Forty-one & Fucked!

It’s official.  I’m a grumpy old frumpy woman.

No longer am I interested in modern culture, clothes, hair, make up or shoes.  

Instead, my mind is choc-a-bloc with nonsensical rubbish ranging from which is the best bog cleaner for getting rid of shit stains to what the weather’s going to be like tomorrow and is it going to be ok for me to hang my washing out without it being at risk of being even wetter when I bring it in than what it was when it went out. 

I keep saying this because it’s true.  Getting older is a big pile of dogshit and people who say otherwise are either high on coke, crystal meth or Jesus or they're lying through their (usually surgically enhanced) shiny white choppers.  

The only time that getting older is good, is if you’re an antique, a vintage bag or a fine wine.

If like me, you’re a forty-odd year old single mum with twin kids that have more energy than a tent full of ravers, then middle age can be a fucking bitch. 

Everyday I step another hundred miles away from today’s youth culture and a hundred miles closer towards the planet Cantankerous Old Witch. 

Everyday I am reminded that although I may feel, think and act like a teenager on the inside;  I portray the demeanor of a battered old sausage on the out.

Basic communication has totally gone out of the window and it’s a good old bloody job really. 

Kids have forgotten how to use their vocal chords properly - everything’s a grunt here and a grunt there.  I sometimes wonder if we’re not all living on Old MacDonald’s Farm.

My kids are no different.  They bang doors and dish out dirty looks like they’re going out of fashion.  If they hated not cleaning their room as much as they hated me, my house would be absolutely spotless. 

So really, it's understandable that I've got the face of a smacked arse. 

I slaved away like a twat to try and shape my children into (fingers crossed)  good people - despite living in a world that made us all question why the hell and what for exactly?

And what do they bestow me in return?  

I'll tell you.  

They remind me every single day that my eyes/hearing/cooking/skill level on Minecraft is an absolute pile of shit.

And do you know what?  They’re absolutely right.

I am no longer the sparkly, earth mother that I once was in my thirties. 

I am now bedraggled, frazzled, disenchanted, disillusioned Joan Crawford’s character in Mommie Dearest. 

Minus the draw-on eyebrows. 

The Frazzled Mam’s Christmas Meltdown

Have a heart attack realising how much 10 year-olds expect for Christmas. 

Arrange for a bank loan to purchase meaningless Xbox game complete with capitalistic plastic figure that does fuck all but costs a small fortune. 

Verge upon Bankruptcy as you consider the real cost of ‘a few Christmas drinks at a quiet bar in town’.

Empty the DVD rack as you try to recycle funds to pay for the ‘must have’ CD’s of the moment. 

Attend first AA meeting as Xmas pressures start to manifest themselves in empty vodka bottles.

Make up some hair-brained excuse to not pay Council Tax, Rent, Water Rates because Bratzilla outfits are only £2 a pop in Home Bargains so of course, must buy twelve. 

Empty every single half opened packet of foodstuffs in the cupboard in an effort to create a meal, because this week’s shopping budget went on an Ipad.  (Fuck you Apple and your socially ingrained peer pressure).

Run down the road screaming because the HP men are here to recover the Christmas presents that haven’t even made it to 25^th December yet. 

Regret spending £10 on an amazing radio controlled car that just had to have, despite having no credit on the electric meter and sitting in the dark eating tea, playing I-spy.

Yearn for the days when the only financial outlay I had at Christmas was a fiver I chucked in works Bran Tub.

X-pect everything to sort itself out in time for Christmas Day.  Er, dream on. 

Make space in the garden for when I get that sick of seeing the fucking Christmas tree, I decide to launch it straight through front window, decorations and all.

Accept that despite what the adverts say, Christmas isn’t all about abandoned puppies, party food, cash donations and really crappy CD compilations. 

Sing the praises of the truly appreciated friends who’ve contributed to make this Christmas far more enjoyable than the last - thanks to their altruism, love, kindness, understanding and much valued presence in my life.  

Have a fantastic pissedmas everyone!

I wish each and everyone of you a prosperous 2014. 

x x x

Why sometimes being a Mum & getting old is a big bag of shit

I used to live life carefree, me.  Yearning, earning, partying and farting about. 

Until one day, the great conception star in the sky said:

‘Hey u! You’ve been spending far too much money on Jack Daniels, Yves St Laurent and Morgan De Toi.  Let’s give you something else to spend your money on instead.’

And ‘poof’ there I was, single mum to twins.

Now, I know we’re all supposed to say how wonderful being puked on and shat on is, how poignant our babies first steps/words/bowel movements are, how monumentally exquisite being a mum is but let’s be honest - being a mum is a big pile of shit, sometimes.

You slave your guts out for shit. You work your ass off for shit, you get covered in shit, you get fed full of shit. And if that wasn’t enough, you have to go through shit, eat shit and not give a shit by the time you learn how to deal with the shit.

Believe me. The ‘pregnant’ blooming glow is a barrel of bollocks.  Having kids sucks dick.

Behind the Quinny, The anti-MMR brigade, the banal and completely unnecessary birthday parties, etc - you’ll still end up a bashed in, ground down, wrinkly, haggard looking old bastard.

If it’s not your child’s clothes, hair, shoes, manners, road/internet/personal safety you’re worrying about, it’s whether they’re going to shop you to Child Protection Services because every teatime, you lose the plot.

And let’s face it, no designer handbag, amazing school-play costume/disco outfit, Ugg Boots or 4x4 is going to disguise that really.

Sometimes what you don't know, won't hurt you.

The truth behind the top ten lies that men tell:

‘Nothing's wrong, I'm fine’

Obviously he isn’t fine and he’s shitting himself about telling you he’s lost this month’s mortgage payment on the 2.15 at Chepstow.

‘This will be my last pint’

No it won’t. He’s just ordered another three before he texted you. And one of them was for a bird.

‘No, your bum doesn't look big in that’

He’s looking at someone else’s arse.

‘I had no signal’

Not technically a lie. Bad reception in the bookies, apparently.

‘My battery died’

That’ll be the incessant text messages to his Facebook ‘friends’ – All female, obviously.

‘Sorry, I missed your call’

He was too busy poking his eyes out with a rusty fork. Oh, and getting a blow job while he was at it.

‘I didn't have that much to drink’

Before condoms came into the equation.

‘I'm on my way’

To A & E, or a Sauna usually.

‘It wasn't that expensive’

He got a payday loan in your name to fund it.

‘I'm stuck in traffic’ 

In the back of a Police car.

The truth behind the top ten lies that women tell:

‘Nothing's wrong, I'm fine’

I’m on my period and come within ten feet of me and I’ll stab you to death.

‘Oh, this isn't new; I've had it for ages’

Well, had an eye on it for ages anyway.

‘It wasn't that expensive’

I forged a payday loan in your name to get it.

‘It was in the sale’

Yes, last year. In a different colour. And in a completely different design.

‘I'm on my way’

In the opposite direction.

‘I don't know where it is, I haven't touched it’

It’s broken and it’s buried in the garden.

‘I didn't have that much to drink’

After 3am.

‘I've got a headache’

I have plans and they don’t involve you.

  

‘No, I didn't throw it away’

I gave it to charity.

‘Sorry, I missed your call’

I was far too busy having much better sex with a much better looking guy who is earning much better money than you are.

It’s not all about Christian Grey, you know!

Prompted by a friends recommendation,  I’ve started reading the ‘International Phenomenon’ (*rolls eyes*) ‘The Man’. 

What can I say?  Other than it being yet another FSOG clone (yawn).

On a literary level, the typescript is absolutely horrendous - although it reads much better when under the influence of stimulants/prescription drugs,  I must say. 

Please allow me to summarise it for you:

‘Ana Ava is a naive idiot who thinks with her fanny young professional who cannot overcome her attraction to domineering selfish bastard playboy Christian Jesse.’

I know.  Sound familiar?

When I read a book, it’s usually because I either want to learn something or I want to escape normality for a while.  So, when I read a book for recreational purposes, I enjoy it much more if I’m given the opportunity to create my own mental picture of it.  I don’t like it when every single iota of detail is dictated to me.  For instance, in many erotic novels I’ve read, way too much page space is given to tedious minutia that’s completely irrelevant to the storyline/book objective. 

Personally,  I don’t want to know every single decorative detail about the setting/backdrop/characters personal life;  neither do I want to read about everyday mundane occurrences or be painfully subjected to an exchange of banal and pointless dialogue. 

I want the book to set the scene, not to over-analyse it.  I don’t need to know that the lead’s six foot nine inches tall with a square jawline and hazelnut coloured eyes.  I just want to know that he’s fit and I’ll mentally construct the rest, thank you very much.

I want the book to divulge the outline and sketch out a few seductive details. I don’t need the I’s dotting and the T’s crossing.  That’s the job that my reader brain has to do.  I don’t want the neuroticism, materialism, idealism and sometimes downright stupidism that all too often lands itself on the pages of a hell of a lot of erotic novels I’ve recently read. 

I don’t want to be force-fed formulaic Mills and Boon bullshit and I don’t want my lead to be a billionaire, have his own Charlie Tango and be a ridiculous incarnation of the man from the Milk Tray advert.  I want my man to be completely real and completely human.  Flaws, falls, fails and all. 

After all, aren’t the best sexual fantasies the ones that are anchored in reality - involving real life people and real life situations?