Wednesday, 29 July 2009
So, this could easily be titled Reason's Why My Husband is Annoying part 153. Yes, He did another very irritating thing the other night. He was trying to be helpful.
'Darling, you put your feet up while I make you one of my delicious omelette's.'
Feet up, Kirstie's Homemade Homes on, cold beer in hand, bliss.
In comes my dinner/supper/tea - depends where you come from as to what you call it in England, and what class you are. As I am of northern origin, and not particularly posh, it's usually referred to as tea.
A ham, cheese and tomato omelette, small side salad with French Champagne dressing from Waitrose, and a big boule of bread straight out of the oven.
I start tucking in, within seconds, my food is gone. In the tum. Barely touched my tastebuds. I have actually finished before he sits down.
Well, I was hungry.
I look at his plate. His omelette is massive. His salad a big hefty pile of leaves and tomatoes.
'Erm, how many eggs did you use to make your omelette?' I ask.
'3,' comes the reply.
'How many eggs did you used to make MY omelette?' I ask eyes narrowing.
So, is he:
a) trying to tell me something - i.e I am getting fatty
b) believing as he is bigger than me, he deserves a bigger portion?
d) an arse?
Well, one thing is for sure, he will not be doing that again.
In our house, it is now referred to as 'the omelette incident'.
Tuesday, 21 July 2009
My husband can be really annoying.
I know I am also really annoying, which is why we are a good match, but sometimes he is just, well, ridiculously annoying.
Take for example the fact he occasionally goes to a supermarket near his work at lunchtime to get a sarnie. I have asked him on many occasions to phone me to tell me he's going and check if I need anything picking up. It saves the whole shenanigan of finding a parking space, unloading two children from the car, telling them to "put that down", "don't run", "stop screaming", "no you can't have a butterfly biscuit/princess magazines/curly crisps (aka Quavers)", "no, we don't need three jars of oregano thank you, put it back without dropping it", when all you need is a loaf of bread, cucumber or pint of milk. It also takes approximately one hour to get said one pint of milk.
Anyway, we all know that. But what you don't know is why my husband is annoying (part 152).
I called him at 1.30pm.
"Where are you?"
"On my way back from Waitrose," he replied.
"Erm, I think we have had this conversation approximately 527 times. Before you go to get yourself a luxury sandwich would you consider calling me, your lady wife and mother of your children to ask if we, your family need anything? Now I have to go out of my way to get a loaf of bread with two children when you were just a second ago, standing next to a great big bread mountain in the supermarket." I was sending my best evil eyes down the phone.
And this was his absolutely incredible response as to why he wouldn't help his wife...
He didn't want to have to stare at a loaf of bread on his desk all afternoon.
Would he be tempted to eat it all in one go?
Or maybe it spoils the feng shui of his desk?
Or perhaps it blocks out the girl from accounts boobies?
I didn't find out.
I hung up.
What an arse.
Wednesday, 15 July 2009
My 5 year old girl told me today that the boys at school had been talking about boobies and the "effort" word. I think she meant 'F' word. She said she didn't know what they meant but she thought it was rude. She then asked if tea was ready. So no harm done. Phew. Only a matter of time though, I'm sure.
When telling a friend this, she said her daughter, of the same age had got very cross with her and said she was going to kick her in the peanuts. I think she meant penis. Just to be clear. I said penis for the first time on my blog. Just there. How funny. Sorry, how old am I? Right now, approximately 7.
Another friend said when her boy, same age, was playing on the Wii and getting annoyed he cried out, 'Oh Ship!'
So shipping hell, it's late, I think I need to effort off to bed and show some love to my husbands peanuts.
Monday, 13 July 2009
Don't make your children help you carry the cakes for the summer fair to school and then tell your 2 year old she isn't allowed to eat one despite the fact she has it right under her nose. You will arrive at school with two children sobbing/screaming. Other parents will look at you accusingly. They won't know that you have not allowed them buns for breakfast, they will just think you are a bad parent. This is because you not only have two crying children, but you are also late and sporting wet hair. You look a shambles and so people will think you most probably are a shambles. And all because you wanted to bring buns in for the school fair. It's just not worth it.
Don't then try and pass off said buns as your own by buying plain fairy cakes from Tesco and just icing them yourself, sprinkling them with silver balls. A good 'friend' will out you on Facebook, thereby making you look very lame. Either just buy nice cakes from Waitrose still in their wrappers that people will actually want to buy or get up off your lazy bum and make them from fresh. There is no such thing as half measures when it comes to bun making for the summer fair. Deal with it.
Wednesday, 8 July 2009
I don't know what's wrong with me at the moment but I keep having sneaky little naughty dreams.
And not about my husband.
*Shock horror. Sharp intake of breath. She actually admits dreaming about people OTHER than her husband?!*
I dreamt I kissed his best friend from University, in the lift of my old workplace.
Whilst wearing a bikini and a sarong.
I don't even own a sarong. I wouldn't ever wear a bikini to work, and I have never even fancied the bloke, so it's all wrong.
In every way.
But the thing that went on and on in this dream was my desperation to be kissed by him. I mean, that's how tame it was, there was no full blown sex or anything, just my longing for him to kiss me.
And then I woke up.
I told my husband.
He raised his eyebrows.
Two nights later and I dreamt about a boy from my old school.
Again, I was desperate to kiss him.
This is a guy who I never even slept with despite dating on and off from the age of 15 until University.
In my dream he was the 20 something boy, not the 30+ corduroy wearing man he is now. I didn't tell my husband about this dream.
Not sure he'd really appreciate me constantly dreaming about kissing other men.
So, tell me. What does it all mean?
Is it normal?
Will I be dreaming of kissing other men tonight I wonder?
I hope not.
It's all quite exhausting.
Sunday, 5 July 2009
So, lessons in parenting #236. Don't go out for the first time on a night out with Reception mums and get exceedingly drunk. You will only be an embarrassment to both yourself and your 5 year old daughter.
I didn't even really want to go out, but I'd missed the first mums 'do' at the beginning of term. Now it's the end of term and I'm the class rep so I thought I should show my face on the organised drinkages. The plan was to only go for a couple of hours, show my face, then come home where all the neighbours were having a BBQ on a lovely sunny evening.
I did inform all the mums to get to the bar before 8, as it was 2 for 1 on cocktails showing that a) I'm cheap, b)I've been to this bar a fair few times before and c) I may enjoy an odd tipple here and there...
Obligingly they all turn up at 7,45pm, I encourage them to all get two drinks each rather than share the offer. Two Cosmopolitans slip down easily (yes, I still dream of being Carrie from Sex and The City. I need to get over it. So 1999). Waitress service to the table is dangerous. Half way through the second drink she asks so sweetly, 'Can I get you another drink?'...So in goes the order for a vodka and tonic, and another, and another.
I then have a 'Guess the age of the DJ' competition. Some start off at age 10, others, aim for 13, some say he's around 15, I am thinking a more respectable 22. I stumble over and ask him. He says, whilst guarding his equipment (no, not that equipment filthy, his DJ equipment), which he thinks I am going to pour my drink all over, 'How old do you want me to be?' Like he is some gigolo offering his services to a bored housewife. Which, to be fair sometimes I am. But I'm definitely not looking for a service. I just want to win a bet. He's 19. I scream. God, I am really getting old. He looks at me with pity in his big puppy dog eyes. I dance drunkenly. I make the mums form a dancing circle. No, not for handbags, but I drag dodgy looking blokes into the circle and ask them to perform their best moves. I whoop, I generally make an absolute idiot of myself and I don't leave until the ugly lights come on. I stagger home, missing the BBQ completely and end up hugging the big white telephone, talking to God at 5am.
To sum up. This is how to make an absolutely terrible impression with the school run mums. I shan't be running for class rep in year 1, funnily enough, and for the remaining three weeks I will be wearing my thankfully large sunglasses and avoiding all eye contact at the school gates. As I said, I'm an embarrassment. To myself and my daughter. Oh, the shame of it all...