Sunday, 25 November 2012

It's My Birthday and I'll Swear if I Want To...

Tomorrow is my birthday.

Tomorrow I add a whole other year to the tally of ones I have spent on earth already. The great countdown in the sky is heaving another few grains of sand onto an already quite worryingly heaped pile of sand. There are clocks ticking loudly, and most of them have a pendulum shaped inexplicably like a scythe. *shudders*

So what does one do when one is 48 years old? 

Do 48-year-olds choose to weep and lament lost youth? Our own, or the fact that there isn't a snowflakes chance in a slow cooker that Tom Daley will ever look in our direction even once, never mind twice? Do we finally recognise our chances of becoming the new a) Kate Moss b)Rhianna c) Jennifer Aniston or d) the Queen are probably quite slim now? Do we give up and go gently into the dark night of middle-age? Do we become one of the invisible women whose voice is only heard in the supermarket consumer surveys?

Do. We. Fuck!

I, for one, am going to count my blessings and thank all gods extant I don't have to gyrate scantily dressed in a downpour or get dumped by Brad Pitt to make a living. Or at least not anymore. I'm going to raise a hand and shake a fist at the world and give the supermarkets a good kick in the bottom shelf while I'm at it. Then I'm going to go out and get pissed on gin.

Maybe.

Tomorrow is my birthday and I will be 48 years old.

Do NOT buy me slippers, a twin-set or American tan tights.

*Grows old disgracefully*


Silent Sunday ...





Saturday, 17 November 2012

The Rules ...

I've always thought that rules are there to be broken, but then I had children and developed my OWN rules and those rules, um, rule. Those rules are written on stone, with blood ... well not really because they'd wash off in a heavy shower but, you know, they're MY rules so you'd better abide by them *Stern look*

So just to make the rules absolutely crystal clear, because SOMETIMES it's as if my rules don't exist or anything, these are they. And the first rule of My rules* is:

RULE 1:
Do not, under any circumstances, use ANY of the words on the Banned Word List. And yes I have a List of Banned Words. What of it?

BANNED WORD LIST
Soz
Sarnie
Snap
Nite/ Tonite
Awesome
Peachy
Belly
Pogged

The breaking of this rule will result in a three hour lecture on the beauty of the English language and the ugliness of certain words. And why I've got a thing about it. With anecdotes.

RULE 2:
Don't wait and don't ask. Unless I want you to wait and want you to ask. This you will have to work out based on the imperative on what needs to be done and when divided by my level of interest. For example, you want to have a shower? You don't need to ask.You want to elope with a trainee accountant? It would be best to wait until you come to your senses.

RULE 3:
IF THE TOILET ROLL RUNS OUT, REPLACE THE TOILET ROLL ... YOU KNOW WHERE IT IS, WHY IS IT SO DIFFICULT? FOR GAWD'S SAKE, WHY?

RULE 4:
Turn the bloody tap off.

RULE 5:
It doesn't matter unless I want it to.

RULE  6;
Have a sense of humour, embrace tolerance, never judge without knowledge and treat everyone else in the world how you would like them to treat you in return.  

RULE 7:
Don't ask for cinema refreshments, ever. I'm not made of money and it cost an arm and a leg to get in in the first place. *Tuts*

RULE 8.
Do what I say and not what I do ...

 *Drags on fag, downs fifth gin*

RULE 9.
And, you know, just be happy.

RULE 10.
Do not ignore the rules.




*D'ya see what I did there.

Thursday, 15 November 2012

Listography .... Six Songs of Me

I'm joining in with the Listography over at Kate Takes 5 this week and the prompt is Six Songs of Me so here goes ..... *passes around earplugs*

1. What was the first song you ever bought? 



Yes it was released in 1975. I was 11 and impressionable. What of it?

2. What song always gets you dancing?  

I like dancing and I have danced to most things even *rolls eyes* heavy metal and YES it can be done *dignified look.*
And once upon a time the pub, local to the college where I spent my student years, offered me and a fellow student (male and a deadringer for Prince) £20  to dance "artistically" on disco night. No. Really.
Unfortunately we misjudged what was meant by dancing artistically and didn't stay there for very long.
"OH, you meant take our clothes OFF! Aaaah!"
*Exits pubs rapidly*
My clubbing, pubbing and dancing inappropriately on the table days are far behind me now OBVIOUSLY *cough* so this one took me a while to choose but if I wasn't going to pick Abba's "Dancing Queen" which is EVERY sensible woman's must-hit-the-dance-floor track and would be cheating, I will go with...



 And yes OF COURSE I can* do the dance

*But only badly and while laughing

3. What song takes you back to your childhood? 

I loved Elvis Presley when I was a child I did. I loved everything and anything he did. I absorbed his music and sat slack-jawed at his films. This particular song reduced me to tears then and reduces me to tears now.



DO NOT LISTEN IF OF A SENSITIVE PET-LOVING DISPOSITION *stifles sob*

4. What is your perfect love song? 

I've had quite a lot of perfect love songs unfortunately, one for every person I've fancied myself in love with. On the other hand I've an almost equal amount of that-could-have-been perfect and you-turned-out-to-be-a-bastard not-love songs too. *Sighs*

Nevertheless I've narrowed it down as much as I could. This is my perfect love song and I walked down the aisle to it when marrying the current husband..




But only because he wouldn't let me play this...



*tuts*

5. What song would you like at your funeral? 



AND I want everybody to cry buckets too.. while moshing a bit though. Obviously.

6. One song that makes you you? 

There is no one song that makes me me. There are two.
This ....


And this ....



Because I am a woman of many facets *Mysterious look*

Note: For a full list of the 3,000 plus songs on my iTunes that make me me, please send a stamped addressed envelope to .... oh, sorry.

*Shuffles off, finger popping*


Photobucket

Please check out everyone else's entries at Kate Takes 5

Wednesday, 14 November 2012

Christmas Dressing.. A Competition

I don't usually do much thinking about what to wear on Christmas day. USUALLY I'm thrashing around with a turkey in a dressing gown for most of the day before, in the three available minutes between the point where sprouts are palatable and sprouts are mush, I manage to throw on something, anything that looks vaguely Christmassy. Last year, for our festive family meal, I wore a bronze taffeta skirt from 1989 and wondered why I was getting funny looks from the TeenTwins...

But this Christmas Northern Mum is hosting a Next competition with FIVE HUNDRED pounds worth of Next vouchers on offer to the winning entry. And it's the best kind of competition allowing your imagination to run riot across the Next website and picking your favourite family looks for Christmas day. I COULD have asked the family and got everyone involved so they could make their own choices but then I thought: "Bugger it, this is my fantasy Christmas day and so you'll all wear what I want you to wear."

Yeah, that'll be my imagination running riot again. *Sigh*

But, nevertheless, this is my entry to Northern Mum's Next competition

The Eleven Year Old                                          Teen Twin Two                                 Teen Twin One        

This Christmas will probably be the last time ever that I'll get the Eleven Year Old into a sparkly party dress so I'm taking my chance. The jacket is for when she goes and sulks on the step for being told to wear a sparkly party dress. Obviously.

Of course as a cool mummy, I would never presume to tell the 16 year old TeenTwins what to wear. As if. Although I do seem to spend quite a large proportion of my time telling them what they can't wear. Mostly when they're heading out of the door. Oh. 

The Boy is six years old and at the stage where he can dress himself perfectly well but doesn't want to. *Rolls eyes* So we're going for a gorilla all-in-one for the day. I can just zip him in it and leave him there. 

The added bonus is that everyone will be able to grit their teeth, bite their lips and call him a "little monkey" when he gets *cough* over exuberant WITHOUT causing a Christmas argument. Hoorah.

As for The Man. I'm sorry but, this is MY fantasy after all, I've gone for the full on dressing up for dinner option but, you know, with a vest and shades because he IS a musician and he probably WILL be hungover. Though I've allowed him an all in one for the morning because I'm a nice wife like that.

And as for me. Well, I shall consign the 1989 taffeta to the bin and leave a TeenTwin in charge of the sprouts and, for once, make an effort. Though I won't need to make much of one because I've gone for the black skinny jeans that "lift, slim and shape" ...... *evil cackle*


And when the turkey has been stuffed, cooked and eaten. The presents been squealed at, exclaimed over and then broken, lost or ignored. When Dr Who has been oooh-ed at and The Boy has fallen asleep holding on to a piece of tinsel and half a cracker.... 

....Then I shall mostly be wearing this

I told you I was a nice wife and, well, it IS Christmas...


This is my entry into Northern Mum's Win £500 of Next Vouchers for the Perfect Christmas Outfit competition 

*Crosses fingers* 

The Gallery ..... The 80s

I'm joining in with The Gallery and this week the theme is the 80s.....

It will surprise absolutely no-one at all that I was a student for most of the 80s *sighs* because I am SO DAMNED OLD so this was me, back then ....

Me, the student
Graduation, interview suit and in my first job 

*Weeps for lost youth*

And no, it wasn't a perm.



Please check out everyone else's entries at The Gallery

Monday, 12 November 2012

Nativity 2: Danger in the Manger. A Review

We have a bit of a thing about David Tennant in this house. Or, perhaps, to be a teeny, tiny, little bit more accurate, a BIG thing. The Boy loves him because he was Dr Who. The TeenTwins love him because he was Dr Who but, at 16 years old, have also noticed he's VERY easy on the eye. I love him because he was Casanova before he was Dr Who and I, of course, have no thought at all on his general hotness. At. ALL *Cough* *Shuffles feet a bit*

So.. when we were offered the chance to review Nativity 2: Danger in the Manger by Mumsnet, we snapped their hands off and, lo, we were rewarded with not one but TWO David Tennants. Oh, happy day.

Saturday, 10 November 2012

Comfort Eating ...Rice and Cheese

This week I had something done to my root canal at the dentist and it wasn't pleasant. It was the third in a series of root canal rootlings I've endured over the past couple of months ever since rocking the lop-sided hamster look complete with a jaw infection a couple of months ago.

Yesterday saw an end to the treatment *crosses fingers, legs, arms, eyes* but left me feeling like I'd done two rounds with Muhammed Ali and they'd told him he could only hit me in the face. I had eaten nothing all day, NOTHING at all, and by 9pm, with the children in bed or at least lolling around in their rooms applying nail varnish, and The Man thrumming a bass somewhere, I was not only feeling a bit sorry for myself but bloody starving as well.

And so I resorted to comfort food. Or at least my version which I could call something smart like Quick Risotto or Risotto Con Formaggio but it is rather unfortunately known as Rice With Cheese.

Thursday, 8 November 2012

A Little Bit of Politics...

Barack Obama has won a second term in The White House and whoo-ooo, thank the all-deities-that-be for that. Really. *Wipes brow.*

Generally my first and most abiding rule about politics is, basically, don't vote for any bugger who wants to be a politician because they're after something. It could be my natural Yorkshire cynicism. Or been-a-local-journalist cynicism, Or something I learned in psychology classes, though that would be surprising. Or female intuition. Or it could be common sense. Whatever it is, I wouldn't trust any politician, local or national, male or female, as far as I could spit in a tornado.

It does, of course, make voting for anyone extremely difficult, mainly because it tends to be the people who want to be politicians who appear on the voting form. So I, like I suspect most of the voting public who actually bother to vote, make the best of a bad job, and put a tick next to the one employing the policies that offend me least.

Well thank f*ck for that.

Barack Obama though I think one of the rare few. A politician who wants to make a difference to his country. I admire him more than I have ever admired any politician before but, to be honest, it's a very short list. Of one.

My abiding memory of this particular American election will not just be the relief, very real, I felt at some ridiculous time in the morning when someone somewhere in the good ol' U.S. of A said that Barack Obama was still president.

No. It will also be those moments running up to the election when TeenTwin 2 and I discussed it together. Her shock and horror at Mitt Romney's stance on gay marriage was enough to warm the cockles of this mother's heart and provoke a discussion where she started quoting me back at me. But in a good way.

Basically WE believe that it doesn't matter about race, religion, sex or sexuality, everyone should be treated fairly and equally. Live and, as they say, let live although that doesn't count  *serious face* if you're a murderer, thief, rapist or David Cameron. TeenTwin 2 says his eyes are too close together. I think that's the least of his problems.

But TeenTwin2 has long since been a bit of a worry, ever since she developed a bit of a thing for Baroness Warsi and started reading the Daily Mail. I probably have The Inbetweeners, TOWIE and Jedward *rolls eyes* to thank for it but at least now I know that TeenTwin2 won't be appearing in a blue two piece and a bad perm looking to lead the Tory party any time soon. *Phew*

And HURRAH for that.

And HURRAH for Barack Obama too. *Passes Superman cape*


Tuesday, 6 November 2012

The Gallery ..... Autumn

I'm joining in with The Gallery and this week the theme is Autumn ....

John Keats wrote an actual Ode to Autumn in which he called it the "Season of mist and mellow fruitfulness" and well done that poet because he summed it up pretty much. I love Autumn, the cold crispness of mornings, the hanging mists that burn off into the last remnants of summer sunshine but best of all, I love the trees.

Trees the rest of the year are just THERE being, well, trees but once Autumn comes around they dress up in glorious colours for one ecstatic last dance before stripping themselves bare for the winter .....which is odd because you'd think they would be a bit cold.




Of course, once they've taken off their clothes there is only ONE thing you can do...


And then trees just stand there with NO CLOTHES ON until spring, but at least they don't forget to accessorise..


Hurrah for trees.



 Please check out everyone else's Autumn at The Gallery.

Monday, 5 November 2012

Happy Birthday Mum

Being a mother is a thankless task and I know that because I have a mother and I've never really said thank you to her at all.

I've said thank you for the little things of course, for daily interactions and presents and the unexpected good things that mothers do for you when you least expect it. Of course I have because, well, she brought me up to. Obviously.

But what I haven't thanked her for is making me the person I am. And even though she might roll her eyes and wonder where she went wrong, I think she did a damn fine job to be honest. My mum gave and taught me many things, and not all of them were intentional.

26.12.1963 - Mum and Dad's wedding day

She gave me my love of music. When I was young the little black discs of Elvis Presley and Cliff Richard that she had collected as a teenager were little gems of happiness and to be allowed to play them on the Dansette record player was an honour and a treat. Dancing? She gave me an appreciation and joy for that too. And it wasn't taking me to Janice Reagan's ballet class for the under fours oh no, but the family parties where my mum and dad would do the jive. They used to clear the dance floor, but only because everyone wanted to watch.

It was my mum who gave me my appreciation of writing and my love of books. She taught me to read before I went to school and later had the foresight to work in a library thereby opened up a whole world where every single book I might ever want to read was obtainable and reachable and, shh, you never had to pay a fine.

And she gave me her suede mini-skirt. A genuine sixties patchwork suede mini-skirt that I wore when I was a student in the early eighties and for that, for reasons manifold and best not explained, I owe her and for my love of vintage fashion and *waits for Mother to roll her eyes again* mini-skirts.

She gave me my appreciation of the family that made me and the history we share. She taught me about loyalty and strength. She taught me, probably without noticing, everything there is to know about love. 

She even taught me that it doesn't matter how many times you've been seen swaying down the street singing after a dinner dance OR fallen over in improbable platforms in a Devon car-park after some Scrumpy OR worn a mini-skirt that is LITTLE MORE THAN A BELT, you can still claim the moral high-ground when your own children do similar. 

*Raises eyebrows at Mother*

Anyway, for ALL of that, I thank her. Deeply and very much.

Happy 70th birthday Mum x

Mum and Dad now

Friday, 2 November 2012

Now We Are (Nearly) 48

This month I will be 48 years old.

At least I think I will be. I KNOW I was born in November 1964 and I KNOW (if I take a quick look at the calendar admittedly) that it's now 2012. And I can start to work out how old I am but somewhere in between knowing the answer and saying it out loud my brain veers away and starts making a loud LA LA LA sound.... *sighs*

But in the pursuit of truthful blogging I asked a teenager to work it out and, when they'd finished giggling, it appears I am ACTUALLY going to be 48. For real. Forty eight. FORTY fucking eight. FORTY fucking EIGHT. FORTY FUCKING EIGHT. *Edvard Munch Scream face*

And so it appears that even though I feel no more grown up or wise in the ways of the world than my youngest child aged six, I must on all available evidence be, in fact, an adult just by virtue of being so old. Oh.

This is entirely unexpected. I always thought being old would be heralded with the desire to wear a twin-set and American tan tights, sensible shoes and, possibly, a perm. There would be groups to join, bridge to be played and I would KNOW things like how to make Christmas cake, the optimum temperature for Yorkshire puddings and what to do in the case of a fracas at the Cricket Club.

I don't wear, do or know any of those things and the only time I got anywhere near a cricketer I divorced him at the first available opportunity.

Me, two weeks ago. In a pub toilet.

I'm your wearing a borrowed tailcoat, skull t-shirt and 15 year old jeans kind of girl. And yes, I know. My mother has despaired for YEARS.

They do say it's children that keep you young but clearly they never met my children. The hilarity of being 48 years old is, apparently, endless when you're 16 and even the 11 year old thinks it's amusing: "How old?" *Snigger*
Personally I don't think maths should be encouraged in schools.

But do I woman up? Do I throw the jeans away and buy slippers. Invest in some American tan tights and join the WI or do I do what I AM actually considering doing which is, er,  taking up taekwondo with the six year old?

*Has mid-life crisis*

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