Grown-up gripe

No, not the moan you'd expect from the title, just a quick question from a nearly 39yo woman with hideous hiccups...

Why isn't there gripe water for grown ups?

Another ad post

Not a chocolate penis to be seen today, just something that reinforced how badly ad-(wo)men can get it wrong sometimes.

No 1 Son is a typical hollow-legged teen and will eat anything - including your dinner if you don't lick it before he can nick it - so when I noticed the Shreddies box was still full on shopping day I was curious.

His answer to why he'd stopped inhaling his previous favourite between-meal food? When he'd stopped gagging...

"How can I enjoy something that makes me think of old ladies stinking of lavender and piss touching it!!"

Own goal, Nestle.

Bing-day

It's Bing's birthday. The gift I ordered for him didn't turn up on time due to my not factoring in bank holiday postal delays. I didn't buy a card in advance due to bank holiday lethargy. My first words to him this morning were 'move over before I elbow you in the face'.

I am a bad girlfriend.

I did, however, have babygirl put the Happy Birthday banners over the various samples of wallpaper stuck up with brown tape so I can test the shade against the varying light of the day. And I did take him out to a lovely resturant for pan-asian food tonight. And I did drive so he could drink. And I am letting him watch Battlestar Gallactica without so much as a teeny tiny piss-take.

Ok, maybe I'm not that bad a girlfriend. And he's certainly had worse wives...

Twisted ad men

Yeah, I missed posting yesterday. May I have a day off of May I? Of course I may, it was my stupid idea in the first place! (Personally I think this entry is definitely two, even three days worth of blogging being that it encompasses sex, satire and pop culture all in one post. Read three blogs in the tea-break? Not me, I use fussybitch!)

Anyway, on to the post...

Is it just me that thinks this looks like a chocolate penis?


Even viewed in context it's still extremely phallic (and circumsised so the merkins will love it as much as the brits), is it not?


Given that, does the fact that it then does this...


strike you as a bit, well, 'money shot'?

Ooh! Some more thoughts for you, in case you don't have your own...

Does it not make you curious as to why Cadbury's appear to have had ChiChi Larue direct adverts for their saleable-all-year-long variation on the Creme Egg?

And then, does it not make you wonder just who the ad creators were aiming at?

See the whole thing here. Hit pause at 00.25 and then at 00.26 to prove that I didn't photoshop the previous pictures. Or that I was sad/obsessed enough to not only notice this shit but blog it...

The depps of politics

The pirates were robbed!

I truly believe that Russia split into 89 different separate countries simply to win Eurovision.

Our dustman's song sounded quite good. Till the other 23 were shown.

Still, I say again...

The pirates were robbed! He had a plastic sword and girls with their boobs hanging out and everything!

*sings*

Hii hii heee, hii hii hooo, we are the wolves of the sea! (translation courtesy of BBCi subtitles)

Oops

I was planning to post a review of Dazza's cd

but I eated it.

So bite me.

Ken Dodd's dad's dogs died

I never realised how close I'd allowed myself to get to the mate that sits next to me at college till she texted to say she'd be coming in late due to her kids being upset over their dog being put to sleep the day before.

As we've had two intense days of written tests and assessments, in silence and at different to normal stations, I've hardly spoken to her.

I mailed her tonight to finally express my condolences. And tell her that I miss her.

I like my mate, a lot. I like more that I can finally give a shit about someone without feeling that I've sacrificed myself to do so.

RIP, Tazzy

Suggestion box

Continuing my fluttering of de-cluttering, I finally finished sorting through every piece of music I own. Anything I still wish to own has been ripped to the family server. If that hdd ever dies, I'm screwed. Anyway...

All the original cds are going to my favourite charity shop. The cases from the, er, non-original cds are going to be freecycled. One man's rubbish and all that.

So, given my penchant for keeping any reusable items out of landfill thus saving the earth in my own little way; what the fuck can I do with a 100 strong pile of shiny discs with pirated material on them?

I'm thinking something artistic and creative.

Suggestions?

Tits-up tuesday

Bing bought a bottle of what he thought was brandy but turned out to be this stuff, which even I cannot bring myself to drink.

Babygirl's hormonal mood swings are giving everyone in the house serious pms (pissy madam syndrome).

Babyboy took the dog out at 9pm. Two hours later I phoned and told him to get my dog and his arse home. I'm dealing with him tomorrow.

No 1 Son managed to shatter the glass he was holding, spilling water all over his laptop and blood all over the show.

Right now all I can hear is a constant, regular, really, fucking annoying beep. Too quiet to locate, too unusual to be anyone's phone and too fucking infuriating to ignore.

Wednesday is going to be wonderful. Isn't it?

No such thing as a good bye

I taught my last class tonight.

As I casually mentioned the fact I looked at the shocked, some even stricken, faces of my students and - saved by the bell - avoided the room full of emotion by nipping off to check my phone which was insistently beeping the arrival of an sms.

The message was a request to cover a class.

My students will cope without me.

Perverts poo

What a load of shit!


That is all.

Lights out

As I lent my floral patterned lighter to a friend in college and forgot to get it back on Friday, I'm reduced to using the spares that float about at the bottom of handbags.

One dispenses gas but has an unreliable spark.

The other has a spark but only occasionally lets out enough gas to make a flame.

After a few hours of giggling at my struggle and sore thumb, Babyboy informed me that using both together would be far less frustrating.

Bloody intelligent little pyromaniac, he is.

Don't smack this bitch up

I love sex. Really, for someone that had a far too early thus fairly shitty start to it all, I'd class myself as a bit bloody rampant where consenting adults are concerned.

I've done the dressing up stuff, broken bunnies, made email fantasies happen, used things that need batteries one would normally only see when taking a watch to the jewelers, seconded my electric toothbrush and been a willing third wheel for partying.

Suffice to say I can be very, very rude given the opportunity and will grab it, as it were, with a huge grin and a trysexual attitude.

Even so, I still don't get the whole 'hurt me' thing.

I totally understand how a bit of light bondage can be horny. On a social level I think it taps into most women's collective memory of sex being naughty so being tied and 'forced' to submit can be freeing for them. On a personal level there's just something about my lover being in charge and my not having to make decisions that makes me gush. Bing is a big, strapping Yorkshireman and worries that he'll break me, I'm the one screaming that I love it and that I'd tell him if it were otherwise. These are trust bonds that couples build up over time and doing so is sexy and fun, I get that.

I also understand how pushing boundaries can be sexy. I think most women will recognise that moment when it's just that good, you're so into it and turned on that the no entry sign falls right off your arse. You look at your man and tell him his backdoor fantasies are about to come true and you don't care if it's icky or it hurts you just want it. Right now, dammit!

I'm also very partial to a nibble on the neck but boob biting that leaves teethmarks on the tits? I didn't enjoy that when I fed my babies so why would it feel nice now? There's a fine line, in my head and in my bed, between pleasure and pain and I'm really curious about where this lies, and why it does so, for other women.

I read about women going into sub-space, where the pain they are receiving from implements and/or insertions sends them into an altered mental state. Is that the pay-off? Is it a high? Somewhere peaceful in a busy, noisy life? Can't they book an hour in a flotation tank instead?

I accept that my views on sub-space are coloured by my earlier experiences, my only frame of reference being the way my mind would drift somewhere else while my body was being abused. I don't want to attach judgement to this but I have real trouble understanding how someone (because I know it's not just women that enjoy this) could volunteer for that kind of experience or even seek it out.

Surely it stops being about sex between two people when one of them has to hurt the other enough to send their mind out of the room? Can someone, please, explain this to me? Feel free to be anonymous if you prefer but really, I'm looking to understand, not judge in any way.

Coward

So I told sensei that I was leaving karate.

Then sneaked out with a bright 'see you all later' rather than tell my mates.

Write and wrong

This May I? thing has been a good for me in terms of giving myself a deadline for writing something. I've remembered how much I get from spilling my thoughts through the keyboard, so much so that I've spent much of the day replying to a vitriolic letter from my step-aunt.

When it's done I'll post it up here. I'm really rather proud of it.

Anal pleasures

I'm bent over at the waist.

The sun shines in through the open window.

I'm hot and sweaty from the exertion but still, a smile plays on my lips.

Then, before I realise what's happening,

I'm on my knees, one hand supporting my upper body...

the other, furiously rubbing.

I like it best this way. It allows easier access to the deeper, more secret parts. Parts rarely, if ever accessed by human hand but oh, so very good when it happens, even if no-one else knows.

It's satisfaction like no other and I really should do it more often.





Call me anal if you like but there's nothing more satisfying than a freshly clean kitchen cupboard.

How hard can it be?

There was an assessment in today's balloon class.

Balloon tutor is so caught up in running/growing her company, being a mother to young children and becoming a name in the field that forward planning for her students is way behind so we do a practice one week and an assessment the next.

I missed the practice for this piece.

She did her best to warn me that it wasn't something to be attempted by amateurs and that I could wing it but should be prepared for a re-take at some unearthly hour on a future Monday morning.

I thought "how hard can it be?"

She then told me that the large hand-pump I'd ordered wasn't there so I'd have to use an air compressor with a sizer. Thirty seconds in I realised it was harder work physically but mentally far easier to use the small pump, even if my biceps were crying for mercy within thirty minutes.

I made a packed balloon wall. There was a shed-load of latex, lots of pumping, oodles of elbow grease and a small amount of common fucking sense.

I passed.

Some qualifications really are worthless. Balloon display artistry is one of them.

Bollocks. On a spiky stick.

Grading went well, all my students passed.

Then Sensei, he of the newness but niceness and technical brillness, gathers everyone to announce that he's leaving the post.

I come home to a fridge full of lovely things to barbecue and eat together in the sunshine.

Then Babyboy, he of the groundedness for naughtiness, didn't get home on time for dinner after ostensibly walking the dog. For three hours.

I was informed that the internet had been dead since early afternoon and all standard turn off and on again things had been attempted to no avail.

Then I rang a very expensive helpline to talk to a man that sounded exactly like the internet providings man from Fonejacker, only to discover that the problem was my wireless router throwing a random wobbly and allowing local network traffic but blocking the WAN.

I finally started the assignment that's due in tomorrow.

Then me, me of the dippy bintness, reached for a pen and knocked a whole glass of brandy and coke over two mobile phones and my lappy, not to mention the rest of the coffee table, both my feet and the carpet.

Buggerybollockingbastards, batman!

Girl meets love, girl loses love...

Thursday was a long day. I have students due for grading so I forced myself to train despite my exhaustion from college and the energy-sapping heat of this English spring. Or maybe this is summer, all 8 days of it. Whatever...

I've not been training regularly since January. I still teach every week but I'd lost the love of training for myself. Nothing sudden, no major revelation, just a creeping series of events that sneakily joined forces to become something bigger than the sum of it's parts, black and malevolent.

Initially, a change of club leadership led to a few of my close mates leaving, the atmosphere was different. Not bad - the new sensei is both extremely technically able and a good mate - just, different.

Unfortunately my mixed-up mind took different and created indifference. The sofa called louder than the dojo and, for the first time in five years, won. I found myself running admin rather than physically running round at gradings. I love working with Mrs Sensei, I love seeing paperwork come together.

I lost the love for training.

The love I'd clung to for five years, the constant that had been there for me, physically and emotionally, withered away. The depression bastard ate the remains of it and spat out the bones. My weight went up with increased alcohol consumption and that 'settled' thing that happens when you realise this relationship is for the long haul.

Anyway, to cut a long story into a merely rambling tale, I went to training. I took the 'who's she?' ribbing with good grace and lined up. I remembered, amongst the giggles and the punches, that I had damn good mates here. I scored a minor victory when a bloke that always pushes into the line ahead of me was put in his place lower down after having to openly admit his grade. I was proud of my students.

I found my love again.

Do you know...

...how cute a bloody great huge dog can look when she curls up into a ball after carefully arranging her blankets and then looks at you with the most gorgeous chocolate brown eyes as if to say 'thanks for the blankets, mum'?

That much cuteness should be illegal.

In other news, I tripped over a power cable and sent my laptop crashing to the floor this morning. So far only the space bar seems to be protesting at this unscheduled bungee jump without elastic but, as lucky as I know I am, it's a bloody pain in the thumb having to hit that key particularly hard in mid-typing-flow.

Grrrr!

That's me growling by the way, not the large and very cute dog.

Quickie

It's 2.08am. OK, I'm slightly late but I've not been to bed so it's still today in my life which means I'm adhering to my May I? challenge, so there.

What was it I wanted to say?

Er...

That Boris, eh? Mayor!

My bit of Essex gets a vote for Londonisms, being as we're paying our council tax for 2012 and all that.

I apologise for abstaining. Not that my little vote would have helped the result, more that I feel an obligation as a woman to exercise my hard won right to aid democracy. Such as it is.

Not that I feel that elections are rigged or anything.

Cos, as everyone knows, I don't do cynicism...

Bring me sunshine

The children are all in uniform and at their respective schools.

Bing has had to don his corporate outfit and go to a real office to manage his incidents.

I'm about to put on a thick layer of sunscreen and a thin layer of clothing, walk to town and run some errands.

After that I shall sit in the garden, dog at my feet and coursework at hand, using both sides of my brain as I complete a scale drawing and label design principles within it.

Later, I have a hair appointment. Then I'll shop for something nice to barbecue for dinner.

Sunshine, solitude and structure.

This is the life.

Bingles

A selection of the things my Bing comes out with.

...for fucks sake, it's like plaiting fog!

...in mythology, ravens could talk.

...should be shot. (This one gets repeated fairly often)

...how could anyone not know that?!

...Phwoar. Nom, nom, nom.

...Babe, look at this! Did you see that? I'll rewind it.

...two to the power of 64 plus all the rest, is probably more rice than has been produced, ever.

...well, that was like herding cats.

...and the nuclear missile was turned into a sperm whale and a bowl of petunias.

This was just today. I do so love this man.

How much?!

I - no, we - are planning to redecorate now the house has been de-cluttered and moved around a bit. The first and most urgent room is the lounge.

Being someone that likes soft warmth under their bare-most-of-the-time feet I never did buy into the sanded floorboard/laminated throughout trend that swept the nation over the last decade or so. Thus the carpet, that matches both the seating and the heavy curtains, pretty much dictates the colourways used around it.

The carpet is a deep shade of blue, lifted by a steady, regular pattern of dark yellow flecks. The sofa and armchairs are a similarly deep blue chenille, albeit fleck free. The curtains, navy velvet. It's all quite lush and tactile and somewhat spoiled by the pale orange walls showing their age so I set about looking for new wallpaper.

The first flat I bought - with my then husband - was an internal conversion in an externally listed building and had gorgeous if inconvenient twelve foot high ceilings. Dado rails were all the rage and large expanses of plain colour were my preference so I worked out an artistically correct height ratio, painted contrasting colours above and below it and pasted a toning roll of border between them.

My next dwelling, the first I'd ever had as a lone adult, I brightened and freshened all through for the princely sum of £12. A friend that knew I was finding my feet as a single parent alerted me to a charity shop that had been gifted a load of end-of-line paint so I nipped in and chose a pot to cover the shitty wallpaper in every room. Oh how I loved my little pick 'n' mix house. A super bright yellow entrance hall led left to a terracotta lounge, a lilac mistress bedroom (complete with home sewn curtains to match) straight ahead and the two children's rooms, one bubblegum pink and one sky blue, to the right.

When I told my landlord I needed to move out of the east end of London and he offered me this place he insisted he had to be there when I saw the decor. Having seen it, I understood why he wanted to view the spectacle when my jaw dropped. It really was very, very bad, the kind of 60s/70s bad stuff now seen on trendy feature walls in Shoreditch, except this was a darker brown. And absolutely all over the place.

Wanting to retain some texture, I nevertheless had the whole lot painted over before I moved in, lifting every wall to a brighter tone that went with the carpet and combined to create a natural path through the space. My lovely landlord let me loose with colour charts and paid my favourite firefighter friends to do the work, I simply project-managed. That, however, was five years ago and changes are required.

So, having been spoilt by both charity and charmers, I find myself utterly slack-gobbed when I look online for wallpaper to spruce the place up and can't find anything even half nice for less than £10 a roll. And even that's a cast-off listed on bloody eBay!

What the fuck? Pass the dulux one-coat, will ya?

De-nuttering

Freecycle is great for all kinds of weird and wonderful finds but I fear some women are taking this 'gift your unwanted items' idea a little too far...

Space, the final front room

Sausage sandwiches all round and we were set. After I carefully placed all important paperwork into a few carrier bags, Bing and Babyboy pulled out every last piece of furniture for me to vacuum behind before we moved something else into its place. I took breaks to log onto freecycle as we worked, some things snapped up almost immediately, others left on-list to face their fate at the tip on Monday.

My olde-worlde Goodmans separates hi-fi system was ruthlessly culled, left as just an amp and equaliser to feed. I wasn't mourning for long, the new hdd media centre and the link from the old desktop - now known as the family server - proving a more than ample meal that provides all the main nutrients of movies, photos and music from one tiny, little box and spreading goodness through the TV and big, massive speakers I simply refused to part with.

The only item of furniture that remains in it's original place is the bookshelf. Partly because I fear it would fall apart if moved but mainly because it fits perfectly into a particularly imperfect section of the weirdly shaped room.

As night falls we sit in different places and my peripheral vision focuses on the bookshelf. All three of us are exhausted but I know that tomorrow brings the real hard work. Going through the carrier bags of memories and obligations, deciding which of them are still fit for purpose and which I want to throw away.

Nothing to do with physical clearing out and everything to do with emotional spring-cleaning. I am, as I type, girding my loins and desperately hoping for sunshine to make my soul lighter as I decide which parts of my life I want to keep and which I don't, whilst convincing myself that throwing old rubbish out doesn't mean I'm in denial of its existence...

Knicker nicker

I say knickers, it's also bras. And socks. Mostly the boys, partly because they're smelly and partly because they're usually left around within easy reach.

Basically if anything is missing you can bet you'll find it in the dog's den. The dog that has fast learned that being told off is over much sooner if you can master this look...



My little blogging heart cockles have been warmed by the people that are joining in with Blog every day in May. Thank you all for the support and good luck!

Demented

In the beginning, there was light.

Excuse me as I paraphrase the bible (more than likely, really badly. I saw the film years ago but never read the book properly).

The beginning I'm talking about is the one which, for most people, involves a journey down a dark, squishy tunnel culminating in very bright, overhead lights and a smack on the arse if they don't cry quick enough on arrival.

If life is like a good story and has a beginning, middle and end you would think that light would be fairly constant throughout. It's a good thing, light. It makes plants grow for us to eat or look at. It makes electricity bills lower. It induces the production of vitamin D, which is a vitamin and therefore good for us. It makes life, well... lighter. Depression is to light as a dementor is to souls.

Both of them suck a bodies happiness in equal measure.

Only one of them is real though. Real enough to make a massive difference to so many everyday lives.

Only one of them has the ability to greedily swallow every ounce of positivity that is fed to it from the outside then vomit it back as apathy.

Only one of them can be dealt with, albeit through ever increasing doses of medication with side orders of stigma and pathetic reliance.

Only one of them has the power to convince it's prey that the medication that quells it is a bad idea, then gloat when the trick works and the prey realises that it's even darker down that path and they're now totally lost.

I wonder if I may be allowed a day this month to get my prescription in on time and not miss any tablets?





This is a BOGOFBLOG. Not only is this the first of my Blog every day in May posts but also my (small) contribution to this year's Blogging Against Disablism Day. Go visit Goldfish to find out more and get the list of other bloggers that have done much better posts than this to fight disablism in all it's forms.