‘Hell’s Angel’s’

Scenario: When your brother confides that your children are the sole reason he has chosen to remain childless.  He admits he loves them and they are little angels but the variety that have come straight from the guts of hell.  His pet name for them, ‘The hells angels’ now makes a great deal of sense.

My beautiful little ankle biters can be a trifle overbearing sometimes.  I accept this. Loud and shouty and more than partial to mischief, you’d be forgiven for thinking that I feed them a bag of speed each morning for breakfast, but this aside I still didn’t know if my brother was joking or not.  He has managed to remain childless and now in his late thirties it’s probably unlikely he will be a dad which is a shame because he’s the perfect candidate to be a parent in a big kid meets protector sort of a way.  He does have step children though so his potential to air his parenting talents haven’t been totally lost.

 Then I remembered a particular visit my brother had made to my mums when we had been there.  It involved my then 6 year old boy who was going through a phase of pulling down peoples pants from behind when they weren’t looking because he thought it was hilarious. Which lets face it, is always funny in any situation.  He had claimed more than one victim with this killer move including  but not limited to my Father In Law.  The time he had done it to his Grandad, everyone in the living room had got an eyeful they didn’t want.  Grandad had been carrying a tray of tea at the time which rendered him helpless and made it impossible for him to pull his shorts back up straight away which was a bit awkward but totally brilliant at the same time! 

 My ankle biters had terrorized my brother from start to finish during this visit and it was nicely concluded with my 6 year old giving him the biggest wedgie I’d ever seen a thirty something get from a small child, quickly followed up by his signature pant pulling move.  It is probably important to note that this happened on the driveway in full view of the neighbours in the middle of a Saturday afternoon.  It is also equally important that I mention my brother had made the unfortunate decision to go commando that day.  After remembering this little nugget I realised the probability of him being serious about why he was childless was fairly high.

 I don’t hold this against him, far from it in fact.  To me it is a huge compliment.  My anklebiters have personality and I love it. I appreciate that my life would most likely be easier and less frustrating if they were quiet, well behaved and didn’t earn themselves titles like ‘The Hell’s Angels’ but honestly who wants that?  Strong personalities are something to be celebrated and without a doubt an asset in this world we live in.  I’m sure over time and with the introduction to high school, college and various other life adventures that they will be brought down a peg or two so I feel grateful for their strength of character because one day they’ll need it.  It’s also a bit of a relief to all involved that my boy seems to have outgrown his love for making family members do involuntary moonies so relax people, no need for those very tight belts anymore.

Eliza x

‘Married At First Sight Australia’ Spoilers- Not really, don’t panic.

For those of you I haven’t completely alienated with talk of ‘bum juice’, homeless middle aged hookers and rogue nipples, welcome back.  For those that weren’t so keen, sorry not sorry.

I’m not sure if any of you watch Married at first sight Australia but I am basically obsessed.  If you don’t watch it and are about to switch me off, please don’t, just hang in there for a minute and hear me out.  Husband and I discovered it last year during the first lockdown and despite hating reality TV with a passion we were both instantly hooked. For those who have never seen it, it is basically 10 arranged marriages that sees the bride and groom meet each other for the first time on their wedding day.  They get matched together by a panel of relationship experts.  Most of them have larger than life personalities and some are just plain horrors which sees loads of fighting , disagreements and usually there’s a random one that tries to have affairs with anything that moves. 

Since we stumbled on it we have watched all the seasons which have been aired on channel 4 and are up to our necks this very moment in the current series. Which is fairly impressive considering that Husband will not watch anything with me unless it’s a film and it has to be over and finished, with an actual ending within a couple of hours.  He has no patience and dislikes any type of series because it goes on and on and on … and on.  So imagine my utter shock when I find him suggesting that maybe I’d like to watch ‘’that Australian program you like’’ 

 You are kidding no one Husband. 

 You know only too well what it’s called because you are also obsessed with it and have managed to watch nearly 3 whole series with me, attempting the entire time to look like you’re not really interested.  

I’m not going to pretend I’m not a bit cross with his new trick though, which is to Google all the couples and then try and fill me in on all the dramas, who is still together, who isn’t, who is in prison for the brutal murder of Ines.  That wasn’t a spoiler, don’t panic.  As far as i’m aware she is still walking around being a complete Fucking abomination and no one has actually wiped her out yet.  Frankly it’s beyond me how someone isn’t serving hard time for her grizzly slaying, in an Australian hell hole like Wentworth (or Prisoner Cell Block H  for those who remember it the first time round, or those who don’t remember it but remember being allowed to stay up and watch it with Great aunty May when they were 5 – totally inappropriate but they let you do anything in the 80s).

Is it just me that can’t wait for it to come on every night, devastated on a weekend when it’s not and I have to suffer withdrawal for 2 whole nights?  Is it just me that sits watching it from behind a cushion because the cringe factor is off the scale, and screaming at the contestants like they can hear me?  I’m actually finding it quite stressful this time round and as much as it’s all I can think about I’m not sure I have the staying power to watch to the end. 

Anyway I’ll wrap it up there because I missed last night’s episode, through no fault of my own so even though it’s going to be a car crash I’m off to watch it.  I’ve never been known for my resolve.

Toodle pip.

”OMG I thought it was you”

Question: When is the ideal time to bump into an old college friend that you haven’t seen for the thick end of 10 years?

 Is it when you are unshowered, unshaven (chin hairs protruding), unmade up without a scrap of make up and totally uninterested in anything that’s happening around you because you are concentrating on picking up your dog’s poo that is far from solid on a public footpath?

No.

Is it when you are sporting unflattering see through black leggings and therefore showing off your wild hairy beaver because in the absence of knickers the little hairs are poking through in the same way they do when you are abroad on holiday in your bikini and you’ve trimmed with the nail scissors in a feeble attempt at being well groomed?  

No.

Lets say , just for fun, that the friend in question is tall, slim, unimaginably glamorous and clad from head to foot in designer wear. More impressively (to me) clean freshly washed designer wear, including a shiny  pair of Hunter wellies with matching socks.  

It would appear that although none of the above are textbook perfect situations, you don’t get to choose so it’s tough shit when all of them come true at once on a family dog walk on a Sunday morning.  My mum doesn’t even go to the petrol station for a pint of milk without a dash of lippy and a bucket full of style, making her look like she has marched straight off the front cover of Vogue, just on the off chance she ever crosses paths with her neighbours’ brothers’ wifes’ cousins’ cat, so if she knew that I’d been caught out in cheap leggings, a dirty coat and the 10 year olds beanie hat she would be mortified.

 It was a beautiful frosty morning, the field at the back of the house was white over and begging to be explored with excited kids and boisterous dogs in tow.  In reality Husband and I had no other choice but to threaten the children in order to make them move out of their bedrooms and cooperate in joining in on family dog walking fun, something we try to make a habit of each Sunday morning.  Amongst cries of ‘’I’m not coming, you can’t make me’’ and  ‘’I hate the outside, stop ruining my weekend’’ we managed to shoo them both up the drive and into the white field.  We had decided to walk across the field  at the front of our house, up the public footpath, passed the farm and back around the country lane to the back of our house.  I do this walk with the dogs a few times a week.

Husband never ever picks up dog poos, it makes him gip so I get lumbered with the job every single time.  We had made it roughly half a mile from our house and I was already carrying 3 full dog poo bags so when our big old American Bulldog squatted for the fourth time  I had to negotiate 3 other bags,  a crazy Frenchie and two of those stupid extendable leads that you could easily hang yourself on.  Husband and the kids had knobbed off up front to do ‘grannie slides ‘ (WTF a grannie slide is I don’t know but it’s what Husband calls them) on the ice leaving me to struggle alone.  Imagine my sheer overwhelming delight when bent over mid poo grab a voice bellowed ‘’ OMG I thought it was you!!’’

Spinning around crap in hand, I came face to face with my best pal from college.  Her looking like a glamorous celebrity not a day over 21 and me looking like a middle aged homeless prostitute in a hand knitted beanie brandishing a dog poo like it was a weapon.

Despite generally not giving a flying fook about what people think about me, all I could think about was how horrendous I looked in comparison to this goddess standing in front of me.  After what seemed like an eternity of pleasantries including an introduction to her new husband I managed to excuse myself and escape.  

Once again alone with Husband, the ankle biters and the dogs. I breathe a sigh of relief.

  My people. 

 I hitch up my mucky leggings, wipe my nose on the back of my hand and look lovingly at Husband, grateful he’s not judging me like I was just judging myself when he says with a huge smile ‘’So that’s what it’s like to have a wife who looks after themselves’’

Fucking unbelievable.

Bra Free Fridays

Last year when the first lockdown in March snook up on us and smashed us over the head with a frying pan, I had to stay off work to look after the ankle biters like a lot of mums and dads.  Although it was a strange time which took some getting used to, we all seemed to bed in quite nicely to lazy days of reading, avoiding housework, eating 67 times a day and loosely attempting to keep the homeschooling up and running. I stopped wearing jeans or any clothing that was tighter than a loose jogger or pyjama set, and this included my bra.  Never a huge fan of the brazier anyway, this was the perfect opportunity to set fire to it and never let it near my bangers again, and that’s what happened.  For 7 marvellous months my boobs swung low and free without a care in the world and without apology, so imagine my distress when come September I had to go back to work in a formal situation where the freedom of jiggling boobs and rogue nipples was strictly forbidden.  

Picture this … you have made a special effort to leave your home, taking your life in your hands braving COVID to go and pay a cheque in at your local bank.  You are greeted by the cashier tits first and nearly lose an eye.  Probably not what most customers are looking for. 

 The necessity for a restrictive bra, tights and that little bitch you call a work dress now 2 sizes too small following lockdown was mandatory.  I knew my waistline had expanded slightly as a lot of people’s had but I just wasn’t ready for how much.  I’m now the not so proud owner of middle age spread and I don’t really know what to do about it.  Ideally I’d do nothing and it will disappear on its own but that’s probably not going to happen which is why I had 2 options to choose between.  

 1.Purchase the second hand dress that was for sale on the works internal internet which was 10 sizes bigger than my own and had specially modified extra large sleeves. An ideal addition to accommodate the bingo wings.

 2. Wear a double duvet cover.

I was beginning to think the only viable solution to escaping this fate was to fake my own death. I love work, or rather the girls at work. It’s like getting paid to go and see my friends 2 days a week but we’re not going to mention that to my manager. I have discovered though  that I love home more.  I like not washing myself, not wearing makeup, smelling bad without judgment and most importantly not having to wear a bra.  

Letting my tarts swing and clap together at will is very liberating and not something I want to give up in a hurry.  Maybe I could persuade work to introduce bra free Fridays?  The only other alternative is to meet my end by being involved in a fatal boating accident (because every film I’ve ever watched involving the faking of a death ALWAYS involves a boating accident).  It’s not a decision to be taken lightly, it will require some careful thought. Just know that if you see on the news that an abandoned boat has been found unmanned in the North sea in suspicious circumstances close to where a half burnt woman’s body was retrieved, that I came to a decision.

Love is …

So the other night Husband and I were in the thick of living our best rock n roll lives, watching TV in bed when I was certain I could smell something suspicious.

Me: I can smell something, can you?

Hus: Like what?

Me: Like cheese.

Hus: Yeah, I thought it was you.  Smells a bit sicky doesn’t it?

Me: I’ve just had a shower.  When was the last time you got a wash?

Hus (In deep thought and squinting eyes): Erm  … maybe Thursday I can’t remember?

Me: It’s Monday today.  You are gross get away from me.

*Husband deliberately dangles his huge cheesy beard near my face* 

(He actually started to grow it about 5 years ago because I said I hated beards, so like a red rag to a bull he grew one.  It’s now massive, but the joke is on him because I actually love it. He also has a shaved head and some tattoos so in a dark room I can almost imagine he is Ragnar Lothbrok (Vikings- best series ever) which is ideal.  I casually suggested a head tattoo to further support this but I haven’t had any success as yet. I’d never tell him I liked it though because he would shave it off immediately.  He’s a weird creature).  Anyway… where were we …

*Husband deliberately dangles his huge cheesy beard in my face*

As he does this we both get the shock of our lives when we catch sight of a dark shadow hovering at my side of the bed in the dark bedroom which is dimly lit by the light of the TV.  Quickly we realise our stinky old dog, that smells like he is literally rotting from the inside out, has ninja stealthed his way into our bedroom without us noticing.  Upstairs is strictly off limits to the dogs but since our American Bulldog has got old he thinks its a license for him to be able to do whatever he likes and so roams freely around the house without a thought for the rules, or the consequences of breaking them (not that there really are any consequences because we are too soft to enforce anything and he knows this and thats why he owns us)

Hus: It’s the dog.  Definitely the dog.

Me: Don’t blame the dog, it’s you who hasn’t showered in 4 days.

Hus: I bet he’s been dragging his bumhole across the carpet like last time we caught him sneaking around up here.

Me: Oh shit he better not have. You’ll have to smell the carpet.

*I dispatch the dog downstairs and return with a can of Dettol anti bac spray for soft furnishing*

As I enter the bedroom Husband is on all fours systematically working his way round the whole of the bedroom carpet sniffing deeply to see if he can tell where exactly the dog has been.  I join him and we work together.

This is my idea of what love is.  

I’ve never really been one to attract, or enjoy a soppy type of man that would pin me down and insist on stroking my face. I’m just not made that way. 

To me,

Love is laughter,

Love is acceptance (even when your not looking pretty or slim or smelling your best)

Love is being able to say what you think without judgement.

Love is crawling around on the floor in tandem sniffing out dogbum juice

Love is not lacing his food with poison or suffocating him with a pillow in the dead of night even though he did something that annoyed the living shit out of you.

Love is pretending you agree it’s the dog’s bum juice giving off the offensive smell when really you’re about 97.5% sure that the smell is coming from your Husbands crusty beard.

Now then you little Beauties!

Firstly, THANK YOU FOR COMING, lovely to have you here!  I decided to start this blog because for as long as I can remember I have always enjoyed a good story.  In fact, in my opinion there’s nothing better, and over the years I have talked the ears off my friends and family with stories which usually begin ‘’ You’ll never guess what happened ……’’, so I thought it was about time I branched out and found new people to talk to death.  Not actual death, don’t panic, to my knowledge no one ever died of being talked at, but then there’s always a first time so watch your back!

Once you’ve had a bit of a mooch through this check out my ‘about’ page to find out all my dirty little secrets.  This is my first blog and there will be many  more so if you like a bit of jackanory time and want to come back then that would be spank me on the arse fantastic. If you are wondering what sort of shite I will be drivelling on about, I can tell you that you can expect to see rantings and ramblings about some of the following things-  

*Stuff that happens to me or things I observe on a day to day basis that make me think, Fucking Hell I’ve got to tell someone right now before my head blows off.  This could be anything from an excellent outfit choice by a random member of Joe Public that i’ve caught sight of, to my youngest child telling the Asda cashier ALL of my secrets. There will probably be more than one or two accounts of little incidents that have occured  like when I nearly ate a floating turd by accident in a pool in Eygpt or got trapped in the automatic door at the bus station.  I may mention Husband when he has done something particularly nice or has annoyed me so much that I am plotting his slow painful demise, and of course I will let you know when my little ones (that are actually not so little anymore – currently 9 and 12) say inappropriate or rude things because anyone who says that inappropriateness (is that even a word?) isn’t funny needs an immediate operation to have a sense of humour transplant. sibling arguments, pets (usually our 2 dogs).  One is quite old and smelly but beautiful and we love him.  The other is a small French Bulldog that we rescued last year.  She is basically mental and has a plan for world domination, despite this we love her too.  The attempt at parenting that Husband and I are constantly stabbing around in the dark at will also be mentioned frequently I imagine.

*Toilet Humour.  It’s my fave and there will be plenty.  

This isn’t an exhaustive list but it gives you a clue. I’m hoping that this blog will attract like minded people that like to laugh, who don’t take themselves too seriously.  I’d like it to be a place that makes you feel better after a shitty day or just somewhere to come when you feel like you want to hear a friendly voice.  I want everyone who visits this page to know that it is a place of support, in particular women supporting women because as a woman I don’t think there’s ever a time when you shouldn’t.  It definitely WON’T be a place that will be full of stories about perfect families that live in perfect show houses with perfectly behaved children, mainly because I have precisely no experience of any of these things.  My house is messy, my children argue and say things like ‘’Mum has a willy’’, which I don’t by the way, and shock horror Husband and I sometimes have a good old slanging match but I wouldn’t change any of it.  I am exactly where I want to be.  I am probably wearing a 3 day old stained loungewear set in a house that hasn’t seen a hoover in a while but that is still exactly where I want to be. I’d maybe like my loungewear to be cleaner but you cant have everything.