Posted on

PMS is the Path to the Dark Side

We all know that your teenage years are the best years of  your life complete and utter hell on wheels half the time. Any adult who tries to tell you that they are the best years of your life is not to be trusted with important decisions like whether brussel sprouts are a vegetable or a tiny ball of fart.  (It’s the second one, trust me.  I know things.  I’m the kind of grown up who has never told a child that high school is the best years of their lives.)

Ash: “My uterus is trying to kill me.”

Me: “There is a distinct possibility that your uterus is trying to claw its way out of your stomach and strangle you.”

Ash: “I think it’s trying to take me to the dark side.”

Me: “Don’t do it.  They don’t really have cookies.”

Ash: “They probably do.  But they’d be the ones with sultanas and other nasty things.”

I’m pretty sure that Star Wars would have been a completely different movie if Anakin had been smart enough to realise the cookies were laced with raisin traps *before* going to the dark side.

“Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to cookies. Cookies lead to raisins. Raisins lead to disappointment.”

The lesson here is that my daughter is more suited to being a Jedi than a Skywalker is.  And that raisins and sultanas are tools employed by the dark side to break the youngling’s spirit.

Posted on

Important Work Phone Call

I called my friend in another office to ask her a very important grammar question, because you don’t want internal emails to Head Office to go out without proofing them first.  That’s just unprofessional, People!  And I’m all about looking professional.  That’s why I’m the boss.  No really.

“Okay.  Important Question.  You know what a stickler I am for grammar rules.  Do you think prostitutey has an E in it or just a Y?”

“Ummmm… That’s one of those words I have to see written down.  Gimme a sec. <scribes silently>  It definitely has an E in it.”

“Yeah, cause you only drop the E when you add ING, not when you add Y.”

“Yeah.  And IE just looks funny. <starts giggling>  You need to write that down.  Look at Prostitutie with an IE written down.  Are you doing it?”

“Yeah?  It looks wrong.  Its definitely an EY.”

“No but with an IE it looks all cute.  Like it might be a lip gloss flavour.”

“Eewww Noone wants lip gloss that salty and white.”

“Nooooo.  Like Lip Smackers Prostitutie Fruity.  I’d buy that.  It sounds delicious and  fun.”

<disolves into laughter>

And while I’m sure that prostitutes and flavour derivatives thereof are both delicious* and fun, I am not so sure that it is time for them to be on the supermarket shelves.

*in a completely non-cannibalistic way.  Please don’t eat people. Well, do.  But only in the behind-closed-doors kind of way.  But now I think about it, cannibals probably don’t leave the front door open when they are cooking dinner.  No one wants to see you adding paprika to your great Aunt Ruth who ended up in your favourite goulash recipe because she gave you yet another ugly christmas sweater.  I think I’ve put too much thought in to this already.  So in summation:  Eating people is only for sexy times.  Not for dinner times.  This is an explicit disclaimer to absolve myself of any involvement or responsibility in your freaky and completely illegal canabal parties.

Posted on

Classic Literature is Not to be Trusted with your Children

The other day (and in the words of the amazing Ed Byrne “when I say the other day that really means between now and…. ever”) I was having a conversation with my 20 year old son who is currently reading The Divine Comedy by Dante, more specifically, he is reading Dante’s Inferno. And let me tell you, that is some pretty messed up stuff. Human Centipede, Teeth, Saw? Nope, the people that imagined those sick and twisted plots lack the nauseating and warped imagery that Dante sprang forth from his dark and perverse imaginarium. Seriously, there is essentially what is a rape tornado in this book. Did you get that?   A tornado full of raping. Yeah, that happened.

What’s worse is the dentist’s office style waiting that is one circle of hell.

Me: “Your soul is important to us. Your afterlife may be recorded for training purposes.”

Me:“Thank you for waiting. Your deity of choice will be with you as shortly as possible.”

Son: “It doesn’t say how he got to hell.”
Me:“Probably took a wrong turn at Albuquerque.”

Son: “Yeah … can you go to hell for us…….(shrugs) Seems legit.”

Son: “Much fire. Very pain. Such ice. Wow.”

Son: “He got lost… and went to hell!”
Me: “Yeah, that happens. I went to Gosford once too.

Posted on

Weird Feet

Individual.  Funny. Empathic.

All the things I value highly in a child and my daughter has them all.  I can remember (and it doesn’t feel like very long ago, but in reality it is about 5 years ago) her getting so upset and having me whisper retorts for her to use in the ‘pun wars’ the older kids would have with my husband because she wanted to join in but wasn’t old enough to come up with the jokes.

Its hard to believe now.  She has become the most amazingly funny and quirky individual who has had us in stitches all weekend.

Our fabulous (and quite young compared to us at only 24) friend came to visit last weekend and Ash spent quite a lot of time with her splashing in the ocean on rainy days and failing miserably at navigation and trying on her clothes.  Well, scarves really.  All of them. And mine. All of them. At the same time.

11130150_10152814878591724_230618895433282949_n

Me (laughing and leaning in to kiss her): “I love you”

Ash: “I love you too”

Me: “You’re so weird”

Ash:  (looks down, looks back up, looks down forlorn) “Its my feet, isn’t it?”

Whole room erupts in laughter.  It couldn’t be the 12 scarves she was wearing at once making her look like a snowman dressed by small children, must definitely be the perfectly normal feet…

Posted on

Elmo, a leg rash and arson

Regurgitated post from 2011 from another site:

So I saw on Facebook yesterday that my best friend had been taken to hospital.  Before you judge me for finding out via Social Media that my best friend was dying of an unnamed disease, I’m not sure what, possibly testicular cancer or hemorrhoids, I would like to point out that a) I moved interstate a couple of years ago and can totally be excused from knowing what is happening half way across the country and b) she is even more obstinate than me (as hard to believe as that is) and never lets on when she needs help.
So, there you have it.
I’m totally blameless in all of this.

Stop judging me.

Having her in hospital all the way over there made me think about the last time I was in hospital and she came and brought me a care package. I don’t usually like to tell people how I ended up in hospital, I like to call it a clumsy moment.  But really is was a Coordination Failure of the Highest Order.

Here’s the thing.
I was in the middle of trying to get a restraining order against my ex-husband so I had paperwork spread out all over the living room floor, at the same time I was mopping the kitchen and chatting online to my, then, boyfriend.  My boyfriend said something that was grossly offensive that I can’t exactly remember (I can’t be expected to do all the work, people!) like No, Ryan Reynolds is NOT the sexiest man alive or I see your point and it has validity, but we’ll have to agree to disagree this time, My Darling and I got justifiably upset, turned around as I let out a curse word or two into the empty room….

This post is interrupted to bring you the “Tip of the Day”
Curse at your partner behind their back.  That way they never have the right of reply and you will always win whatever disagreement you are having – either real or imagined.  After all – Winning is what matters in a marriage.
You may now return to your regularly scheduled blog.

stormed into the living roomWherein I promptly tripped over the bin that I had moved in there in order to mop the kitchen floor, skidded on some paperwork and impaled myself between the toes on a 2 ringed binder quite deeply and convincingly.  To cut a long story only a little bit long – the ensuing infection spread up as far as my knee before I was admitted to hospital.

Knowing me as well as she does, my best friend recognised that I was going to get bored very quickly sitting in hospital connected to a drip with no shiny things to distract me or small children to make fun of and brought me a care package.  I’ve heard talk that flowers are the traditional gift in hospital, in this case my hospital gift consisted of:

  • a Mr Potato Head style Elmo toy, complete with elephant outfit and noises
  • Bubble Wrap – thank goodness it wasn’t my thumbs that were injured
  • Maccas Trivial Pursuit – all my pursuits are trivial
  • Coke Zero
  • Grain Waves

Which is why when I found out she wasn’t well, I called the local florist there and convinced her to go and buy a colouring in book and crayons to deliver with the flowers I was sending.  Cause I’m the kind of caring friend that makes sure the hospital staff delivering your gift start to suspect that you’re one of the special kids. You’re welcome!

Quote of the day:
After seeing that a chicken schnitzel was burned
<creepy stare with knife and fork by his face> “Mmmmm Dinner is arson flavoured, tonight”