Ok guys. It’s like this. I have a carnival tomorrow and only a few applicants. I am alone. I am afraid. I am staring at lack of popularity with growing horror and thinking, “Shit, I am nearly 40 and NOBODY LOVES ME!”
You wouldn’t want to upset an elderly person like this, would you? You don’t want to see me staring forlornly at my false teeth floating in some water, sobbing real tears of pain? DO YOU? No.
Enter my carnival. The theme is grumpy or funny or both.
You may, if you wish, sing the title of this blog to the tune of The Final Countdown. I won’t mind. Let me give you a few minutes to enjoy the intro.
Here’s the video if you forgot the intro:
So. The tattoo was finally finished about a month ago. I am aware that I’ve been a bit rubbish about showing you the final photograph but there have been some issues.
First off the rather amazing shots taken by The Husband show my entire body. I look fat. Yes, I know this makes me sound very shallow but, let’s face it, who wants the world to see you as cuddly when you’d rather they gasped in awe at your amazingly hot awesomeness? Yeah. Exactly.
Secondly, we have had a bit of a plague here. Germs have been scuttling back and forth between all three of us and not really made any of us feel like posing for (or taking) photographs.
Thirdly there was a lot of work to be done and the hours have been stupid.
SO because I am not sure when I am going to find the perfect moment to show you the final tattoo, here is the shot of me looking over my shoulder at her. She is done. She is complete.
There you have it. The final moments with Sadistic Steve were brutal but sweet. I cried in agony this time. For some reason the last stage was the one that really sank its teeth into me.
I know that many people wouldn’t dream of having a tattoo. In fact, quite a few people have gasped in a sort of horrified way when they have seen my back. A meeting with a group of fellow journalists had the table go silent. I could almost hear the horrified fascination (an ailment I definitely suffer from).
I have also had so many people come to me and gasp over it. Literally gasp. It is such a split, right down the middle. You either love her or you hate her. And I was worried that (because I am a weak willed git) I would also start to hate her, that I would panic and think I had made a mistake.
I haven’t.
I am so in love with her. Here is another shot. It is the same one but cropped in closely so you can see more detail. You can also see the lines from the cardigan I was wearing. Yeah, sorry about that. But one must suffer for art…
That’s it. Two months of pain, Bepanthen (yes, Bepanthen appears to be the lotion of choice for all tattoo artists, including those in South Africa. Who knew?) and squeaks of “Ouch, DAMMIT” from the shower, and my dragon tattoo is complete.
Now I am in the final countdown to 40. Ladies and gents the Big Day arrives on 05 July. I am going to be turning 40 in UNDER A MONTH.
And if one more person under the age of 37 tells me that it is “just a number” I am going to eviscerate them.
So about a year ago, probably less but time has turned into chewing gum lately, I applied for a chance to do a blogging carnival with Mommy Bloggers and then, as usual, promptly forgot about it. If it wasn’t for a chance comment by a lovely reader, 21 June would have arrived and, along with it, a ton of emails that would have completely bewildered me.
If you happen to want fame and fortune and glory (Oh yes, a blogging carnival does do such amazing things) then please do join in. It’s free. Hahahaha.
Now the rules, as I can gather, are simple. I host the carnival by chatting about it here. I link up to all those amazing humans who have written posts and I admire their genius. I also take the day off because reading all those blogs is definitely going to be fascinating and I doubt I will finish quickly.
Then I panic after writing this post because I just spent half an hour searching the BMB carnival list to see what the bloggers before me had done and found nothing. Yeah. That’s right. Nothing. Mummy from the Heart did mention hers in May but I’ve seen nothing on her site. So if these finalists for the MAD awards are not getting responses, then I may well be that sad git in a dark blogging corner swinging her legs morosely.
Or I can pretend I didn’t want you here anyway and why do I care. Which is obviously the truth. Right?
The carnival cometh and I am hosting it. If you fancy sending me a post on 21 June and participating in this amazing exercise, then please, please do.
You are allowed to dictate a theme so here is my theme: Grumpy and funny
If you are grumpy and you wrote a funny post, send it here.
If you are funny because you are grumpy I’d like to read it.
Actually, just tell me why you are grumpy.
I am about to turn 40 and adopt the moniker Grumpy Old Woman. Join me. Share the grimace. Be at one with your inner GRRRRRRRR.
I went for a run this evening. The scene was magical. The sun was setting and the sky was streaked with the glorious shades of amber, pink and yellow. The beach was empty and the sea crashed joyously to my left. I was transported, I was a running machine on a natural high.
I was attacked by the stench of dog crap.
I have already formed a deep and abiding hatred of those cretins who seem to lack the singular inability to carry a small plastic bag to pick up their pooch’s poop. How hard can it be? Seriously? I mean, it’s not as if the bag weighs very much. I’ve seen 90-year olds with them.
As my run morphed disturbingly into an angry stomp, I started counting the little red dog shit bins. They are liberally scattered along the beach, the roads, the by-ways and pathways. In fact, for every three doggy doo doo bins there was maybe one normal bin. So it’s not as if the humans who fail to pick up the crap are unable to do so due to horror of carrying the poo for thousands on unhygienic miles. IS IT?
So the only conclusion I have come to is that they are proud. “Look,” they are saying, “Look at my beautiful baby’s steaming turd. Look! It is almost identical to the ones you get in a joke shop.”
They beam with pride. Surely such a masterpiece is too good to scoop?
As my child has now returned home twice with doggy poo on her brand new school shoes I am starting to get more than a little annoyed. There is a spot where I’ve seen the furtive buggers going with their dogs. A spot that is turning (especially now in the warmer weather) into a fertile crop-growing landscape thanks to the abundance of poo fighting for space. You can almost see the old white ones elbowing the fresh ones out of the way and muttering about respect for their elders.
I am seriously tempted to take a day off work and lurk behind the wall, leaping out and crying AHA! whenever somebody’s dog leaves a crap and they leave without paying attention. Although am afraid of being beaten up by pit bull owners, if I am honest.
There are many, many reasons why I LOVE being a child of the 80s. Sure, the hair was bad. Yes, I wore blue eye-shadow but there was this bright innocence and wonderful sense of excitement (or that just could have been me…) and, of course, the music.
This song captures the essence of my teenage years. Dedicated to me by my first love, played every hot summer on the radio, a song that even now makes me feel sun-kissed and relaxed, happy and free. It takes me back in time and makes me feel so young. It makes me laugh. And it makes me cry.
I love my child, I do. But there are times when I can only stare at her and wonder where on Earth she came from.
From the day she was born she had this uncanny ability to sense just when we were about to sit down for dinner. Happily snoozing or burbling would change to crying, screaming or an enormous nappy changing emergency JUST when we were about to eat.
The more delicious the food, the more likely it would take a while to sort things out. I got used to cold food.
She got older. She ate with us. She was at the table. Did this change?
No
To this day (and my GOD she is going to hate me for this when she hits 18) she will require the toilet just as supper is placed gently upon the table.
However, while this no longer presents (include disclaimer about poo disasters here) a barrier to our enjoyment of a tasty repast, the other spectacular knack she has inherited (from only WHO knows where) is The Sneeze.
My daughter, for no particular reason that I can fathom, will let out a hearty, Earth shattering sneeze while in the middle of a mouthful of food.
This results in sneezed out masticated food particles landing on ME including my hair, my food, my clothes, and my phone. Not The Husband. No. Like vomiting, she shares this joyful experience only with me. When I prayed for membership to an exclusive club THIS was NOT what I meant.
The Sneeze is violent, disgusting and omnipresent – it goes everywhere.
Into the salad at the picnic we attended last week (never seen a woman move that fast as I removed salad from table as innocent human reached towards it)
Onto my yummy Mars Bar last night.
I am honestly amazed that I’m not stick thin, seriously, because I do not have the stomach to cope with The Sneeze. Vomit, poo, wee – fine (sort of) but sneeze? URGH
When Squidge hit school I realised that it was time for me to broach the concept of The Sleepover. Now, I am hardly the fainting violet type but the entire idea put the fear of god into me. What if the other offspring cried for its parent? What if it was naughty and I made it cry? What if my child made it cry? What if it made my child cry? What if I lost it somewhere? Oh, dear heavens…
And, quite frankly, the horror stories from other parents hardly helped.
“Oh I had to take the other child home after a few hours,” said one mum, “She told my daughter that she hated her and that she wanted to go home.”
“The other child was so badly behaved and rude,” said another, “that I honestly cannot face her coming around ever again, not even for an afternoon.”
As you can see, the sleepover is a minefield peppered with social mores, high risk interactions, terror of error, and possibly parental alcoholism.
The Husband, obviously, didn’t see any of this. He merely shrugged and said, “It will be fine.”
Yeah. Right. He only comes home at 6pm. Bastard.
Luckily for me Squidge’s first sleepover (both the child coming here and her going there) set was a breeze. They enjoyed every minute and no tears or drama accompanied them.
Then came THIS holiday a.k.a. The Sleepover Week Of Doom.
I had been lulled into a false sense of security. I had been gulled. For the second round with another child was a highway littered with explosives.
It also started out alright. They played happily for an hour or two and then, THEN, began the pain. The other child (OC) went quiet. Ominously so.
“I am hungry,” she said, staring at me with the kind of face you see on an NSPCC ad. Oh god. It was 5:30pm and I hadn’t made supper yet. I’d been distracted by that dratted Kindle.
Immediately I raced into the kitchen to make my tried and trusted playdate favourite – homemade mini pizzas with sundried tomato paste, cheese, viennas, peppers and carrots. Delicious and faintly healthy.
I presented these to the kids with pride. I had salvaged my reputation. All would be well.
“This is,” said OC, “Disgusting.” My child, copying every mannerism of her guest, pushed her plate away too with the same expression of revulsion. (Traitorous creature, she loves these pizzas!)
Um. Shit?
It was at this point that I think I realised that my parenting skills were a bit crap. I tend to love people and want them to love me, a bit like a Labrador puppy. This is not a suitable characteristic for a parent. No. A parent must be firm and wise, must dispense authority with calm assurance. Must be patient and kind.
I am not these things. I am the panicked human who sidled desperately into the kitchen and stuffed a plate with breadsticks, wobbly cheese (Cheesestrings), grapes, and cold meat in an attempt to placate the OC.
It’s her eyes, I tell you. They bored straight through me and filled me with terror. She could smell my growing fear.
The offering was met with disinterest as was the movie, the games I suggested, and playing with Squidge.
Squidge, in the meantime, was retaliating to the fact that her friend considered her boring, by crying about everything and hunching into a grumpy ball at the end of the sofa. By the time The Husband got home I had my head in the drinks cabinet searching for a beverage that wouldn’t make me smell like a mad woman with a shopping trolley full of shoes.
The Husband casually took over with the aforementioned parental wisdom and calm that apparently has skipped my genetic structure altogether, and soon the two were asleep in bed. I was upstairs rocking back and forth with drool forming a rainbow to the floor.
The next morning was (BIG surpise) my morning shift so I was up with the two small humans at 6am. Yes, you read that correctly, SIX A.M. That is no normal time to be awake, unless you are about to travel to an exotic destination and need to be at the airport.
“I want my moooommy,” wailed OC, as I desperately tried to persuade her that the chocolate Wheetos were the same as Coc0 Pops and to stop Squidge from once again forming a ball-like huddle at the end of the sofa.
It was also when I discovered that fake tattoos (the ones you put on with a damp cloth and wash off after a bath) were the solution to all ills. With one flourish of a tattoo filled page smiles were returned to the faces of the two tots and I could once again return to worshipping my coffee mug.
While the rest of the sleepover was uneventful and painless I was struck with such sadness as to how the two children interacted. The OC is older than Squidge by a good six months and it shows. My little girl was born late July and is one of the youngest in her school. At a time when development can be measured in weeks, is this going to make her life harder? Would it have been better if she had been held back a year and been the oldest in her class? There are pluses and minuses for each decision but there is no going back now.
Still, it is hard to see other children boss her and roll their eyes at her because she isn’t at the same place as they are just yet. In fact it breaks my heart.
It started out as any normal afternoon. I ambled up to the school in the brand new and warm sunshine to fetch my delectable offspring from the clutches of The System. After the rugby scrum style madness that is any after school collection, Squidge and I were walking home hand in hand.
“Mummy,” she says, her little face scrunched up in what I have come to recognise as deep thought, “Did you know that one day the universe is going to crack and that we are all going to die?”
I was uncertain as to my next move. There isn’t any handbook for this. Do I acknowledge that she is likely right and possibly instil in her the kind of fear that Obelix always had for the sky? Do I laugh manically and change the subject? I went with my first instinct which was to ask how on Earth she came up with this…
“Squidge,” I said, nervously, “Where did you get this idea from?”
“OH,” said she who amazes me, “G and I were talking about it today and WE think that if the universe cracks we are in a lot of trouble. Except the space men. They have special suits so they’ll be ok. Can we get special suits, mummy?”
I saw my opening and went for it. Happily avoiding the concept of mortality and how fragile our lives actually were I asked her which space men we were talking about. After about five minutes of lengthy discussion about space stations, designer pink space suits, and Doctor Who, she says…
“Look mummy, these are the different positions people die in.”
And she proceeded to put her arms and head and body in a variety of seriously disturbing positions.
Honestly, I have no idea what they teach them at school.
Boy I have been invisible of late. It’s amazing how busy things have been and how quickly I’ve come to neglect poor Saffa. You see, I have just launched another webiste and it has taken up all of my free time. The Canny Crafteris my little baby and it needs lots of TLC. Still massively in development, this site is my dream come true.
You know, one of those things that you think of and think of until one day you go, “If I don’t do this now I am going to have to take my head off and leave it somewhere.”
So off I went and did it. Boy is it scary. Scaaaaaary. I have a massively loud negative internal voice. Actually, if any of you know of a way of switching the bugger off, let me know. The voice says things like, “Rubbish” and “Pah” – a lot. Stupid voice.
I also need to thank (as if this is some kind of insane Oscar speech by a deranged lunatic) The Husband for his patience and help, and The Person for HER patience and help. I have always said that the two of them are like brother and sister from another mother, and the help they have given me (as well as the rolling of eyes) has proven that quite thoroughly.
Why the Invisible Mother? Because I am shattered. My poor offspring is spending a lot of time with a zombie. I even drool slightly. Yesterday I fell asleep on my keyboard. My computer (thanks Windows. Not…) rebooted thanks to updates and while I was waiting for it to restart itself I fell asleep. How sad is that.
So, here’s to your weekend! May it be full and fluffy and lovely. Mine is going to be about a wedding! C and K are getting married (they sound like a designer brand advert, snort) and The Husband and I are their photographers.
Yes, I also think they are NUTS for choosing me, but hey…
We are off to Bath for three days of shooting, bonding, chatting and laughing. And celebrating the marriage of two amazing humans. Wahoo!!!
I promise to update here more often, and to try and be more entertaining. Promise.
Yesterday I discovered that spam is a useful tool.
Two weeks ago, just before Valentine’s Day, I bought The Husband a Groupon gift as part of his Valentine’s Day package. Then, when the voucher arrived in my inbox, I realised that I’d bought him a hot stone massage in Aberdeen.
That’s about an 11 hour drive from here. Er, not quite the luxury voucher I’d planned. I still have no idea how I’ve ended up getting Groupon alerts from Edinburgh…
I decide to give Groupon a call to see if there is any way of fixing this. Phone rings. Ten minutes later phone is still ringing. This is just peachy as I have it on speaker phone and I’m working away beside it. A woman’s voice comes on, “I’m sorry but due to a high call demand all our operators are currently busy. Please call again later or email us on xyz.” (or thereabouts, I didn’t memorise the call)
Then the phone hangs up on me.
I think, “OK, I’ll email xyz!”
Two days go past, three days. Calling still yields the same results. Email continues to be ignored. My blood pressure gently sloshes at Red Alert.
Yesterday I finally cracked. After three futile calls I decided to use the Spam Method. I sent Groupon an email every five minutes for about an hour.
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