Monday, 19 September 2016

We are reborn, renamed and still kind of maladjusted

So where have I been for the past 3 or so years? In a nutshell, I got distracted. If you need to ask how one can be distracted for over three years then we are not cut from the same cloth and you should probably ask yourself some long, hard questions. Undoubtedly, I will unfold my tale of hair-brained ideas, behavioural issues, windows updates, dislocations and social inadequacies, in the future but for now, I really can’t be arsed. I’m already really tired by having to address all the things spellcheck is throwing up.

Life has moved on in the Crap household yet still resembles a rabid dog chasing its own tail. This epileptic seizure of time has resulted in the renaming of the children: 

Rain Man has started high school and is excelling at being a mumbling, surly arsehat yet 90% of the time has no idea what is going on. So we often refer to him as Towelie. When you begin referring to your son in general conversation as a South Park character (a genetically engineered towel who is perpetually stoned and often says “I have no idea what is going on”) it should probably raise some red flags regarding your parenting style. It hasn’t. Although I did take pause recently at the horrified reaction of a by-stander in the chemist when I said to Towelie “If you didn’t behave like a fucking stoned towel all the time we might actually get something done”. Then I realised that no one should be swayed by the opinion of filthy eavesdroppers and glared at the man because he was so clearly in the wrong. In the interests of full disclosure, I have to report that this didn’t prompt Towelie to move any faster or become at all aware of his surroundings. He just laughed his tits off. 

The Nazgul no longer screeches and due to her extraordinary ability to style herself to look like she woke up in a skip we have christened her The Bin Baby. It has developed three primary pastimes:
1)                          Crying whenever it doesn’t get its own way. This requires dedication and training and it can often be found sitting in front of the mirror studying itself crying. Recent crying catalysts include not be allowed to stab her father in the arm with a fork, asking what is for dinner and being told, mandarins are the wrong temperature, and after being told off for drawing on her own scalp coming to me sobbing to me because “Daddy disrespected my skills” which leads me to…
2)                          Constant acts of petty vandalism. My first husband and I naively bought white furniture for her room and allowed her possessions so I spend a lot of time trying to remove various scribbling from a variety of surfaces. Honestly, it is like living with a shithouse Banksy. It can be quite confronting for visitors when they first encounter her room which resembles a crack house and they notice all her dolls are sporting Russian prison tattoos and crosses on their eyelids.
3)                        Relentlessly trolling her brother when she thinks no one is listening. Although I do devote a lot of time doing this to my own brother it does bother me because at six years old, her skills have surpassed mine. She has moved on from the simple “you’re adopted” routine to saying things such as “Oh when we were at the zoo we went to the monkey cage to tell your family how you are going” and when looking at a picture of Towelie and his friends telling him “Why do you have that? You only have one friend and that is a cat”.

A bit over a year ago my closest friend went overseas for a few weeks so there was no one around to remind me that as a cat hater I probably shouldn’t get a cat. I got a cat.  Ostensibly, I got it as companion for the Bin Baby which backfired spectacularly. They have so much in common they rarely get along (although there has recently been a cessation of hostilities). If I am truthful I got it because I have really poor impulse control and can’t get a dog as a result of my first husband being dead inside.  Despite the Bin Baby giving the cat a name (I wanted to call it Sharon but was out voted) I call it Destructor the Idiot because it is really fucking stupid. My first husband has always been a cat person and previously claimed that they are intelligent and that it is dogs that are dim-witted. He has conceded that it is a myth that cats are intelligent creatures that choose not to be trained due to their self-reliant nature, and now accepts they cannot be trained because they are simply too fucking dumb. Towelie adores her and is yet to accept that Destructor the Idiot is thick. It pisses him off to hear me call her Destructor the Idiot. I know cat people will side with Towelie on this one but let me provide some anecdotal evidence to support my claim:

In order to turn the alarm on we need to lock the cat in a section of the house and as I have been running late since 2001 it usually falls to me (since everyone left the house some time ago and I have drunk 2-5 cups of coffee and watched several comedone extraction videos on YouTube rather than get ready).  It follows exactly the same pattern every morning (except when I can’t be bothered and lock her outside and hope that Towelie doesn’t find out). 
a) I pick up Destructor the Idiot who proceeds to bite me then abruptly remembers she loves me and starts licking me. 
b) I carry her through to her food bowl and put her down at which point she looks around confused and then assumes she must be hungry and starts eating. 
c) I spend between five and ten mins looking for my keys, sunglasses and shoes before leaving during which even a semi intelligent creature would realise it wasn’t hungry and is about to be locked in which it hates. 
Every single day for over a year and it still hasn’t seen a pattern forming.

And so now I leave you until next time I have something really important and time critical to do.



Wednesday, 27 March 2013

Easter Hat and other abnormalities

So it is that time of year when previously friendly teachers and carers show that they truly do despise us and put on an Easter hat parade. I had forgotten/repressed the fact that the Nazgul was having one today until yesterday. After frantically gathering supplies after the racks at the craft shop had been decimated by more organised and interested parents, the Nazgul and I picked up Rainman and headed home to face the inevitable.

I have a pintrest account which, along with making me marvel at what Americans eat and the previously discussed revolting fitness quotes, made me think I could and SHOULD use a hot glue gun. It may surprised you that I have a hot glue gun, it shocked the shit out of me too. I actually got it one school holiday to make Rainman some wizarding shit from this book he has but then he was an utter crap pony and it never eventuated. I had between 10 and 13 mins to make the damn hat and it dawned on me I was without the muse (known in some circles as wine). I could have called My First Husband to grab some on the way home but he bandies about the term "functional alcoholic" too much for my liking. Actually now I think about it, he may just mean I am dysfunctional sober and thinks I should drink more.

Anyway, within 5 mins of starting the venture fuelled only by dissatisfaction and disco I had not glued anything to the hat but I HAD glued an Aldi catalogue to the table. Within 7 mins I still had not glued anything to the hat but had burned my finger. It transpires that a $4.99 hot glue gun doesn't actually heat glue but if you touch the metal nozzle you discover that is hot. By this time I also had so much glitter over me I looked as if a fairy with explosive diarrhoea had staged some sort of dirty protest on my person. So I reverted to the 3 most useful things in my life: staples, sticky tape and blu-tack. Not long after this the Nazgul who although insane is the most competent in the family, politely suggested that I could go and leave her to stick some jewels on it by herself because I was ruining it.

My First Husband returned from work as I was attempting to hide the fact there was glitter on the steak, looked at my efforts which amounted to some felt eggs stapled on (for the record I WAS going to cover the staples on the inside so she didn't get stabbed in the head) and a dozen particularly special needs looking chicks with blu-tack and tape on their feet kind of dribbling down the side. He diplomatically suggested (generally when I am swearing at raw meat he knows to be diplomatic and to refrain from sudden movement) that perhaps he might attach to chicks to the hat later. Like many males he was more concerned with completing the task at hand than the overall aesthetic and compressed the chicks so they now appear to have spinal defects along with severe damage to the frontal lobes. The result is pure Nazgul and she is delighted.

Ignore the picture quality, I couldn't be arsed wiping the lens on the phone.

Thursday, 21 March 2013

Cocoon: A True Story

To all my friends who love the gym, running or any form of intentional exercise that doesn't involve propping up a bar - You are a pack of lying, filthy whores "Ohhh if you exercise in the morning you are on a high for the rest of the day". NO, if you have a Tom Collins in the morning you are on a high for the rest of the day...or until you sober up at least. I'd slap each one of you if you weren't physically superior and capable of beating my flabby arse to a pulp.

I don't think it will come as a shock to any of you that I don't approve of intentional exercise. I find it a waste of perfectly good breath that could be better spent swearing.  I have pointed out to several of my friends who run marathons, the only reason to run is if a wolf is chasing you and even then it is preferable to lay down and pretend to be a log. The closest I come to exercise is trying to find the grossest inspirational quotes on Pintrest. So far this one is winning. No matter how many times I see it, it still makes me feel sick. It's important to have a hobby.

So what will come as a shock to my nearest and dearest is that after years of Drs and physios insisting I exercise I have finally caved in and it SUCKS. Before you write me off as a traitor to the cause there is a reason that I have started following medical advice as opposed to just pointing and laughing; I have a hilarious genetic condition called Ehlers Danlos Syndrome. I have the hypermobilty sub-type which means I regularly dislocate limbs and digits (8 times in my right shoulder, 9 times in my left mainly while I was sleeping). Currently I am held together by chronically unstable joints,  poorly recruited muscles, and if My First Husband is to be believed, venom. As you might imagine this is more than a tad uncomfortable but also has the unfortunate side effect of my hips being so unstable that I walk like Jessica Rabbit. This tends to send rather the wrong message particularly on public transport.

So this is how at 8am this morning I found myself in the pool surrounded by hyperactive 80 years olds. I knew it was going to be bad but not even my unorthodox imagination prepared me for the true horror. As soon as I walked out of the change room all the geriatric heads swivelled towards me. Now I watch a lot of sci-fi so I knew what the glint in their eyes meant...they saw me as fresh meat, they were going to drain my (relative) youth and leave only a dried husk behind a skip somewhere. As if exercise didn't scare me enough doing it in the equivalent of my underwear in front of a glass wall of a cafe (full of 19 year old students sipping their smoothies and looking duly horrified at what gravity can do to the human body) was terrifying. Now I had to contend with the unexpected variable that the rest of the class obviously plotting to drain my soul. I was pretty consumed with this until I realised that not only had I picked up Rainman's swimming towel but it also reeked. I should have taken this as an omen and fled.

In addition to my lovely genetic condition which as you can imagine makes me less than graceful and coordinated I was also sadly born without a sense of rhythm. I mean absolutely none at all to the point I function as a rhythm vortex I actually suck the rhythm and talent out of people I stand too close to. I am not legally allowed to stand within 2 metres of a professional musician. It is hard to pinpoint the lowest point of the class but I think it was when  the woman who came in with a walking stick who was far more coordinated and agile than me also began giving me pitying smiles. In fact the entire class (including the token disinhibited old man and a woman in her 70s who must have just done a mountain of speed) was FAR FAR FAR more able than me. The psychotically chirpy instructor obviously identified me as the special needs child of the group as the cafe owner* and waiter behind the glass were performing a mocking imitation of us. The cocoon crew found this hilarious. I didn't. In fact it may be one of the 5 things in my entire life that I didn't find funny. I think my final thread of dignity evacuated as one of the exceptionally capable women I used to work with finished swimming her 200 perfect laps, got out of the pool and clearly recognised me.

At least on Saturday I have The Nazgul's mum & tots ballet class. I completely kick those 2.5 - 3.5 year olds arses when it comes to fairy runs.

*who I have asked several times to install a bar and written it on various surveys when I am taking the kids to swimming

Thursday, 14 March 2013

Ambition and Goal setting

 I am so sick of everyone saying "You have no ambition or goals. All you want to do is drink, swear and tell long winded stories that end up involving Brian Blessed*".

So I have worked and pondered and come up with a goal...I am going to punch every person I encounter who says anything about "Having your cake and eating it too".  Do these people not understand the concept of cake as a foodstuff? Were they cruelly subjected to styrofoam faux-cakes as children? Or are they just really fucking stupid? I am the first to admit that I have, on occasion, produced cakes no one WANTED to attempt to eat (because they were weak, unadventurous...and 7) but the point is they could have (if they weren't ungrateful little turds who just wouldn't eat something because they couldn't identify what it was).

* Did you know Brian Blessed does a voice in Peppa Pig? Life just doesn't get better than that.

Tuesday, 4 December 2012

The Joy of Tech.

So I just thought I could do some more work on the increasingly overdue report or I could squeeze in one more blog post for November so I am already fucked off since it turns out it is 5th December. One of my friends finds it highly amusing that My First Husband and I email other, mainly when he is at work but sometimes from the same house...after 12 years this kind of shit happens. So I thought I would give you all an insight into what these conversations entail. 

Conversation 1

Me: Just sponged mattress with lemon juice and apple cider vinegar. Hopefully by this afternoon it will be usable again.(If you are curious readers this is to remove human urine off a mattress)

My First Husband: You really do rock. Rainman and The Nazgul should feel very lucky

Me: That's what I am always saying. Drank the last of chicken soup out of bowl but started singing and now covered in soup. 

My First Husband: you were singing while drinking soup???

Me: Not when I started but then my current fav song came my vag smells like chicken and corn soup. 

My First Husband:  Do you mind if I come home for lunch?

Me: Alright but you can't look at me or talk to me

Conversation 2

Me: Would you wear this style of 50's bowling shirt kind of thing. I really like it but don't know if you would go for it.
Its okay if you don't like it. Just want to know.

 My First Husband: Yes, I like it. I got you a Christmas gift ..  its should be delivered tomorrow or friday so don't open anything..

do you like these...

Guess I had better get back to actually working. Oh and an update to last week's parcel delivery, turns out I had ordered a night light in the shape of a cat and a heap of red polka dot plastic plates, containers and salad bowls. I opened the door and said "Hi" in such a sunny way a little bit of sick popped up, and the Aust Post guy replied (a tad accusationally if you ask me)  "Did I see you pushing a pram this morning?". I said "Ummm, Probably. I was taking my little girl to daycare?" and then he walked away. I am currently designing a poster for the front door that says JUST SAY HELLO


Wednesday, 28 November 2012

Brown Paper Packages.

So walking back from dropping the Nazgul at daycare this morning I composed the most outstanding blog post in my head, truly it was magnificent so it was deeply unfortunate that I got home and discovered that my brother will be speaking in the third person for the rest of the week AND (as if that weren’t enough) I got an incredibly exciting email from and all the awesome fell completely out of my head. I then started this blog post but there was some kind of dancing/coffee/PC incident (I am not entirely sure of the details but we’re all fine) and it got deleted. Anyway, I have pasted the most exciting bits of the email below:

Please be advised of your article delivery status.
Article Number

Consignment Number

Total Articles
29.11.12 06:32:55
Current Status
Onboard with Driver

Now this might be rather mundane info to many people but for several reasons I am so excited that I can’t possibly do a lick of work today (or most likely tomorrow). Firstly, I have very little contact with the outside world so I consider the postman to be a visitor. Secondly, I have discovered the awesome combination of on-line Christmas shopping, wine and My First Husband’s credit card number (Baby, If you are reading this just remember I am the best you can do okay?) so the contents of the packages are often quite a surprise. Please see below for an example of yesterday’s effort.
Now while this delivery wasn’t a surprise the fact that the cubby would arrive as my motivation left was. It stayed that way until My First Husband moved it outside with the resigned “What makes you do these things” which is one of my favourite quotes around here.

However, the third and most important reason is the parcel post guy. Now we have had the same delivery driver for years and he is generally quite a pleasant chap. I am still slightly miffed from the incident a few years ago when I realised after signing for a parcel the buttons on my shirt were undone and he didn’t even have the decency to look impressed. Seriously. But yesterday was the ultimate conversation
Me (opening the door): Hi
Post guy (handing me the electronic signing thingy): Do you even work?
Me (signing): Ummmm….I work from home a lot.
And he leaves without saying another fucking word.

I was/am absolutely delighted, it is not often that I meet someone worse at small talk than me but the fact that I know he is coming back today is just fantastic.  Even more so considering last night I had a couple of scotches and dyed my hair the colour that once prompted a co-worker to say “Did you mean for it to come out like that?” I really don’t think enough grown women dye their hair a primary colour that glows (I am not being hyperbolous here, it is glowing). Now my beloveds how to answer the door? So far I am considering constructing a facsimile of a lo-jack device around my ankle, or slipping him a note that says “Please contact ASIO, I need immediate extraction…they’re onto me”…..or I suppose I could just write my overdue report. Any suggestions?


Tuesday, 13 November 2012

Conversations with Rainman

It will probably surprise many of you to know that Rainman isn't actually mentally deficient (we have had him tested). In fact, he has been put in several of the gifted classes at his school, is very athletic and can be quite articulate and charming...apparently. This makes me gravely concerned for the other 120 odd kids in his year. Below is very typical of the conversations I have with Rainman 20 - 30 times a day.

Rainman while swinging badly on a swing. (How can you not be able to operate a swing? I didn't even know it possible): Do you have a piece of cloth?
Me: No. Why would I bring a piece of cloth to the park?
Rainman: Because you don't have my hat in your bag.
Me: WHAT???
Rainman:  For you to hold onto and for me to try and grab but you didn't bring anything so it doesn't even matter now. Rainman suddenly  becomes extremely petulant at my horrendous neglect.

Now this is reminiscent of conversations such as the public argument because he wouldn't accept that the milkshake flavour was caramel not camel as he insisted, or the time he got mages (popular in fantasy novels and games) and paramedics mixed up but would not concede that paramedics can't alter time.