Category Archives: Random chatter

Arrrrr a pirate I be!

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What?
You thought I was just joking with that blog title?
Nope.
And no, I have not been asked as an extra in a new Pirate of the Caribean movie. Nor do I need to attend a pirate themed party.
It’s called uveitis and it is a recurring eye infection. I usually get this every two years.
And in order to “spare” my poor, red eye I need to wear an eyepatch to protect it from light.
Luckily it doesn’t hurt too much. It is just annoying. Putting on make-up is a bit of a challenge. I nearly impalled myself with a mascara this morning.
So, wanna swap mermaid jokes?

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Attack of the one-legged zombie doll

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Once upon a midnight dreary, I pondered weak and weary over the gigantic pile of single socks on the floor.
When putting away pile nr. 987650 of shirts this caught my eye:

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What the….

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Aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh

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Aaaaiiiijeeeeerrgh…

Note: this dolly lost apperently lost her leg when my husband used her to chase our cat from underneath a table. He hid the evidence and in order not to traumatize our girls, he hid her in our cupboard. Where she nearly gave me a heartattack
I sleep better knowing we got rid of her…

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How to take of poopy pants without making a huge mess

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Suppose you have a child. A child which is going through that awkward phase known as “potty training”. Now suppose that this child is having a bit of trouble with potty training, especially the poop-on-the-potty part of the whole process.

She will pee on the potty like the best of them, but poop… Poop is something special, something so rare and precious it is best kept close at hand. Preferably in the sleepdiaper, early in the morning, keeping the nighttime pee company.

But now suppose that by some wicked planetarial mumbo-jumbo voodoo magic the child shifts it’s poop-time from morning to midday. When it is not wearing a diaper, but Hello Kitty underpants. And she, having perfected the poop-where-you-are technique, soils her pretty, pink polka-dotted underpants. And herself.

Now what do you do? Beside mumble the Lord’s Prayer for Strength, Patience and a Stiff Shot of Vodka under your breath.

Here is a little technique I have perfected over these many, many potty training weeks :

- Take her Poopiness to the bathroom and put next to the bath.

- Take a clean plastic bag and fold it so that it will stay open without assistance, for you will be alone when you have to do this. Never mind that your mate was around when the pooping happened, he is gone now. Vanished. Sucked into a wormhole. Hiding in the closet, visiting Narnia.

- Put the pooped-one into the bag. Yes, put the child into the bag. Yes, you read that right But of course leave the bag open!

- Gently remove the poop-soiled clothes, whatever is not to poopy you may toss in a pile and deal with later. Now focus on the kid.

- When you hit the final layer a.k.a the poop-holding Hello Kitty pants remove them gently, wipe some of the poop with them as you move along. Slide gently down the legs, try not to leave a poop mark. Let the pants drop on the feet.

- Lift la pooparina out of the bag and into the bath. Take the plastic bag containing the offending poop and the item-formerly-known-as-underpants, seal it by tying with a sailors knot.

- Clean up your child, hand her a fresh pair of Hello Kitty pants and let her free to run into the sunset or into the next room to relate her misfortune in great detail to her father.

- Take the bag with evidence and throw into the trash. Scrub your hands with bleach.

Questions?

The contents of my handbag

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Since the dawn of Man men have been confused by woman’s handbags. Why do we need them, why do we take them with us everywhere we go, why is this item it so important that you can never really have too many of them. And more importantly what do we carry in them?

At least this question can be answered. Dear men, please find a detailed list of the contents of an average women’s handbag below:

  • 1 wallet
  • 1 cell phone (brand : Samsung)
  • 1 charger for aforementioned cell phone
  • 1 cable to connect said cell phone with computer
  • 1 lipstick (brand Guerlain)
  • 2 tubes of Labello lip balm, one slightly more used then the other.
  • 1 rubber duck, pink
  • 1 rubber duck, white
  • 1 rubber duck, yellow
  • 1 pair of underpants (size indicates that these belong to N°1 and yes they are clean, thank God)
  • 1 chocolate
  • 1 red and white polkadotted comb with a spiffy Minny Mouse on the handle
  • 2 tampons
  • 1 powder compact, brand Guerlain
  • 1 small powder brush
  • 1 sample of face cream (brand LaRoche Possay)
  • approximately 5 million hairbands, all colored brown
  • 1 small toiletrie bag, intended to hold aforementioned tampons, face cream, lip balms, lipstick, comb, hairbands, but they are always escaping.
  • loose change (very small coins, couldn’t bother to count them all)
  • Crumbs (origin unknown)

So I showed you mine… wont you show me yours?

A not so very relaxing weekend

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Another weekend which flew by in a blur of activities …
Office party on Saturday…

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At the end of which I shamed my husband by kicking of my shoes and insisting on walking the 10 minute walk to our hotel on my stockinged feet. He made me swear never to wear brand-new shoes to a party again especially if we plan to dance until 2am.
A sunday spend on putting up wallpaper…

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And sitting on a bench soaking up the last rays of autumn sunshine watching the kids play….

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(Ok that last bit was quite relaxing).
Which brings us right back to another Monday.
But at least our hallway is semi-finished

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Yup weekends, don’t yah just love them…

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At long last…

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Tell me, what do you see on this picture?
You see two girls, playing with stickers, enjoying themselves without me or any other person to supervise them.
So to you mothers of very young children, you who have nearly given up hope of ever having a minute of peace, I tell it is possible.
The moment will come when you can go into the kitchen/toilet/laundryroom by yourself and you will not be followed by the pitterpatter of little feet and whiny sounds.
That day will come. Keep the faith ye mothers of toddlers young.
And keep the white wine chilled,.because these intervals of peace generally don’t last long…

What a girl does want for her birthday

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Well tomorrow it is my birthday. And since everybody has assured my that they won’t get me underwear I guess I should relax, lean back and let the smoke from the birthday candles waft over me like big ol’ killer wave.

Although I told you that I don’t have any preferences when it comes to gifts, that was not entirely true. There are some things I would really really appreciate. But I wouldn’t call them actual gifts, since you couldn’t wrap them…

From my husband: Mastering the ancient art of throwing a jar, bag, container, whatever away when it is empty.

Seriously. The man has the quaint and maddening habit of leaving a teensy weensy drop or smudge in a jar, butter-container or shampoo-bottle and then claiming that ‘it is not empty yet, so I can’t throw it away’.

This is not so bad when it concerns a glass or semitransparent bottle or jar. But with a solid nature-poluting-whatever-they-claim-on-the-packaging one…

Many has been the time when I found myself in the shower with just enough shampoo left in the bottle to wet just half an eyebrow. Many is the time I have cursed him for this…

So sweetheart of mine, let’s make a deal: When there is barely enough jam in the jar to feed a starving baby flea, we trow it out and open a new one. ‘kay.

Thanks beforehand.

From my children: Mastering the ability to blow/clean your own nose.

This does not need explaining does it.

You might also already  want start on practicing whiping your own bottoms, ’cause that is what I’m asking for next year.

Yeah I know, I’m a regular mean, ol’ Tiger Mom…

From the world in general : Less assholery.

I would ask for one day without reports of gruesome deaths in fights, fires or whatnot. But that would be pushing it a bit. So I’ll settle for my morning coffee not tasting like mud mixed with ground down rubber tires.

Pretty Please…

 

What a girl doesn’t want

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Well my birthday is coming up. Soon I will officially enter my thirties (being thirty doesn’t mean you are ‘in your thirties’) and the carefree party girl life I had will be over. Not that I ever was much of a party girl (It is not me in those pictures!) and since I have two kids I wouldn’t call my life ‘carefree’ either.

But anyhow. Soon it will be my birthday. And with birthday come gifts. Lot’s and lot’s of gifts. But getting or giving gifts is dangerous territory. A gift which does not please is a real party pooper. And no-one wants to poop a party.

So I made it easy for everyone this year: here is what not to get me:

 Underwear.

This was the absolute worst gift I was ever given. Ever!

It happened at Christmas when I was a bright little 15 year-old. The tree was laden with mismatched Christmas decorations. Since my father was in his religious music-phase there was a choir of Russion monks singing in the background. We- being the polite creatures that we were, did not comment on the fact that an obsession for religious music was a bit strange in a man as determindly heathen as my father. Everybody had had their first glass of champagne and the first round of presents was about to begin.

Face it, when you are 15 and you are forced into a family Christmas charade you do this with all the goodwill of a turkey being led to the slaughterhouse the day before Thanksgiving. Presents are the only reason you are there at all and the only reason you will bring your surly self to converse on a polite level with your many aunties and uncles.

The first gift of the evening was destined for me – my family knew from experience (I was the youngest grandchild) that teenagers need a quick fix to appease them in the beginning of the evening and a promise of more wrapping-paper-tearing to get them through the the festivities - and the giver was my grandmother. And being my grandmother she gave me this:

 

Sloggi. The granny pants edition.

I remember the tension in the room mounting as everyone saw what the gift was, hearts where clutched, knuckles thightend on champange flutes as the bright old-lady voice of my grandmother said“These are really good quality and will last you years and years, also they are good for when you have your period since they are so big, they will not get into your ass like some others do.”

Underwear that doesn’t creep up the ass, every 15 year-old girls dream.

Now I’m sure you have all mentally prepared yourself for the description of the worst teenage meltdown in history and I am deeply sorry to have to dissapoint you. I looked up and saw my grandmothers blue eyes – mirrors of my own – look at me with twinkling lights in them and smiled :”Thank you so very much, these will come in super-handy!”.

Everybody drew a breath and another bottle of champagne was opened. And for the first time my life I was offered a refill.

This episode left me with a deep neurosis about buying my own underwear.  I will start to tremble uncontrollably when someone suggest that they’ll get me underwear. The mere thought of opening a gift which may or may not contain underwear that hasn’t been handpicked by me is enough to send me all the way to planet wacko and back in the blink of an eye. Lucky for me my husband wouldn’t dream of getting me underwear. Thinking about buying me underwear sends HIM to planet wacko and it is hard to get him to come off.

I’m pretty sure that there are support groups for my condition. But as it is I prefer not to deal with it.

As for the rest of the whole birthday gift spectrum, knock yourself out. I really don’t care if the weedwhacker I once got for my birthday is actually more of a “family” – utility tool and thus not an item celebrating the greatness of MOI. We needed a weedwhacker and actually I really enjoy that thing. Yes I do! I pretend that the weeds are the heads of idiotic family members or other people who annoy me greatly. It is a really great way to relieve stress and keep the garden clean in one whole destructive swing.

I’m not a difficult person, anything you may think I might find usefull is good. Why? Because if you by me an item that I had to buy anyway I actually save money. Money that can be spend on things I do like. So yeah, by all means buy me that new pan, I have my eye on a cute pair of wedges…