A day in the life: Friday 9th November

Heard the best phrase ever: "Fuck you lamp and fuck you Jeff".

Discovered their are no images on google for "salami baguette dildos"

My son handed in homework with his invention 'The Vibrator".

There are bonus fly-buy points at liquorland all weekend.

I laughed so much that I foamed at the mouth, dry retched and suspected I was having a heart attack.

It was the best day ever. 

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.

Highly developed time management skills

So it has reached the point where I have actual work to do and have run through every distraction I possibly could (do you know how hard it is find a pictures of dogs that look like Roy Orbison?) and so it came down to the choice of finally write the blog update that you have all been nagging me for, or do housework (I couldn't actually write the report I am meant to be writing, that would just be weird and wrong).

So while I am supposed to be all academic and scholarly, I am throwing myself whole-heartedly into watching videos of cysts being drained on YouTube (I thoroughly recommend "Operation Kill George" for any of you who are faced with competing and stressful deadlines) and inventing things. This week I have invented a nut sack holder attachment for gaming console controllers (it cups firmly and reassuringly yet is sensitive enough to transmit the varying intensities of the controller vibrations) and the perfectly positioned bar area in supermarkets where parents get discounts based on the decibel measure of their child's screaming and/or the length of their child's whining...Which while I am on the subject, reminds me of discussion I had with one of my friends recently, why did we spend so much time in the 90s ingesting dubious substances in bars and clubs?  These were places where we were having a good time anyway and we should have been high enough off the fact we were lithe and young. If ever I needed to drop a few of the old disco biscuits it's taking Rainman and The Nazgul through the supermarket or on public transport. Like bras without built in scaffolds, the days of experimentation and recreation are far far far behind my friends and I so the irony is not lost on me that now we are enduring experiences so excruciating that we could do with class A narcotics to get through. I saw the episode of the show ER years ago where there was a soccer Mum who was taking crystal meth just to get all her house-elf duties done, I never understood that episode before. I have also invented a cocktail for one of my friends who is going through hell with her son's sleep apnoea and surgery, I call it the stayin' alive: 

• 2 spoons of instant coffee
• 15 spoons of sugar
• a generous dash of vodka 
• 13 crushed old school cold and flu tabs containing pseudo-ephedrine 

mix with boiling water and drink until the sound of your kids no longer bothers you.

I have also devoted a fair chunk of my time to inventing new swear words, breaking one of the first things My First Husband ever taught me which is that any swear word can be infinitely improved by the addition of the word "rag" on the end (go and call someone a cunt-rag right now, their reaction really is a life changer). Indeed I married an artist. I have found my true linguistic skill is getting incredibly angry at Rainman in public and being surprised at what almost-swear words loudly escape from my mouth. Most recently I accused him of being an "ungrateful little crap-pony", I was surprised as the mother and children next to me but much less disapproving that she was.

I would love to fill you in on more of my inventions (I am thinking kleptomaniac vacuum cleaners might be the way of the future) but you know this has taken almost 16 mins and I am bored. I have better go watch clips of dodgy dermatologists excising 30 year old blackheads from an old guy's face. 

Night time wanderings of trainee humans.

Of course it has been a while since my last post, it always is. I have been very busy trying to retrain to be incompetent in a completely new arena, and have been delighting in savagely bi-polar behaviour from the Nazgul. The resulting stress levels have been spectacular and I have indulged in such hobbies as forgetting to turn the gas stove-top off for 6 hours, drawing very odd characters such as "Kevin the Ant thief", "Ralph the King of the Purple Lizards" and "Jack the BAD frog" for the children, completely forgetting then getting disturbed when I find the pictures. Fun times indeed.

Things wouldn't be so dire if the Nazgul hadn't started a new hobby, where between 9pm and 2 am is WAKE TIME. This mainly involves her laying in bed yelling "My Mummy. I want my Mummy" then when I go in, tenderly stroking my face saying "My Mummy. I wake my Mummy up" and then demonically laughing for ages. In a fit of desperation the other night, I hurled There's a Hippopotamus on the Roof Eating Cake at her and said "Just read this in bed" and stumbled off into a wall. I was so sleepy I had forgotten her reading that book just involves her sitting there shouting "HOMO" at every page, so the sounds coming through the monitor from her room sounded more like a group of bogans on train platform, than a toddler reading session.

Anyway, I am not alone in this. I am actually comparatively lucky, it seems the new craze sweeping the nation's 2.5 yr olds is waking up in the middle of the night and running amok through the house. Many of my friends seem to have discovered they have tiny little Keith Richards' rampaging through their homes any time sleep is attempted. There has been a lot of buzz on the inter-webs that "this too shall pass", "it is a developmental stage", "you just have to stay consistent" blah blah blah, bottom line being that it will improve and you just have to wait for their developing brains to finish this particularly phase of rewiring. All I can say is BULLSHIT. I have developed a fool proof strategy for getting the little bastards to stay in bed (and this is heaps better than my other ideas of getting Brian Blessed to do Jane Austen audio books, roller pants, and us changing our surname to Eastwood). I have written a meditative story to read to young children, with a clear subtext that they can relate to their own existence and therefore be aided in developing new strategies around sleep.

Night-time Meditations for Naughty Little Boys.

Are you snuggled comfy under your covers? Ok now, Mummy will read you one story and then it’s time for lights off and time for sleep.

Once upon a time, not as long ago as you might think, there was a little boy/girl who used to get out of bed every night. Every night their Mummy would tuck them in, kiss them good night but they just wouldn’t stay in bed. Their Mummy was so beautiful and worked so hard but was so sad because their little boy/girl was so horrible.

One night, the little child was EVEN worse than before, he/she jumped out of bed so HARD that he/she woke up SLICER-BEASTIE.

Slicer Beastie, has metal teeth and lives under the beds of children. When children get up when they are not allowed, Slicer Beastie wakes up and drags them by their ankles under the bed and eats their little faces off.

Now, Good night Sunny/Erin/Rachel/Lucy/Orion/Elijah/Fern/Amber. Sweet dreams. Mummy will come in and check that you are still alive. Love you poppet. 

The End

Now, off to work towards my dream of being a developmental psychologist.

Fuck you, Shannon Lush.

First before we get too far into anything, as usual it has been a while since I have frequented here and to those people that have been harassing me about when this post was going to appear...stop and think. You are following The CRAP Housewife. Not The Organised Housewife, Not The Gives a Fuck Housewife, Do you not think the answer to your question might be in the title? To me crap is not just a word it is a way of life.

So what prompts me to be airing my unwashed smalls on the internet today? Simply, housework. I hate it, I avoid it, I suck at it but sometimes, goddamn it, even I have to do it. Or more accurately, start to do it, then go on-line where I just look at a screen and not the chaos surrounding me. I would have quite happily avoided domestic drudgery for another season or two but fate has a funny way of kicking you in the ovaries, chiefly in the form of an 8 year old boy with absolutely no drive to aim his stream of urine...well anywhere really.

Now several years ago I actually purchased Shannon Lush's ode to vinegar and bicarb soda "Speed Cleaning", unfortunately I misunderstood the title and it is NOT a tome on the use of narcotics to aid in household tasks and I am now stuck with a book whose core philosophy makes a mockery of me and all I stand for. Let me tell you there is not one single chapter, paragraph or line in this book that advises one on what to do when you are sitting innocently on the toilet, hiding from your spouse and off-spring, only to be overcome with the smell of rancid piss. Not one mention of this phenomenon that numerous women across the country face every day of their lives. Do you know why? Because fucking vinegar and bicarb has absolutely no effect on fermenting human urine. Insert surprised face here.

Last night I would have much rather been laying on the couch shouting random insults at my first husband (I believe I told him he was like if Hitler and Captain Caveman had a love-child) but instead I was bleaching the area around the toilet which was covered in a layer of radioactive looking kid whizz. After which I felt akin to having spent all night in an inner-city nightclub in 1996 and felt sure that I would no longer be stalked around the house by a thick yellow cloud of stench. Imagine my dismay this morning when I enter the bathroom and become immersed in what can only be described as olfactory hell. Upon further investigation it turned out the smell of rancid piss was, in fact rancid piss that had become trapped under the toilet seat during one of Rainman's water-passing frenzies. Now did I run to the pantry like Saint Shannon and reach for the fish and chip dressing? No because only a moron would think of such a ludicrious response to such an extreme bodily fluid related event. Actually I retched for a while and then was determined to respond to this situation Crap Housewife Style, and got every cleaning product that had a skull and cross bones on it, and nuked the living fuck out of that bacteria ridden toilet all the while swearing profusely and inventively.

Now this is not an isolated event. Rainman pisses around and on the toilet much more frequently than he ever pees into it. I have seen him on many occasions standing in front of the toilet, willy popped out of the top of his pants, tooth brush hanging out of his mouth, with his hands on his hips as he stares at the ceiling and kind of sways thus drenching a 1.5 metre radius in liquid human waste. In the same vein, he can regularly be seen spraying the bathroom in pee as he reads a comic/book and then will flatly deny that he is in anyway responsible for the yellow rain running down the walls. Please see the below illustration and note the lovely white shine and it's contrast with the uric acid stains, I really believe it adds to the general ambiance of the space:

N.B: This is the AFTER shot, it had been soaking a solution of bleach and toxic chemicals for 4+ hrs when this shot was taken.

Now Shannon, on the whole, seems reasonably harmless for a cult leader but sadly, she is not alone in the tour of maddness gripping the world...stay tuned for a further rant on the destroyers of society and my private battle with a escaping body fluids.

P.S. My view on editing and grammar is also expressing in the blog's title, so you know, fucking shutup about it nit-pickers.

Don't give up your day job

So it has been many moons since my last post, the more traumatic things are around Crap HQ, the less possible it is for me to bitch about how idiotic the inmates here are. And there sure have been incidents aplenty around these parts, let me tell you. The Nazgul continues to both perplex and torture, her current pastimes are limited to a) insisting that she IS rockabilly icon Imelda May which involves studying this YouTube clip http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OhogVvwbwkw&ob=av2e  repeatedly to mimic Ms May's mic technique all while insisting, at age 2, that she wear red lipstick. When prevented from using the PC for this purpose, it just insists on the song being played over and over and over until a piece of me dies (given her poor language skills her requests just involve shouting BOOM BOOM into my face...a lot) b) Randomly shouting ME A BOY, it appears she has some KPI to hit 1200 false gender assertions a day; and c) only eating food from the plate pictured below, this may seem comparatively mild but rest assured the horror that goes along with this cannot be underestimated:

Rainman continues his campaign of special idiocy and recent highlights on this trail include*: having to be told to stop repeatedly walking into a locked turn style; having to be reminded to walk through an open door; and subjecting his mother to a 20 min descent into hell, trying to ascertain whether he did indeed produce the painting she purchased from his school in a fundraising capacity (this non-stop joy ride included him initially claiming to have done none of it despite his photo appearing in 3 separate places on the "artwork", then claiming he had done a small portion, then moving on to an intricate conspiracy theory that involved him having done parts of it but it largely being doctored for some reason only known to himself. It eventually degenerated into him sulking and refusing to look at me while I fruitlessly shouted "Did you draw anything on this page?" over and over, as on-lookers stared and tutted...turned out he did it in its entirety and forgot). And My First Husband...well that is another post and many many years of therapy.

I like to think that the reaction people have to witnessing my housekeeping is "don't give up your day job", mainly because it would tie in so nicely with this post and provide a realistic anchor to the title, and don't get me wrong, I do like to think this, but in reality very few venture into my household and those who do are more likely to be scanning for exits rather than concocting pithy internal dialogue centred around me.  And this fact in itself is a blessing, it would be terribly awkward for the pondering guest to discover, that in amid the turmoil, my day job gave me up. Ahh yes, in a surreal twist of fate a project I do not work on lost its funding so I lost my job and may have been involved in one of the most bizarre sacking interviews post-industrialisation.

I had an idea of what was coming for a few days prior, and instead spending the morning before The Meeting either trying to come up with justifications on why I was indispensable, or uncovering budget adjustments that could be made to avoid the need for this sacking, I threw myself wholeheartedly into coming up with disconcerting responses to the news that my employment would cease, front runners were deadpanning "I don't accept" and then just carrying on the conversation,  narrating the whole scene as if in a very poorly written novel ("The Crap Housewife looked out the window, fighting back tears, she choked out "I understand" knowing this would mean going back on the game after battling so hard to get off that corner...actually awesome Blogstress Field of Dreams came up with a hilarious narrative that I must dig out). In the end My First Husband struck on the winner: - Keeping with the general incompetence theme of my life, every time I have chewing gum I bite the inside of my cheek, having done this moments before scheduled meeting with such gusto that there was blood inside my mouth and I mentioned this to My First Husband in a text conversation where he recommended that as soon as I was told letting the blood dribble from my mouth, begin screaming and then run out of the room reminiscent of the legendary sacking scene in Fight Club (I was going to put a link to this scene but then realised if you don't know Fight Club, then you can fuck right off, you ain't no friend of mine and this includes my remaining grandparent). I was worried that walking in giggling, gittering from my anxiety relieving tactic of excessive coffee drinking, with a mouthful of blood might be slightly off-putting for my superiors imagine my relief at the scene that unfolded where I emerged as the most stable person in the room. Yes, they will write songs about that day.

If you, for argument's sake, were awarded the Order of Australia for services to psychiatry would you think the best icebreaker for the firing of a long serving employee would be not only to open with the recent death of their sister but to say (and I swear this is a direct quote, absolutely no embellishment, hyperbole or surgical enhancement) "So are you and your family over...the...ummm....tragedy?". I kind of sat there shaking my head as this response went through my head "Oh you mean watching the person I felt closest to on the planet die in front of me less than 2 months ago, yeah a bit of time's passed so it's fucking hilarious now. Its not like I cry until I vomit, or that the world makes little sense to me because for the first time in my memory I have to live in a reality without her in it, or I try to text her when something funny happens or go to buy her gifts or anything. My parents on the other hand, shit they are milking it, sure they also watched her die and buried their youngest and best child (to my brother: dude we both know even dead she is better than us at most stuff, shit she was even my favourite child) when their friends with children the same age are welcoming new grandchildren...you know its been a couple of weeks so really...". After this silence I said gravely and very slowly, as if I were addressing a special needs child who was holding scissors and a kitten "Do you mean my sister dying, then no, not even close, its very very recent". Now given the response, the tone of delivery and the fact that the messenger was really working at fighting back tears, do you think said psychiatrist might stop this unique and 'gifted' softening up before some bad news...you guessed it folks he thought now he might ask some medical questions, say useful things like "she was sick for a long time wasn't she" (see because that makes it alright, if she was running a triathlon and was hit by a truck, now that would be sad). And so it continued in this vein but by this stage I had retreated to my happy place (where John Farnham's "You're the Voice" is national anthem and I am queen of all I survey) then he claps his hands together in a "enough of this revelry" fashion and says "Well as you know xxxx didn't get funding, so we have to make some budget cuts to carry the research on at 50% capacity for 12 months, well we maybe, might have to let you go". I have to confess I did laugh and had to help him out by saying "There really aren't grey areas here, I am taking this to say that due to budgeting constraints you are not renewing my contract?". After he responded that yes, this is what he had intended the meeting moved on to me providing industrial relations advice on the non-renewal of contracts whilst staff are on maternity leave. At the conclusion I walked out somewhat bewildered and my immediate supervisor burst into tears (I really had misjudged the situation since I thought that was my role in the proceedings).

At least now I am free to pursue my dream of becoming a Henry Winkler impersonator. And from what I can tell that mainly involves sitting around unemployed thinking about the good old days when we all just assumed Ron Howard was your ordinary, run-of-the-mill twat (never knowing that beneath that goofy ginge surface lurked the future maniacal overlord of the film industry)...and hell, I was thinking of doing that anyway, so as the saying goes all's well that ends well (even if there is a body count, unemployment, a socially delayed psychiatrist and 3 foot tall deranged idiots thrown in the mix).


*NB: Please be aware that the events depicted here took place within one afternoon, and resulted in subsequent hair loss, nausea, dizziness and predictions of impending doom.

***Please note, this is not the original version of this post. Courtesy of RainMan sitting behind me chanting "Type, type, type" as I tried to add a comma (don't know what was wrong with me, as anyone who has read this knows, I believe grammar and punctuation are for the weak), I ended up deleting the actual interview description, which was awesome, it would have made you laugh, cry and wank yourself blind. Unfortuantely since I neither plan nor think about what I say/write or do, it is irreplacable. I apologise if the current description feels like wearing 2nd hand undies but well it kinda is. xxxx CH***

A day in the Life: Wednesday 26th October

The Nazgul has swapped pushing my buttons for violently headbutting them since she woke up this morning. She has varied her activities from throwing sequins and pipe cleaners in the toilet, to subjecting me to long screaming fits of "No Mum, Daddy. Daddy come, Daddy come", attempting to leave home and go to daycare, refusing to wear clothes and a long list of other things my brain has simply repressed. So, for some reason that may one day be discovered by a dedicated team of psychiatrists, I decided I would wear her on my back to collect RainMan from school.
I don't drive, and public transport is rarely kind to us, I am quite often bullied by elderly passengers or denied entry by drivers, and yet nothing could prepare me for what was to follow. I got on the bus and after the driver aggressively pulled away from the bus stop knocking me off balance I realised the only vacant seat was next to what can only be described as a "fat mental", now I am notoriously weak stomached and am particularly nauseated by the unwashed so I was already descending through the layers of hell as I was squished there. The Nazgul decided, at this point, she objected to this gentleman and all he stood for and began attacking him with a frisbee (which she bizarrely insisted on bringing) shouting "NO TOES", repeatedly.
After this I developed the belief that the return trip would be incident free, again this is something that warrants robust psychiatric investigations. The Nazgul had abandoned the frisbee to free up both hands to remove the maximum amount of hair from my head, while shrieking her mantra of "NO TOES". She quickly graduated from this to attempting to forcibly remove my earrings, the resulting shriek from me managed to alert the entire bus to my plight, unfortunately my fellow passengers were not as sympathetic as one might expect. The fact that I proceeded to take my earrings out so enraged the Nazgul that it rammed its finger into my ear and pulled back with all its strength swapping her battle cry to "TWO EARS", I was oblivious to the fact the bus had stopped until passengers started cramming on and one (who mercifully did not look in my direction) was an ex-boyfriend. Now, I have been with My First Husband for over a decade but I still like to imagine any previous pastimes (aka exes) as sitting in a darkened room Miss Havisham style, perhaps rocking and lamenting the day they lost me. To see them walking about apparently unscathed by the events of the late 1990's is bad enough, but to be faced with the prospect of them seeing you, when you are not wearing flattering and stylish evening wear with perfect hair and make up so perfectly applied you look younger than you did then, is too much to bear. Thanks to a morning of repeated assaults by someone slightly taller than a garden gnome, I had actually abandoned my "stain threshold" and was wearing jeans smeared with some substances best not to think to much on, was completely sans make-up which highlighted the wonderful crop of pimples I am cultivating on my chin and my hair, of course, had been styled by the Nazgul only moments earlier. Apparently my blood shot eyes and dull stare complete the grief chic look I have been sporting of late. I remedied this by looking in the other direction (who says I know nothing of strategy). RainMan who was standing in front of me decided saying in his most petulant voice, at volume "Why do you keep looking at me? Stoooooppp iiiiit" while the Nazgul kept just screeching and then chewing on the seat rests. Somehow I doubt he was regretting blowing his chances with me.
When we did finally get off the endless, can only look in one direction, bus journey, RainMan started obsessively fiddling with his watch getting visibly frustrated as The Nazgul just shouted repeatedly "My Daddy, NO MUM. My Daddy". After repeated warnings over the next ten mins (with the Mum is shit/I want my Dad soundtrack provided by The Nazgul the entire time), I ended up confiscating the offending watch and restrained myself from grabbing him by the shoulders and screaming "QANTAS NEVER CRASHED" into his face. He spent the entire trip home crying and giving me death stares and I removed the Nazgul from my back because I just couldn't cope with further hair loss. As I was sending increasingly desperate pleas for help to My First Husband, The Nazgul realised she had forgotten to step in any dog shit so remedied this by running back to a large piece she had spied on the foot path, stomping on it and then laughing, pointing at her bum and saying "pooh".
Now, I recently read a journalist commenting on the proliferation of motherhood blogs about and labelled them as either "living on one wage tips" or "bad mummy confessionals", I think over the progression of this blog it is pretty clear this is not a bad mummy confessional, the problem is clearly THEM rather than me. I am a great mummy, they are just too fucked up to notice.