Monday, January 2, 2012
Monday, August 1, 2011
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.
Susan
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.
A friend likes this.
A friend in England who has got out of bed (8 hours time difference) says:
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.
"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:
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 thisA 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.)
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" http://laughinthefaceofpms.blogspot.com/2010/09/praise-lard.html and "Sunday Morning Worship" http://laughinthefaceofpms.blogspot.com/2010/08/sunday-morning-worship.html
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.
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" http://laughinthefaceofpms.blogspot.com/2010/09/praise-lard.html and "Sunday Morning Worship" http://laughinthefaceofpms.blogspot.com/2010/08/sunday-morning-worship.html
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
http://www.amazon.com/Laugh-Face-PMS-Diary-ebook/dp/B004WF5CLG
and here if you are in the UK
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Laugh-Face-PMS-Diary-ebook/dp/B004WF5CLG
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 24, 2011
Too Busy to Write
No time to write today but here are two very funny things to watch.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lVmmYMwFj1I&feature=youtube_gdata_player
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HPyl2tOaKxM&feature=youtube_gdata_player
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lVmmYMwFj1I&feature=youtube_gdata_player
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HPyl2tOaKxM&feature=youtube_gdata_player
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