managed to write my blog since May 13th? What do I do all day? Why don't I have a full-time job? What exactly have I achieved in the last month?

Pain management.

One evening, Henry came hopping and screaming out of the bathroom, where he was alternating between bathing and making full use of the toilet. He looked like a distressed walabi, and was clutching his private parts in agony.

The bathroom smelled delightful, thanks to my air freshener, which is a beautiful, natural blend of citrus fragrances. It was a veritable fiesta of freshly squeezed oranges and grapefruits.

But we had no idea why Henry was in such distress. He was hopping from foot to foot, still holding onto his particulars, as if somebody was about to cut them off.
"Oh you didn't spray it on your willy did you?" Jimmy eventually fathomed it out.

Henry admitted that he thought that you had to spray the product into the toilet, and had done so whilst still sitting on it.

I am writing to customer service at "Pure Citrus" to advise them that their product should carry a warning and directions for what to do if you spray it on your genitals as well as if you get it in your eyes, which incidentally Henry had also done a few weeks ago.

Last week was an eventful one for me and not in a good way. In fact, it was pure pain.
I spent all of Tuesday in the Sherriff’s records office and on the phone to various police departments in LA and other places, that I have never visited or heard of. Somehow my Driver’s License was suspended and I only found out because I had applied for my record so that I could drive for Emily's field trips. The suspension had been on my license for several months and if I had been stopped by the police, I could have been put in prison for driving on a suspended license and my car would have been impounded.
It turned out, after a lot of investigation, that somebody (probably the most intelligent and articulate staff at the Department of Motor Vehicles) had made an error of one digit in license numbers and some bloke in LA should have got the DUI (driving under the influence) on his license!
Anyway, hopefully that is sorted out now.

At the weekend, I had a conversation similar to the one below on Facebook ™
Me: My poor sore pussy! Urinary tract infection.
Me:If I stroke it, it seems to feel better.

A friend likes this.

Another friend: OMG lmao .... U r hilarious :0)
A different friend altogether likes this

A friend in England who has got out of bed (8 hours time difference) says:
Not nice, drink plenty of water and cranberry juice and keep stroking!!
A very rude friend in England, who has also just got out of bed says:
Well that's what happens when you do too much fanny fiddling!! Cranberry is recommended by our continence nurse consultant !!
(And for the Americans who are reading this, the word "fanny" in the UK does not mean "bottom," but rather "front bottom". Only women have fannies in England. We Brits think your word, "fanny pack" is absolutely hilarious. )
An old boss of mine (not old in age) joins in the conversation:  Adding to the general consensus of opinion, definitely cranberry juice and a hot water bottle between your legs (but be careful - no scalded pussies please!)

Me: I took him to the vet yesterday and the antibiotics seem to be helping. Apparently, it is difficult to get pussies to drink cranberry juice. But he has run off to catch some mice now.

Old boss says: Lol!! You really should be more explicit Susan! X
Me: I don't know what you are talking about!

A Welsh friend who lives here: Front to back dear!

My sister in law: my first reaction was one of shock as I couldn't believe your public notice and then I remembered what you're like and realised it wasn't you! x

Me: Yes, well frankly I am sometimes amazed by the things people write on Facebook.
A friend of a friend: I LOVE your sense of humor!
Me: Maybe the cat sprayed Pure Citrus on his dick too.

The pain of paying the vet's bill was relatively minor in comparison with the rest of the week's events.

(Apologies for the weird paragraphs in this blog. Something crazy and slightly painful was going on. A weird force kept grabbing my text and placing it wherever the fuck it felt like.) 

Friday, May 13, 2011

Soiled Rotten for Mother's Day

Mother's Day in the USA is on a different day than in the UK. That is confusing. Here, they call their mothers "mom" and in the UK, "mum".

There are many differences in the way mothers are celebrated all over the world.

Some people go to the horse races, wearing fruit laden hats. Others go out for a fancy family picnic; some go to an exclusive restaurant for brunch, or they send mother to a spa for a massage.

So on Saturday (the day before Mother's Day), Jimmy decided that he was going to prepare a special treat for me. I would take the kids to the beach whilst he spent some quality man cave time, delving in fossilized turds and marker pens which had been maturing in the caverns of the old toilet since before we moved into our "new" house ten years ago.

Our "new" toilet had been sitting patiently in its box for four years, next to the every time you flush you play "Overflow on your feet Russian Roulette" model. Now, the "new" toilet was to reach the pinnacle of its career as it was finally being plumbed in.

"What is so special about Jesus?" Henry asked at breakfast before I took him and Emily to the beach.

"Oh God, the nuns at my convent are turning in their graves now," I thought.

I did try taking the kids to church for a while, but not a Catholic one, shame on me. But as I told the pastor in the pet store, when he commented that he had not seen me at church for over a year, I did not think that dragging Henry across the hall at home and into the car, whilst swearing at him, was a very healthy way to start our Sunday. Henry also told the pastor that he thought that God was a bearded dragon.

Jimmy walked past the breakfast table, hands full of shards of porcelain, fingers shredded, dripping blood, another offending marker pen, and other festering toilet debris.

"Eww, what's that terrible smell?" screeched Emily, nose up in the air like a sniffer dog.

"The back of the cooker looks like the back of the toilet. The common denominator is you," commented Jimmy as he stomped through the kitchen, complaining that my spicy curry has kept him awake all night.

In preparation for Mother's Day, when he knew he would have to be nice to me, he was venting all of his pent up gripes. In true red neck fashion, he had thrown the smashed up, retired toilet out of the upstairs bathroom window, narrowly missing the cat, who was sitting in his special hunting spot down below.

So Mother's Day arrived and I was given a guided tour of my new toilet, which was dressed in a pink ribbon. It looked like a royal throne, amidst the grunge of the rest of the bathroom.

"Maybe next year I will get a shower or a new sink," I thought, optimistically.

The bathroom had been devoid of a shower or bath for four years. In fact, calling it a "bathroom" is a bit of an untruth. It should be called, the "cat litter and mouse shit room" or the equally appropriate, "discarded and hidden irritating toy room."

Henry and Emily gave me some beautiful crafts that they had made at school and preschool. My, the teachers must have been busy.

Jimmy took us for lunch at my favourite restaurant and the manager gave me a free large glass of wine. I had already had one and was feeling a little tipsy by the time we left for the garden centre. I had my chauffeur so it did not matter. The children wanted to buy me some new plants for our deck.

We drove past the church and Emily asked, as usual, "When can we go to the church again?"

"Maybe we will try a different church sometime," I replied, remembering how I had not been very welcome last time. See "Praise the Lard" and "Sunday Morning Worship"

By the time we arrived, I was feeling a bit wobbly. Emily grabbed a garden trolley (cart) and climbed in and I pulled it. Jimmy and Henry had already disappeared into the plants. I proceeded up a small hill on the path between the newly planted bonsais and the marigolds. We had just reached the Bougainvilleas, when Emily screeched suddenly and fell backwards out of the trolley, in which we had already put a few pink potted plants. The handle of the trolley whipped around under my legs and I fell back in the opposite direction into some particularly prickly bushes. I felt a patch of freshly watered soil creeping into my pink shorts and underwear. At least it numbed the pain, caused by the large thorns, that were piercing my behind.  As I staggered up, I saw a member of staff appearing, shaking her head.

Emily was screaming and was covered in soil from the pink pot plants that had been covering the sticker which read, "Children should not ride in cart."

Jimmy was peering over the top of the tomato plants at me, also shaking his head. Henry came rushing round the corner to see if he was missing out on any excitement.

We loaded up the trolley with some new plants - I did not wish to pay for broken ones. Emily finally stopped screaming and we paid and then went to the potting soil area to get something to plant the new flowers in. Emily and Henry were clambering about in the bags of soil whilst Jimmy huffed and puffed and lifted a few bags onto the flower-laden trolley. I lifted one bag on and then decided to have a rest. After all, it was Mother's Day and I had a very dirty brown patch on the back of my pink shorts. Jimmy mumbled something about me thinking I was the queen, but lacking the required decorum.

Suddenly, Henry started a kerfuffle (commotion). He was stuck between some bags of potting soil. Emily was squealing at Jimmy to help.

Whilst Jimmy helped Henry to extricate himself from the "castle", I tried to load one more bag of soil onto the already full trolley. I am not going back to that garden centre again. The whole cart tipped over once more, squashing the plants which we had already paid for.

Jimmy was in a real rage by now and he flung bags of soil and plants into the van like provoked Popeye.

On the way home, Emily said again, "Eww, what's that terrible smell?"

I glanced into the back of the van and realized that one of the bags of potting soil had burst open and was liberally scattering its "real fish heads and organically raised chicken manure" onto the floor.

"How can a simple trip to the garden centre be so awful?" was Jimmy's response.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Laugh in the Face of PMS Diary Published

Fasten your incontinence underwear and prepare to piss yourself laughing on a rollercoaster of hilarity and vulgarity. A British mother, living in California, tries to rid herself, her husband, two little kids, and killer cat of the dreaded PMS, which strikes terror into the household every month. The word irreverence takes on a whole new meaning. This hysterical diary of over 50,000 words does not simply help you laugh away your PMS, but also assists you in writing a resume that will ensure you never have to return to the workforce again. Men and women alike will learn how to deal with unwanted religious visitors to their homes, methods of coping with culinary disasters, and ways to use verbal abuse to rip new arseholes (assholes) in those who cross your PMS-laden warpath. There is valuable advice about where and how not to travel with children, if you want life to be worth living.

The author insists, "If you need medical help, this is not the place to seek it. It is not a substitute for a trip to see your doctor, although I sincerely hope that it will be a little more interesting."

Please buy my first novel for your Kindle or other such technical device for a mere $3.99 or 2 pounds and 81 pence if you are in the UK.

When you have finished reading and changing your underwear, please please write a glowing review so that other people will want to buy it.

You can find it here if you are in the USA and Australia

and here if you are in the UK

And please forward this to friends and family who have entered the digital era. If I can enter the digital era, so can they!

Thursday, March 17, 2011

My Bush and Red Wine Defy Radiation

First of all, I DO NOT find recent events in Japan amusing. I am not trying to make light of the terrible situation there. I am horrified to find, that on top of all the shit they have already been dealt, the refugees are now being snowed on.

And here I am, in sunny California, worrying about whether it would be better to let the cat run free, or shut him in the house, if we ever have to evacuate. It seems people are panicking that the radiation will affect us here. Rather than feeling compassionate towards Japanese people, it feels uncomfortably like we are blaming them for all this nuclear nonsense. I am sure that many of them would rather have seen solar, wind and wave power in their country than nuclear reactors.

Today, I am merely looking for an entertaining way to find alternatives to potassium iodide, potassium iodate, and anything else with "pot" or "iod" in the name. The shops have sold out, websites have got stuff on backorder, and the chemists are becoming extremely rich.

Culinary advice is not really my style. I normally incinerate things, blow up the kitchen, or cut the ends off my fingers with our, recently replaced by the kind manufacturer, kitchen knives.

Let's get one thing clear, I am not a doctor, nor an expert on radiation, nor a good chef. I would like to study for a doctorate in drinking red wine though, if anybody knows of any good universities to attend and a rich financier who would like to be my sponsor.

Take everything written here with a pinch of salt, or better still, a pinch of rosemary.

The thing is, my bush could be the key to our survival of a nuclear incident.

Rosemary has been a revered herb (or urb as it is commonly pronounced here in the U.S.) since before my Granny's time. Old women used to frequently wear it in their knickers to stop them from needing a bath so often. I should try using it for my kids. It is a bit prickly though.

There are two things in rosemary that deter radiation poisoning. These are called Carnosic and rosmarinic acids. Fuck knows how they work, but I am sure if you look it up in a proper herby sort of publication, you can find out.

My husband is concerned that I am going through another of my weird phases. I have been plucking my bush and making rosemary pesto. Fortunately, the one in the garden is very much bushier than its underwear covered counterpart. However, Jimmy has declined to eat the former culinary delight.

"Last time you made food with rosemary, one of those sharp needles got lodged in my throat and nearly killed me. Besides, it tastes like nasty old lady's perfume."

But, the best news I have heard all day:

Actually, I searched the web for such a topic. I thought there must be some articles related to how booze can help in a disaster. And BINGO.

To counteract the nasty strontium 90 in nuclear particles, which gets absorbed by the bones, and pretty much microwaves you from inside, drink lots and lots and lots of red wine. It contains strontium 85, which is not radioactive. You fill up your body with non-nuked strontium and piss out the nasty 90. If you run out of red wine, white will do. It does not contain as much strontium 85 as red, so I guess you just need to drink more of it. And piss more.

Imagine the new names for wine that may evolve: Cabernet Strontium 85, Stronto Grigio 85, and for special occasions, like when you can finally leave the nuclear bunker, that you have constructed in your garden, Strontagne 85. Save the Sauvignon Strontium 90 for unwanted visitors.

The Russians, apparently, survived the Cold War by drinking vodka. They were told to drink a lot of it in the event of a nuclear attack to flush out radioactive particles. Their ideology encouraged them to think,

"Everybody hates us, so what the fuck, might as well get shit-faced again"

I read an article, which further backed up my scientific findings and I have quoted a piece of it below.

"Japanese Should Be Drinking To Stave Off Radiation Poisoning

After the Chernobyl nuclear disaster of Ukraine in April, 1986 people were advised to drink red wine or vodka in order to neutralize radio-active toxic effects. A study by the University of Pittsburgh School of Medicine in 2008 concluded that Resveratrol, the natural antioxidant commonly found in red wine and many plants, might offer protection against radiation exposure, and when altered with acetyl, resveratrol administered before radiation exposure proved to protect cells from radiation in mice."


Rosemary wine can, supposedly, assist with headaches, so that will help to get rid of the hangover caused by imbibing the red wine or the vodka.

Rosemary and roast lamb - mmm, I can't wait for tonight's dinner, especially the red wine part, which luckily I had delivered last night by the nice Safeway man. They have not run out of that yet.

Cheers to my bush, red wine, and the nice Safeway man!

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Highflying With Kids

Flying with kids can be very scary,
You have good reason to be wary.

Before you fly, be sure to pack,
And always remember to take a snack.

Carry only tiny bottles of liquids or gel,
Otherwise your life will be pure hell.

If you have a baby, take a bottle with a nipple,
Pack an extra for mum, filled up with a tipple.

To avoid having a total nightmare,
Don't forget the favourite bear.

Pack sensible toys for onboard fun,
Whistles, paints, party poppers, a drum.

Tell your children, especially your six year old son,
Not to pack his toy knife, nor his pretend gun.

Before you fly, you need to share,
The importance of wearing underwear. *

Mile high anal output travels at high velocity,
Resulting sometimes in a smelly and messy atrocity.

A spare set of clothes for all is an essential matter,
In case of unexpected poo, puke, spillage, or splatter.

Take plastic bags to contain garments that are soiled,
Otherwise your backpack will be smelly and spoiled.

DVD player comes out; kids' headphones go on,
There is no real reason why your voyage can't be bon.

Bribe the children with unhealthy treats,
If this keeps them in their seats.

Your offspring can run, but they can't get off the plane,
So let the other passengers help to share the pain.

As your cherubs have races up and down the aisle,
You can sit back, relax, drink wine, and smile.

On internal flights, don't expect food, unless you intend to pay,
If you're lucky, you might get a drink from the stewardess' tray.

Clean air is always extremely limited in supply,
From other passengers' farts, you may well die.

One day they may introduce an oxygen fee,
After all, on a plane, not much is free.

Passports are a must for all international flights,
As you board the plane, you waive your human rights.

Don't make the staff angry by being rude,
They have the advantage of superior altitude.

Don't forget you must eat up any fruit or vegetation,
Before you arrive and go through customs and immigration.

Never argue with the passport people, even if they are rotten,
You don't want your name down for an inspection of the bottom.

If customs ask, "Madam, do you have any vegetables, fruit, or trees?"
Just open up your jacket, flash your melons - "officer, only these".

* see the following, The Importance of Wearing Underpants

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Do You Know the Muffin Man?

Yesterday, Emily came home from preschool, singing "Have you seen the muffin man?"

Now, I always thought that the lyrics to that catchy song were, "Do you know the muffin man?"

But then a lot of nursery rhymes are different in California than back in Britain.

And then I started thinking, "Well, who the hell was the muffin man, anyway?"

So whilst the song went round and round in my head, I decided to take my own trip down memory lane and investigate this important matter. Instead of cleaning the house, or making a delicious dinner for Jimmy, who is returning from two nights away, I find myself taking a tour of history on my favourite web sites, which usually begin with wiki.

(Whenever Henry asks me a question about a sea lion with elephant sized testicles (oh, that would be the Elephant Seal) or whether birds fart, I refer to a wiki site. Apparently birds do fart but you can't hear it or smell it because the stuff they eat doesn't make smells and they don't have any bottom cheeks to fart out of. I am not sure I agree in the case of vultures - I am quite sure that if they farted, it would smell bad. I mean, they eat rotting carcasses, don't they? I am sure somebody could get a Ph.D. on the back of that one. I will have to look it up. But later.)

So the first verse of the nursery rhyme goes,

"Do you know the muffin man,
The muffin man, the muffin man,
Do you know the muffin man,
Who lives in Drury Lane?"

I discover that the concept of grocery delivery to your door is not a new one. So whilst I have blueberry and high fructose corn syrup muffins delivered to my door along with the rest of my food and wine, in the Victorian era, they had unsweetened muffins brought to the door by the muffin man.

The nursery rhyme appears to be about a specific muffin man, who lived in Drury Lane. Where or what is Drury Lane? It is a street in London, partly in Camden and partly in Westminster. It used to be where some posh bloke (man) called Sir William Drury lived.

Drury House got more interesting and became a pub, run by somebody's mistress, and by the 18th century, Drury Lane was one of the worst slums in London, full of whores and gin palaces. I like the sound of the pub and gin palaces.

So, by deduction, the muffin man on Drury Lane must have been delivering his wares to prostitutes and their customers. I wonder if the muffin man did a bit of muff-diving whilst completing his rounds.

Now, if the muffin man had been around a few centuries earlier, he may have been delivering to a street with a totally different name because it was normal for a medieval street name to reflect the activity taking place there.

The name Drury Lane may well have been Gropecunt Lane instead. This was a common street name in English towns during the Middle Ages, and was thought to refer to the loose-knickered (loose-pantied) activities in that area.

Luckily for us, the last recorded Gropecunt Lane was in 1561 and the name was usually changed to a less vulgar name such as Grape Lane.

Otherwise our kids may have come home singing,

"Do you know the muffin man,
The muffin man, the muffin man,
Do you know the muffin man,
Who lives in Gropecunt Lane?"

Thursday, February 3, 2011

The Mother of All Resumes

For some strange reason, my darling husband does not think that looking after kids and blogging constitutes a proper job.

"Why ever not darling?" I ask him (Actually I scream at him and swear and tell him that I am going to get an evening and weekend job in a bar so that he gets to put the kids to bed every night and have the entire weekend by himself in their company.) I, on the other hand, will be bought drinks by lots of men in the bar because my boobs are bigger than the other barmaids.

And so I am preparing my resume or curriculum vitae, which is Latin for "course of life". Isn't everybody's course of life the same?

Dribbling and crapping, bullshitting to get a job / wiping up dribble and crap, dribbling and crapping.

We just encounter different arseholes along the way who defecate on us from a great height or we become the arseholes who shit on others.

Years ago, my resume was foolproof in getting a job. I have a friend who used my entire CV and just changed the name at the top to hers and got the job (not that I am implying that she is a fool!)  But that was an office job and I don't want to be in a smelly, stuffy office being told what to do by wankers, who take the credit for my work. Nor do I want to manage an office full of idiots who think that they should be paid just for sitting on their sweaty arses, preening their bum fluff and doing jack shit else.

I do have a degree in Marketing and German, which is very useful if you can think of anything to sell to Germans. Now, they are not going to buy cars from us, are they? Theirs are the most superior in the world. I don't think they would want to purchase books from us because they would be in the wrong language and would not be serious enough.

We might be able to sell them some manners. Now, that is a brainwave. I will set up a course called," English and Manners for Rude Germans." Now, I am not saying that all Germans are rude. I once met one who verged on the polite. That is to say that after ramming me with a supermarket trolley three times in a queue, she did attempt to apologize. I had already completed my check out and left the shop because the German word got lost somewhere between the fifth and the tenth syllable.

I did try to sell air cleaners to a Kraut in a shop in Garmisch Partenkirchen in the Alps. Having driven nearly 500 miles to get there, he explained in German, "Are you crazy, woman? Why in God's name would I be stupid enough to buy one of your little shitty machines when we have the cleanest air in the whole world?" I thought about telling him that actually he was wrong and that Hawaii has that claim to fame but restrained for three reasons:

1.) I did not want to start World War 3 and have the SS putting their drab, brown towels down by the swimming pool and on the beaches of Maui.

2.) I was bloody knackered from chasing him round the electrical shop 16 times before he went and hid in the back room and locked the door.

3.) I shared his opinion that what I was trying to sell was a pile of crap and decided against trying to peddle any more that week. I booked into a hotel overlooking the Alps and spent the rest of my week skiing and wining and dining at my company's expense. Admittedly I did not get paid much that month but I had a mighty fine holiday, enjoying the beautiful, clean mountain air and poking the locals with my ski sticks.

"HR people Google you when they are looking at your resume so you must not have anything on the Internet which will deter anybody from employing you," my lovely Jimmy said, reading a particularly rude comment that I had written on "WankedIn".

And so I think I may start my CV with a false name. It would be nice to have a fresh start. I try to think of names that will stand out in my precious resume. I remember coming across the name, "Nunfucker" when I was working on databases in my research analyst job. (That one is quite appealing, although none of my lesbian fantasies have ever really extended to under the habit activity.) We even got the secretary to call the number listed and ask if there was a "Nunfucker" living there. She was bright red in the face and did not look very content with her course of life at that time.

Power verbs are an essential part of any resume and indeed they have got me jobs in the past.

Bullet points are also important, but I have not quite mastered those on my new computer (which my husband bought me seven years ago).

My key achievements to date:

*Managed to get stuck in a lift (elevator) for two hours during a fire drill.

Proved my team playing skills by writing a bogus report for the director to present to our sister company in Hamburg. The rest of the sales team was coerced into collaboration. The director, who did not speak much German, read our report, word for word, to our German colleagues and managed to call the manager there a garden gnome and a dysfunctional cocksucker. Apparently, German factory workers did have a great sense of humour that day.

Minimized postage costs for the department by losing all of the names and addresses on the database.
# Liquidated my computer by throwing a cup of coffee at the keyboard when it lost my entire research project.

; Disproved the theory that German cars are superior by winning an off-roading race in my company car in Germany.

@ Restructured that Ford Fiesta so that it was unrecognizable.

+ Administered a very painful blow to the groin of the taxi driver who tried to grope me when he finally found me sitting by the smouldering remains of my company Fiesta.

? Fabricated a great story about what happened and why I needed to fly back from Germany and abandon the company car.

" Distinguished myself as the most reckless worker that the company had ever had the misfortune to employ.

007 Investigated the affair of my boss and the director and bridged the gap between being fired and getting a brand spanking new Mercedes for my next trip to Germany.

I am currently studying for a Ph.D.
"What will you be a doctor of?" you may ask.
Why, Bullshit of course - what other kind is there?

Now what sort of job would I like to apply for?
Nothing to do with kids or animals.

I am fed up with telling Henry to get his hands out of his pants when he is doing homework. "We don't want any more poo on the pencils, now do we?"

Cleaning up mouse and rat guts has become monotonous too. Marbles, who we were told was an indoor cat when we rescued him from the shelter, is a killer extraordinaire. The remains of a huge rodent are pinned to the deck like a biology lab rat dissection. It is decapitated and swarming with blue bottles (blow flies) and ants. Its guts are revolting and black and congealed. It lies next to the corpse of a shrew and some other unclassified innards. They will need to be scraped off with a high powered sander.

 I just opened the sliding door to take a photo for my resume and a swarm of blue bottles tried to enter the house and one succeeded. So now I am chasing it around with Henry's homework folder, which looks like it has already been responsible for housing a whole family of roadkill.

Actually, when I wanted to blag my way into the United States, I was considering becoming a minister as there is a special visa for clergy. I did not have the required number of years of work experience (none to be precise) in my country of origin so that kind of scuppered these plans. My early years of convent life did not seem to count towards the prerequisite.

However, I have taken a keen interest in theology ever since and you may wish to view my prestigious spiritual publications. If you are a publisher of quality religion and would like to take a look at them, they may be found here.


Sunday Morning Worship - primarily investigates theories of getting rid of unwanted religious zealots.

Praise the Lard - discusses humility in the face of trying to disperse an almighty hangover.

The Mother's Morning Prayer - an analysis of how to cope with the heavenly joy of raising two monsters and preventing the removal of teeth and eyeballs.

Like the course of life, my resume remains a work in progress.

Thursday, January 27, 2011

Forgetoirs of a Harassed Housewife

The kitchen looked like a battlefield this morning with blood and guts everywhere. The mice are back and Jimmy was in full trap-setting mode last night. I was just snapping one dead mouse out of the sprung device and into the bin, when Marbles, the cat, took a dive under the dishwasher. He found the other trap that was set, which I had no idea was under there. All I could see was the wood and spring dangling out from his whiskers and I was terrified it was going to snap on his face. Little did I know that there was a big, fat, live mouse still wriggling around in his mouth. Marbles dropped the whole thing on the carpet and the mouse writhed around. I had to bludgeon it to death with the laundry basket. It was the closest I have come to vomiting in a very long time. Mornings are not a good time for me ever and I have PMS into the bargain.

I had to take Henry and Emily to school and was in a horrible rush. Jimmy had scheduled an early dental appointment so he could not take Henry today.

I wandered around the kitchen mumbling to myself in a way I had once laughed at my own grandmother doing. Standing with my head in the fridge, I wondered what on earth I was looking for. Trying to make packed lunches in a rush made me even more absent-minded than usual.

Down the stairs I flew to put the washing in the dryer, went into Henry's room to turn his light off, stood on a piece of sharp vacuum cleaner fodder, and then forgot why I had gone downstairs in the first place.

Drinking several more cups of caffeine did not seem to help and in fact left me with third degree burns on my tongue. My brain is less like a sieve than a large fish landing net most mornings. I truly am losing my marbles, and I don't mean the cat.

I set the timer on the cooker earlier to remind me to do something before I left the house, but can I remember what that thing is? Can I f*ck?

Later, I went for my swim and whilst in the water, I remembered that I had forgotten to remind Jimmy about paying the credit card bill. He had asked me to do this yesterday. I had asked him to remind me to remind him and had also written it on my "To Do" list. But then somehow that list disappeared and I spent half the afternoon looking for it and trying to recall what was written on it. I found several other To Do lists that I had mislaid weeks ago, but not my current one.

Now, as I swam, I knew exactly where my list of jobs had disappeared to and I recalled that I was supposed to remind Jimmy of the bills. But I don't usually carry a waterproof pen and paper with me in the pool. I got out and dripped all over my cell phone. I called myself at home and left a message on my voicemail.

"Hello, you wonderful but forgetful woman. Don't forget to remind Jimmy to pay the bills. And your To Do list is in the kids' "Memory Game" box where you left it. Goodbye and looking forward to seeing you later. Love you." My voicemail is usually full of calls from me.

There was a message on my phone from Jimmy, ranting about the fact that I had not reminded him about the bills.

Back in the locker room, a woman who I see every day at the gym said good morning to me. Her name, which I have called her by many times before, was not so much on the tip of my tongue, but more embedded deeply somewhere beneath my tonsils.

My brain basically resides on bits of paper or on voicemail, apart from occasional lucid moments, like when I am swimming or driving the car. Sometimes, I will be driving along, and suddenly remember something crucial, like the fact that I have forgotten my friend's birthday. I rustle around under the dashboard looking for a pen so that I can write a reminder on my hand, which is harder to lose than a piece of paper. Somebody honks at me because I am weaving along at a pensioner's pace. I swerve off the road at the petrol station and prepare to write down the important piece of information. Can I recall what it was? Can I bollocks?

When I got home from swimming, my answer phone was flashing "low battery" and had lost my message from earlier. My computer then told me that it was out of memory. "No, that is me!" I shouted back at it.

Often, I ask the kids to remind me of something. "Don't let me forget to get petrol." or "Remind me to put the cat out before we leave the house or "I need to put the bins out. They stink."

Do the children jog my memory? No, of course not, unless it benefits them. If I tell them to remind me to make pancakes, they will always do so. Similarly, I never forget where a good pub is, or to pour myself a glass of wine when I get home in the evenings. I suppose we all remember the things that are important to us in life!

My kids, although they inherited most of my memory cells the minute they were conceived, leaving me with fewer than a retarded barnacle, seem to be selectively forgetful. Does Henry ever remember to pick up his dirty clothes and put them in the laundry basket?

Does Emily ever know which of her 93 Jean Paul Toddlier handbags she has shoved her new mermaids in? Yet, they expect me to have a photographic memory for the placement of their kiddie junk. And when I can't even remember things like where I hid their Christmas presents or the stash of confiscated Halloween candy, they are taking the piss if they expect me to have the slightest clue where their bearded Zhu Zhu pets or pink, fluffy Barbie shoes are.

Giving my children a bath is not something that always springs to mind after I have taken them to all of their after-school activities, given them dinner, done Henry's homework for with him, enjoyed the after-dinner entertainment (screamed at them to stop telling knock knock jokes). It is Emily's job to remind me to give them a bath. But sometimes the lure of TV is too great and Emily selectively forgets to remind me, until it is bedtime and then she throws a hissy fit because I have been neglectful.

I remember a conversation between my grandparents when I was a child which went like this:

My Granddad said, "Love, if you are going to the kitchen, please can you get me some desert. You'd better write it down so you don't forget. I'd like some canned fruit please. Write it down so you don't forget."

"Fred, I don't need to write it down. I won't forget."

"And please put some of that condensed milk on top. Write it down so you don't forget."

Granny was getting a little irate by this time. "How many times do I have to tell you? I don't need to write it down, Fred."

Granddad added, "And don't forget my cup of tea with sugar in. Do you need to write it down?"

A while later, Granddad was watching the news for the ninth time that day, probably because he had forgotten what happened in the eight previous episodes, when I smelled cooking and could hear a frying pan sizzling. We had just eaten shepherd's pie with vegetables that seemed like they had been cooking for the entire 30 years that my grandparents had lived there. My Granny was famous for saying to chefs in restaurants, "I like my vegetables to have at least touched the boiling water dear."

In came Granny carrying a tray with bacon, eggs, fried tomatoes, brown sauce, and a cup of tea.

Granddad took one look at the tray and shouted, "I knew you should have written it down, woman. You forgot my bread and butter."

I was a little confused but also very amused as my Granny wandered off to get the bread and butter. It was lucky that my Granddad was such an active man in between episodes of the news. It was not a problem for him to eat an extra dinner every so often.

Granny, on the other hand, used to start on the brandy at 8 a.m. "Just a teaspoon for medicinal purposes dear." Then she would forget that she had imbibed her morning medicine and have another teaspoon. The size of the spoon got increasingly larger as the day went on. One time, she had obviously used all of the available spoons and I caught her guzzling brandy out of a ladle.

Gran would then pop out at nighttime to have a look at the stars, forget where she had put her glasses and binoculars and lean so far back to get a look at Orion's Donger (or whatever it is called) that she would fall back and hit her head on the concrete. Still, she lived to be 95 and was in extremely good health, apart from her memory, and a few dents on her head.

She was fascinated by flowers and would often take little cuttings of plants when we were at the garden centre, much to my Mum's embarrassment. But she could never remember the plants' names. We had a little joke when she would ask me what I thought it might be called and I would always answer, "It's a Forget-me-not."

Our history teacher at school had a brilliant memory for historical dates such as the birthday of the first prime minister of Britain's Auntie Edith. But she could never remember our names. We had to wear name badges for every lesson with her for five years. Of course, we were always switching badges with others just to confuse her and we would end up with somebody else's homework books being returned to us. But, it certainly made history lessons more fun and it did mean that my friend got a detention for locking the teacher in the cupboard for an hour, rather than me.

My brother and his wife once forgot to take their luggage on holiday with them to Ireland. They realized and bought a bag and a solitary toothbrush before they got on the ferry to Ireland, and when they arrived at their hotel in Dublin, they were asked by a porter if they needed help carrying their bag! However, it did give my sister-in-law a good excuse to go on a shopping spree in Dublin. Now, whenever they go anywhere, they are always asked by family members, "Did you pack your bags yourselves? Or are you travelling light today?"

Nothing quite rivals forgetfulness like "foetal fuckwitness" "baby brain". This is a condition experienced by mums when pregnant. It is the start of the brain cell robbing process that leaves us with the antithesis of an "an elephant never forgets". Instead it is more a case of "an amoeba never remembers." However, we may well reach the physical size of an elephant during pregnancy, which really does not seem fair - a great lumbering creature with a single-celled brain.

Whilst pregnant with Emily, I left the engine running in the van for two hours whilst I took Henry to the supermarket. When I came back, the vehicle was surrounded by police. A concerned friend at the park had noticed that I was not with the vehicle and had tried to call my cell but had realized that it was in the van on the dashboard along with my keys in the ignition and my purse. Consequently, I had totally broken down in the supermarket when I came to pay because I thought I had lost all of my belongings in the store. The whole staff had been alerted and told to look for my missing items. I had finally given up and wandered back to my van, only to find a very anxious friend, who had alerted the police that I may have been kidnapped. She was pregnant too and realized on my return that she had left her first child unattended in the park.

There are some painful childhood memories which I will never forget, such as persuading my Granny to pick a poppy in the neighbour's garden. She was furious because she ripped her brand new raincoat on the barbed wire fence which she had to scrabble under to reach the flower. Her coat had replaced one which she had forgotten about and left on a train.

Emily has some painful childhood memories which she will never let ME forget, like the time I almost drove the van into the creek at the bottom of our narrow road, whilst trying to make way for an approaching vehicle. We missed her ballet class as a result - an unforgiveable error! Jimmy will never let me forget it either as he wasted several hours trying to get the camper out of the ditch and being splattered from head to toe with mud. He finally conceded that we needed a tow truck. He complained of the indignity of it all. We did, however, get his car towed to the garage using the same tow truck, hence killing two birds with one stone. His vehicle would still be sitting on our driveway with no brakes to this day if I had not persuaded him to get it towed. I will never let him forget that either.

Human memories are a bit like old cell phone batteries. Once they are worn out, the rest of the device becomes increasingly useless. However, at least a cell phone battery can be replaced.

Anyway, what is the moral of this story? I don't know. I forget.