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.

 

 

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.

A Day in the Life: Thurs 8th November

People often ask me: why are you so angry all the time? Why can't you complete a sentence without a minimum of 15 swear words? Did you mean for your hair to look like that? Why are you so obsessed with alcohol and breasts? Do you think mocking your own children on the internet is good parenting? I think that the answer to these questions and quite probably many more can be seen below.

My First Husband is away at a conference. It is only overnight and like many, many of the married females I know, I was damn excited at the prospect. Last night was fine, the Nazgul was ticked off that a minion had left without her permission but soon enough she was in bed and I was kicking back with a glass of sparkling and watching a show about stupid British dog owners. This morning saw in a darker day for Crap Headquarters. 

6am: Got my usual wake-up call of "I waaaannnnntttt my MUUUUUUUUUMMMMAAAA" on repeat. I really must applaud the Nazgul on being able to shout but keep the whinging tone in tact while at the same time making a mockery of the "gentle alarm" I so diligently set on my phone each night. As soon as she sees me the whine changes to "I want you carry me" which considering I have a chronic joint condition and she is built like the cross between a garden gnome and a front row forward, poses quite a few technical problems. After I say no, she informs me she is an elephant and rolls around her bed laughing her insane little arse off (must remember to take this child to the zoo at some point because that impression needs a shit load of work). 

6.45am: After 12 of her personalities taking turns to be in control (Postman Pat and assorted minor roles, the entire cast of Yo Gabba Gabba, Bob the Builder, and some random cats) The Nazgul announces her breakfast is over. Seeing her take a deep breath, the kind she does before a whinge so intense that a catholic would consider it speaking in tongues, I head it off by asking her to wake Rainman up. She whines in a way that has me making moon eyes at the booze cupboard "Is not Rainman. Is Brobee", "Okay, then sweetheart can you get Brobee up” which causes her to launch into a complete mental fit crying "No I is Brobee". I have kind of blacked out what happened next and replaced it with scene from 90s sitcom Father Ted but the end result was she woke up Rainman by climbing into bed with him and singing sweetly to him. I was misty eyed as walked past and they were cuddling while playing with a torch...fool that I was. 

7am: The Nazgul adds foot stomping while crying and shouting that she wasn't finished breakfast and she was still eating those two sodden spoonful’s of porridge I had cleared away. After calming her down and furnishing her with more porridge. I watch my two shaved chimps happily chatting away and decide it is safe for me to go to the toilet in the next room rather than shit my own pants.

7.03am: Both children (and I use this term in its loosest possible sense) are screaming and crying. I don't mean shouting, I mean screaming like when the TV gets turned off in the rec room of a secure unit screaming.  I call out to Rainman to tell me what happened. I keep calling out more and more desperately for him to come here so was quite shocked to hear him running off to the other end of the house crying. I keep calling out for him to come here until I am shrieking. Eventually he turns up sobbing and says "Nazgul threw a spoon at me and just shouts at me”.  By this point The Nazgul is contributing to the symphony of horror by shrieking "I no love mummy and Rainman. Me love my daddy. DAAADDDY. Me no love mummy. Me no love Rainman" over and over.  Somehow I manage to calmly say “You go to your room for a few minutes and calm down, mate” Of course Rainman showed his acting skills by walking off as if he was going to his room but actually just stepped out of my line of vision and started provoking the Nazgul until she was in a berserker frenzy.


7.05am: Come out of the bathroom to assess the damage and using my Dexter-like skills to analyse the porridge splatter and spoon position quickly ascertain that Rainman was being a crap-pony once again. The most the Nazgul could have been guilty of was pushing her spoon away. Eventually exorcize the Nazgul enough to determine that despite her spoon being perfectly fine while I was in her eyesight as soon as I am no longer visible the only spoon she can eat from is the one Rainman is eating with. After every other spoon in the house had been rejected as “I no love that one” I brokered a deal whereby The Nazgul would take possession of the spoon equivalent of the Gaza Strip as soon as Rainman was done. 

7.15am: Tell Rainman to hurry up with the spoon. He puts the spoon down and stares at his sister. He has apparently forgotten the above in its entirety. 

7.25am: Trying to get The Nazgul ready for the walk to drop Rainman off at school and her at Day care but am constantly interrupted by Rainman, who despite being unable to get both shoes on in under 20 mins feels that my parenting of The Nazgul needs correction (the entire time The Nazgul has whined that it doesn’t want to go to day-care and has developed an alternate reality in which I am taking her to the park). While I am telling Rainman that he needs to put his other shoe on and shut up, The Nazgul disappears and begins shouting “I no love mummy. I no like my school. I not going my school. I going back to bed” and sure enough she is laying in her bed shouting out bitter recriminations. 

8am: Despite being told at 5 min intervals all morning we were leaving at 8am on the dot (to drop both children off I have to walk for 2 hours) As I am grabbing my keys Rainman walks past me, headed for the toilet with a magazine tucked under his arm. 

For the first half of the walk to school Rainman refused to talk to me and just walked one step behind me, glaring and muttering under his breath. This didn’t bother me so much as The Nazgul was still relentlessly protesting that she was not going to day-care and I was to take her home. Halfway through the trip his innate desire to drive me insane by monologuing kicked in. However, after he found the need to stand in the middle of a driveway of a construction site, adjusting some astro-turf they had put down and ignoring all my pleas to get off the driveway until I was shrieking like a mental woman so insanely that people in cars were staring, he returned to the sullen muttering about my intolerant ways. 

The Nazgul did not let up on the whining; whinging and general insanity about not going to day-care for the entire walk there. After dropping her off, I walked straight into a near-by McDonalds and shoved a bacon and egg muffin into my mouth like a proper mental. Which might not seem particularly remarkable or concerning to those of you who don’t know one simple fact about me – I wouldn’t have eaten McDonalds in a good decade. Generally my reaction to it is the same as most people would have to being asked to eat a live frog. 

And dear readers, this is why I am angry, swear, have hair in worse condition than a witch’s pubes, drink, and look down other ladies shirts at the supermarket.

A Day in the Life: Tuesday 20th September

Ahhh, Music Class Day, and day where the Nazgul pushes my awesome parenting into uncharted territory (RainMan has reserved Wednesdays aka Swimming Day as his very special, how much can I make Mum weep day of the week). Things were going a little too well as I tried to get ready to take her, she had eaten some breakfast and let My First Husband dress her without any evidence of the usual psychosis (e.g.the latest one is, she loved a shirt I bought her recently until I convinced her the picture was of a dog not a cat as she believed, now when she realises that is the shirt she has on she shrieks and tries to rip it off her the same one someone would if their shirt was aflame). And I had even been to the toilet without her attempting to stab me with some sort of writing implement. They only hiccup was RainMan chanting "Mum looks mental, Mum looks mental" then when I told him to shut his cake hole, he said "I am going to put up a sign in minecraft that says My Mum looks completely mental"...like he is ever going to be allowed to use the PC again.

The offensive non-cat T-shirt

Both my children have a gift, that they can sense when I am trying to apply mascara and they unleash a shit storm. While we were saying bye to RainMan and My First Husband as they left for the day (we are old school so RainMan walks to school with his Dad, it is close to 4ks) I saw that what I had referred to in my mind as "independent play" was actually the Nazgul spitting inside my shoes that were on the floor. Shortly after they left she unleashed the 1st barrage, she lay in wait until the mascara wand was poised to cause the most damage to my cornea and then threw a massive paddle brush onto my toes shouting "Ohhhh Noooo" and pissing herself laughing as I rolled around swearing and sweating until the pain subsided enough for me to assess the damage to my toes and then allow the wave of pain from my maybeline stabbed eye to drown me for a time.
When I had been through my self administered triage and suitably recovered to attempt make up application again, she was careful to bide her time until the mascara wand was back in position and then flung herself off the ground and onto my legs and began twisting, moaning "Mmmmuuuummm, Mmmmuuuummm" when this didn't elicit the hoped for occular injury she reverted to her old favourite of taking a run up and ramming her dolls pram into my shins shouting "No Bubba, Nooo Buubbba, No Bubba" (English translation: I no longer wish to play with my doll and yet for some reason rather than walk away, I keep going. This irritates me somewhat and therefore my Mother shall suffer the consequences). I have to say my new look probably fits in with RainMan's earlier assessment, although I call it "Relentlessly abused by an unbalanced toddler chic".
After much struggle I bribed her with cheese to sit in the pram and we were off. It is fortuitous that I leave my ipod at home when out with the Nazgul, had I had it in I would have missed the soundtrack she provided of "Daaa-iiiieee, My Daaa-iiieee" (English Translation: Daddy, My Daddy) over and over and over until I think some blood came out of my ear. Luckily we ran into My First Husband on the way and following the encounter she added crying to the I want my Dad, you are shit symphony.
This was coupled with the permanent sense of absence that has joined my life since my sister left for Valhalla, so imagine my glee when approaching the hall for music class there was a lone council worker, resplendent in his fluro orange vest belting out, tv talent show style, John Farnham's "You're the Voice". I don't think I have ever seen anyone let rip on the roadside like this guy, with his eyes closed and arms flung wide...I could hear him as I walked down the road with squinty eyes, damaged toes and a mangled heart, and I couldn't help but think "Well things aren't that bad after all".

 Post Script: Since writing the above I have had to take the Nazgul out in extreme wind to pick up RainMan from school. He is in fine form today, as the Nazgul was crying for her father after a massive gust blew grit into her eyes, I am pushing the pram and trying to calm her, he decides it is the opportune moment to shove a mangled pipe cleaner ridiculously close to my face and say "What animal is this Mum?", to which I replied "It's a pipe cleaner not an animal" then through a bizarre combination of elimination and intense frustration we determined he had 'sculpted' it into a flamingo. 30 secs later we rounded the corner where I was disturbed to see a gentleman driving at high speed backwards while smoking cigarillo and scowling, when RainMan saw fit to thrust the abomination into my face again and say "What's this again?" So I said "a flamingo" to which he replied "no no not that",  Ahh a pipe cleaner Rainman, its a pipe cleaner and a yet another piece of my brain died for my own protection. Shortly after we were waiting to cross at an incredibly busy T intersection when RainMan unexpectedly shouts "Now, you can cross NOW",  I instinctively yelled "RAINMAN SHUT UP". Once across the road he said narkily "Well I just didn't see that car" oblivious to the fact there were FIVE at least. And now seeing him run past frantically holding the front of his trousers, I am certain I am in for one of those afternoons.

Danger Words

This morning as the Nazgul force fed me a grape of indeterminable vintage, I got to thinking about how being alerted to imminent danger has changed. In the past, the warning of potential hazards and unsafe situations was pretty standard "Fire", "Run" and "Last Drinks" being the most notable. While the word gravity is now positively sinister, it is more of a slow creep than one that immediately freezes the bowels and makes legs twitch.

It has become accepted around Crap Headquarters that the word "igh-ees" (rough English translation: eyes), is usually immediately followed by a sharp poke in the eye and corneas scratched by sharp, dirty little fingernails and shrieks of delight from the Nazgul. In a similar vein, hearing the mutterings of "busybee, busybee, biz biz, busybee" is pretty much a sign to head for the fallout shelter, it is the signal that the Nazgul is rampaging through the house destroying then coating the debris in sunscreen or moisturizer. Recently I was trying to send a text message when I heard the dreaded mutterings to look up and see the Busy Bee sculling soy milk (football hooligan style) while attempting to key the glass doors. Busy Bee also has a penchant for throwing things into the bath (particularly electrical goods), putting popcorn in the toilet and ramming herself into the protective barriers we have placed around everything until she can get close enough to the TV to attempt to key that. I am not sure where she got the idea that a Bee is a vandalising serial killer but it has caused me to add one of those suits that police dog trainers wear to my birthday wish list.

The Busy Bee is not the Nazgul's only alter-ego. We often have prolonged assaults from "The Little Cat", who plays the sociopath to the busy bees psychopathology. The warning bell for the appearance of the Little Cat, is the Nazgul crawling up to you on all fours going "Ahhh Ahhh", then crash tackling you in a head butting frenzy of over enthusiastic kisses, cuddles and general unbalanced love, the Nazgul cuts an elegant figure with the body shape of a front row forward so this little game always ends with a shriek and an agonised "GENTLE, WE DON'T HURT MUMMY". Unfortunately, the main characteristic of the little cat is that is doesn't heed any advice, instruction or pleas for mercy. In the past fortnight alone, she has attempted to decapitate me with the broom on three occasions, attempted to tear my earrings from my ears daily and I suspect has caused life long damage to my septum with the kisses.

The reinterpretation of danger words is not the Nazgul's doing alone, Rainman has the superhuman ability to make a noise that can instantly induce rage in the listener. I am sure some sinister military agency will one day synthesise this sound to play at enemy insurgents - a modern version of the fabled 'brown note". This noise is usually an indication that you will turn around to find Rainman punching his own shoes, pulling at chunks of his hair or biting his own trousers leaving you on the verge of the parenting faux pas of screaming "What the fuck is wrong with your brain?". This is not the most dangerous or most psychically damaging of Rain Man's sounds, as soon as he utters the words "Pokemon", "Munchkin" (some overly complicated imaginary game he plays with his friends) or spies, you know that you are in for a 3-4 hr monologue which eventually degenerates into a nonsensical diatribe or argument (recently he claimed he had already completed some spy training as he had medical knowledge and went into a rant about 'clerics' and healing, when I gently mentioned he was talking about something made up from a role playing game, he had a fit that he was talking about the real world not a game and became so frustrated he was almost frothing at the mouth).


Similarly, I am alerted to danger from My First Husband when he says "Hi, I am home", but that is another post entirely.....

***The Crap Housewife would like to apologise for the delay in posting, she has been under constant terrorist attack in the form of an imaginary bee and kitten and has not emerged unscathed from the encounters. However she makes no apologies for the spelling and grammatical errors, she just can't be arsed***